There is something enigmatic about medieval houses, no more so than here at Cothay. There is a sense of secretness about the ancient place, for nowhere can Cothay be seen from a distance. Guarded from medieval marauders and tucked away on the banks of the meandering River Tone amongst the myriad of high-banked lanes. In past times you could pull up the drawbridge and the rhythm of life was not disturbed. Safe from the noises of the night, the old domain still slumbers, as if drawn from an ancient engraving.
This past week, Septimus Waugh has reinstated the long-since lost shutters in the Great Hall. Made in two pieces from 18th century elm floor boards for the tall transom windows. The wrought iron hinges, forged to fit the uneven walls, the nails hammered squarely in the old tradition. Engraved into the wood, the initials of Alastair and Mary-Anne Robb.
Matthew Upham gave Mother an iron chandelier which he suspended on a chain from high up in the roof. When lighted, the shadows of the cobwebs can clearly be seen. Dearest says not to fuss about them, for if you brush them away, they will be back the next day and where will the old spiders live? I wonder how long these hairy monsters live. These innovations add a finish touch to the hall, which was the centre of life 500 years ago. Dearest Mother says you should always leave something new for future generations, for after all, we are only custodians in our own short span of life.
All this activity goes on, whilst I slumber at my ease, dreaming of giant spiders and wondering if we will ever meet.