YORKSHIRE BENINGBROUGH HALL NT
Jane and I do love a National Trust property or three. Joint membership only costs £14 per month and, to be honest, it is much better value than most services paid for monthly and costing more.
TV licence, home insurance, motor insurance and my scented candles subscription all come to mind.
All of those listed are either legal requirements or essential to everyday life.
National Trust is none of these but really should be.
Not many activities fill me with such feelings of fulfilment and pleasure like touring round archaic buildings.
Once, one of those bar‑room bores you sometimes encounter when queuing to be served, the vertical‑drinking type, informed me that once you have seen one old building you have seen them all.
Whilst waiting for my beer he, and they are always hes, went on to say that it is bourgeois to belong to the National Trust and that good, honest working‑class sorts like him could never afford to join.
Interesting, I thought.
You can’t afford Trust membership but can find the budget for three or four pints of continental lager every night, but it stayed in my head.
The next time I approached the bar he was lecturing someone about the workings of the legal system in this country, and the poor chaps couldn’t really go wrong if they followed this bar‑room lawyer’s advice.
Then, the final time, I noted he had changed into a bar‑room general.
You all know the type.
They can be approached to offer advice on just about any subject under the sun.
From how to bring children up, having never had any himself, to medical diagnoses, having not even attended a doctor’s appointment in the last thirty years.
Anyway, Beningbrough Hall means that we come across two of our old friends again, probably the more infamous of our kings, the same ones who featured in last week’s offering about Mersea Island in Essex.
This time we see how they affected the landscape in Yorkshire.
No, given that we are only a stone’s throw away from Richard Neville’s pile at Middleham Castle, I am not going to be featuring Richard III.
I remember mentioning this once before but was shot down in flames by a member of the Richard III Fan Club, accusing me of swallowing the Tudor chief propagandist’s biased views.
That propagandist, by the way, was William Shakespeare.
I suspect, as always, the truth lay somewhere in the middle.
No, this week we are joined by Henry VIII and Charles I.
Beningbrough is not, dare I say it, one of NT’s better‑known properties but it is an absolute delight.
It is now set in a few acres of beautiful grounds.
The main feature, especially on a gloriously sunny day, is the Italian‑influenced garden, inspired by the Italian baroque style of the present Hall.
Honestly, it felt like we were wandering through Tuscan or Amalfian parks but in North Yorkshire.
It was a long way from James Herriott, appearing closer to Francis of Assisi.
Who needs aeroplanes for a holiday?
Just sit down for a minute or two and take in the scents of magical blooms like mock orange and wisteria.
Turn your nose in a different direction and your nostrils will be assaulted by the smell of ripening herbs.
My other senses were stimulated by the scents, the sun on my face and the jabber of happy souls.
Taste was missing but I could almost savour a tagliatelle or minestrone, washed down by a fruity Chianti.
Although it was a warm day it was not overcrowded, I presume because it was Beningbrough and not Fountains Abbey or Castle Howard.
To be honest, we had been out of the traps early on that day. We were planning to take in two NT properties. It doesn’t get any better. Maybe the throngs were still warming their beds or taking a leisurely breakfast.
I always find that days out are more rewarding if I rock up before 10:00.
Early bird, worm and all that sort of thing.
Beningbrough Hall in North Yorkshire
As much as I was enjoying the outdoors, realm of Vertumnus, Roman god of gardens and changing seasons, we needed to get inside and take a look around.
Vertumnus gives us modern words such as vernal and verdant.
As we made our way to the Hall Jane suddenly let out an exclamation.
“Ha‑ha,” she exclaimed.
That’s what you do when you let out an exclamation.
“What?” I asked.
“It wasn’t that funny, whatever it was.”
“No.
There is a ha‑ha over there.
Look!”
I followed her pointing finger, not sure why as I can’t really see beyond my own nose.
We went to take a look and sure enough, there was a ha‑ha, a sunken garden wall.
If you are unfamiliar with this type of construction I will describe it. It is a ditch excavated between the manicured lawns and the livestock paddocks.
A brick retaining wall is built on the garden side to stop animals from clambering up onto the beautifully scythed lawn.
