I apologise to National Trust that I cannot devote as much time to Nunnington as I would like, please understand I need to concentrate on the challenging bike ride. Once it is all over, I will need to visit some NT properties for a bit of rest and relaxation.

Nunnington was, sort of, in the Beningbrough realm of NT houses. Once again, not up there with Fountains Abbey and Castle Howard.

Yes, I am well aware that CH is not an NT property; thank you to another reader who pointed this out, I have checked my writing from last week and am pretty sure I never suggested it was. I know this person fairly well so am confident I can say place where the sun don’t shine without offending.

We started off, as is usually the case, with a stroll around the green bit first, not that it was very green. I certainly am not signed up to the ludicrous theory that rewilding starts fires but I can, sort of, understand how it might help them spread.

This only came to mind as we were walking through the organic orchard, where grass had been left unmown and the waft of cigarette smoke assailed us from somewhere, no idea where. What is wrong with these clowns? I know this was back in June, but the countryside was already a tinderbox.

Whilst the outside was interesting it was nothing compared to the indoors. As soon as we entered, we were greeted by a number of mounted animal heads, not really my cup of tea, known as game trophies. It is here that we met another of those lucky so-and-sos who had a wealthy uncle.

As a child Margaret Fife used to stay in the village and fell in love with the Hall, a building she, rather quaintly, knew as the Big House.

I assume there must have been a familial link to the property since dear old Uncle Henry said, “Okay, my girl, you like the house so much it is yours.”

I assume she had to wait for Henry to pop his clogs first. Her and her husband, Ronald Fife, liked it so much that Margaret sold her own home, not too insignificant either, to fund the renovations at Nunnington.

I am not sure where the money laid in the beginning, but it seems to me that Ronald had a stroke of luck when he met Margaret at a shooting party. After weighing up her net worth he proposed. I’m not truly convinced it actually happened like that. They might have genuinely been in love.

She didn’t get a bad deal from the nuptials either, he was forever off gallivanting as a soldier or big game hunter, hence the macabre trophies. In usual circumstances I like soldiers, but I am not so sure I would like this fellow very much.

It’s all very well shooting a brace of pheasants for the pot, but I am not sure the need for gunning down majestic animals in the depths of Africa. Still, I guess it takes all sorts. I suppose it gives another twist on the term ‘deadheading.’

Not only did Ronnie think it alright to display dead heads in the main entrance hall of his wife’s prize home he also took over the bed chamber of one of the earlier occupants and turned it into a Smoking Room. Different times, obviously.

I can’t imagine the response of my dearly beloved if I proposed, one day, I wanted to turn the study into a smoking room, where me and my mates could go and puff ourselves to death or, in modern times, vape ourselves to death.

Ron wasn’t yet finished, he was all heart, he decided the house was in need of a Drawing Room. Fair enough, why not, no house of distinction was without one, but it was a place where the lady of the house could relax with her female friends listening to music or doing some sewing.

Just to underline his love of killing there is a display of his guns. Soldiering ones are fine but sports guns, I am not sure. Sport suggests to me that both sides in the fixture should have a chance of winning. Not too many of Ron’s targets appeared to be weaponised. Once again, different times. Not for everyone, I know, but I am a firm believer that big game should only be shot with a camera.

Take the stairs up to the second floor and you will find a fine miniature-rooms display.

These rooms, safely ensconced in glass cases, thus protecting them from a careless swipe of a blind man practicing his golf swing with his white cane, as is often my want if I am slightly bored. No chance of me getting out my driver, brassie or niblick on this occasion as I was captivated by the display.

Jane described the ornate detail that had been recreated within these Lilliputian rooms. Bathrooms of exquisite craftsmanship, small libraries, in the sense of a room in a big house rather than a huge public building on the high street. It is said to house scaled down models of the entire works of Shakespeare.

The room guide even suggested they could even be read. Mind you, you can tell the visually impaired community anything along those lines, how can I test it out.

I am, though, a heavy believer in trust and honesty. I am not clear about any historic link to Nunnington. It appears the creator, Kitty Carlisle, merely requested that they be cared for by the NT who placed them here. If you do nothing else during your visit the miniature-rooms display is a must.

White Cane Ratings*©

Car Park: good; accessibility spaces available - 🦯 🦯 🦯 (3)
Garden: good; need to be careful with footing - 🦯 🦯 🦯 (3)
House: good; guide essential - 🦯 🦯 🦯 (3)

*These ratings are how the premises suited this particular blind person and are my opinion only; they are not scientific. Whatever happens no-one must be put off by me. The best way to learn about something is try it for yourself.