When viewed from the house it looks like the land is unbroken, and visitors are left in awe at how well‑behaved the local cows and sheep are.
Why is it so called?
It is the cry of surprise that a visitor emits when they suddenly come across, or fall into, the cunningly obscured ditch. Broken limbs were not infrequent.
Basically, the well‑to‑do wanted to look out over their rolling acres without seeing an ugly wall or fence. They also needed to stop grazing animals from trespassing on their formal gardens.
When they returned indoors with freshly picked flowers they would, in general, be accompanied by another, less welcome, scent.
I am not sure whether Pride and Prejudice featured a ha‑ha, but I bet Mrs Bennett would have loved one to show off to her more affluent neighbours.
Another who would have liked one: Lady Hyacinth Bucket, pronounced Bouquet.
You can imagine her gliding across her lawn pointing out the virtues of the ditch.
Robert inspecting the ha-ha at Beningbrough Hall
From entering through the main door, we were welcomed by a splendour missing from modern buildings. Attention to detail was sacrosanct.
One soon discovers the brief history of the place. It seems that the original building on the land was a grange, suggesting an ecclesiastical grain store or arable farm tilled by monks.
It turns out that it was owned by St Leonard’s Hospital in York, run by St Augustinian brothers and sisters.
It was then purchased by John Banester in 1544, just after the Dissolution of the Monasteries.
The Banester family were devout Protestants. St Leonard’s did not benefit from its sale. It had been acquired by Henry VIII, in the sense that he took it rather than paid for it. As we gleaned last week, he pocketed £24.4 billion in today’s terms from the disposal of ecclesiastical premises he had nabbed.
Banester did not stay around for long before leaving it to his nephew, Ralph Bourchier. Uncle John is the sort of relation we all dream about. Ralph’s ownership saw the house stay under Bourchier ownership for a few hundred years. It is unclear whether he lived in the grange or built a new home.
Scroll forward a hundred years and the property is in the possession of Sir John Bourchier, grandson of Ralph. The Bourchiers grew in stature under Elizabeth I and James I. Life really couldn’t get any better. It could, however, get a whole lot worse.
I can’t find much that endears me towards Charles I. He seemed to take the divine right thing seriously, assuming he could ride rough‑shod over whatever land he liked.
The new owner of Beningbrough disagreed, wanting the King to cough up the requisite silver for hunting in his royal forest. Back in the day, the King usually won these cases, and this proved no exception.
Sir John ended up spending time in the Tower of London. That seems a high price to pay for one’s principles. I think I could have put up with Charlie wanting to hunt on my ground every now and again.
John did his time but harboured a grudge. He didn’t let it go and soon nailed his colours to the mast when Parliament fell out with the King. In the end the Roundheads prevailed, and Charles found himself kneeling at a chopping block outside Whitehall in January 1649.
His trial began on 20th January. He was charged with high treason and tyranny. Ten days later his head was removed. Why does justice take so long these days?
Can you imagine how quickly we could reduce the court waiting list if we rushed some through like that one? It strikes me we could soon shrink the backlog. Why should proving something beyond reasonable doubt get in the way of the truth and proper justice?
Now, remember where I was going with this.
Can you imagine the smug grin on Sir John’s face when he was asked to sign the death warrant? He unrolled the parchment to discover he was not the first.
Indeed, he was not the second either.
I can’t find him in the first ten.
It goes to prove that you should not go poaching on someone else’s land, even if you think you have the right.
Before we go, let’s wind the clock forward to the end of the eighteenth century. When France did the same to Louis XVI, the British parliament was quick to condemn the regicides. Short memories, me thinks. We did it first.
I would like to credit Matthew Constantine, Cultural Heritage Curator North Yorkshire NT, with the factual stuff above. Check out his own excellent blog, Heritage Writings, here.
All the embellishments, along with the inaccuracies, are down to me.
If you ever find yourself in North Yorkshire, you must put this on your list of places to visit. I have only touched the surface.
One last thing, and credit goes to Stephen Fry. I am really enjoying his Mythos series. It seems that the term tyrant is nothing more than Greek for king. So Charles I was axed off for being a king.
Now, there’s food for thought.
