When distinguished holiday guests unmask a chicken thief
imuch as I like and admire our courageous Prime Minister, I can't approve of his taste in holidays. Chiantishire was bad enough, but to borrow or hire a pop singer's villa in Barbados is the last cheese straw. Hot sun, warm water, high humidity, sand everywhere, loudspeakers boomboom-booming in every room, no books — it is my formula for Enfer-sur-mer,
The decision is all the more mysterious to me in that the Blairs have at their disposal one of the most agreeable country homes in the world. Sir Arthur Lee gave Chequers to the nation (1917) precisely so that the Prime Minister and his family could rest and recuperate in idyllic English surroundings. The estate consists of more than 1,000 acres, given over to pasture mainly, so that through whichever window you look sheep can be seen grazing — their slow movements, of which you are unconsciously aware, have a blissfully relaxing effect, as Margaret Thatcher once confided to me. The house, a typically English counterpane of different ages from the 16th to the 19th centuries, lacks the inconveniences attendant on great architecture, and is friendly and cosy. though it has a fine Great Parlour and a restful Long Gallery for confidential chats, The bedrooms are excellent. Mrs Thatcher was in continuous charge long enough to master all the bureaucratic obstacles and, with the expert assistance of that superb chatelaine, Mary Henderson, transformed a historic house into a genuine home, rich in comfort and idiosyncrasy. Lee, among many other gifts. was an outstanding collector, and the house is full of rare delights (and magnificent books) as well as personal touches added by its distinguished and autocratic tenants, such as the mouse which Winston Churchill painted on to a canvas by Rubens. (This was considered in its time as a charming eccentricity of genius: imagine the outrage it would provoke today in the lowermiddle-class media.) The house is a perfect rural holiday home for children, whatever their age, and a well-secured refuge for any harassed statesman, whatever his tastes. If I were PM, I would be there every day that could be spared from Downing Street, and would entertain foreign bigwigs there constantly (which they love) rather than going to see them in their own beastly habitats.
Viscount Lee, as he eventually became, gave the house to the nation because he was aware that 20th-century prime ministers might not have country houses of their own. Lloyd George, PM at the time, had nothing until the Lloyd George Fund bought him his house and fruit farm at Chirk. Ramsay MacDonald was so poor that he did not even possess a car and, until a wealthy supporter donated one, had to stand at the corner of Downing Street and Whitehall, summoning taxis with a piercing Lossiemouth whistle. He grew to love Chequers and was most reluctant to leave it when his mental disintegration (we would call it Alzheimer's) made it inevitable.
Until then, of course, prime ministers came from a class for which a country house of a substantial size was an absolute necessity. Offhand, the only one I can think of who did not possess one was Lord Russell, a younger son, and his need was supplied by Queen Victoria, who lent him Pembroke Lodge in Richmond Park. Even Asquith, accounted poor, had a lugubrious place called The Wharf, and when he lived in Cavendish Square had a staff of 24 servants, all of whom attended family prayers in the evening. (Those were the days, eh, God?) Lord Palmerston had four houses, not counting Walmer Castle, his by right of being Warden of the Cinque Ports, a post also held by the Duke of Wellington, who judged Walmer his most agreeable habitation and died there, in a camp bed. Keeping up his houses pushed Palmerston hard, one reason he needed an official salary and held senior Cabinet posts for a total of nearly 50 years — a record. I think. Rosebery was also heavily housed and solved the problem by marrying Hannah de Rothschild, the richest heiress of the day, who brought him not only £100,000 a year (worth about £30 million today) but yet another pile, the colossal Mentmore. Rosebery, when PM, disdained to reside in No. 10 ('inconvenient') and continued to sleep in Berkeley Square, though he used No. 10 as an office and had his writing paper headed 'Lord Rosebery, Downing Street'.
Some prime ministers owned palaces in
the country. I am thinking of Walpole, whose Houghton in Norfolk could house 50 or more guests and contained a magnificent collection of Old Masters, later bought by Catherine the Great to form the nucleus of the Hermitage in St Petersburg. Or the undistinguished Rockingham, master of Wentworth Woodhouse, then and still the biggest house in England. Or Salisbury, whose Hatfield was large enough to accommodate visiting kings or statesmen and their entire suites. There is a delightful photograph of Salisbury taken on the terrace there with a crowd of visiting mandarins from imperial China, and another with the ferocious Shah of Persia. His family house in Arlington Street was big enough to entertain 1,000 at once in its huge ballroom (I am old enough to remember going to parties there). However, for children's holidays, Salisbury, who hated field sports, built a villa, the Chalet Cecil, on the French coast.
Most prime ministers, however, and lesser fry, spent their long summer hots — parliament did not normally reassemble till midNovember — at home in the country or doing the rounds of other people's houses. These reached as far as Alnwick (Duke of Northumberland), Chatsworth (Duke of Devonshire), Knowsley (Earl of Derby) and Badminton (Duke of Beaufort). The bigwigs normally stayed a week, then moved on. Such house parties often included a wit such as Sydney Smith or 'Conversation' Sharp or a poet–singer like Thomas Moore to provide amusement. The rich had their own carriages, of course, and gave the poorer guests lifts. Lady Holland took her own bedlinen with her, and often her own chef, who 'helped' in the kitchen.
This kind of itinerant summering — one former foreign secretary I know calls it 'spongeing' — is still practised by the odd professional bachelor or two, and by stray, wellborn girls, pushing into their thirties, who hope to pick up a husband. The last PM who did the rounds was Harold Macmillan. These days it is awkward, as not many hostesses are prepared to have their house turned upsidedown by the security forces. But even this has its compensations. A delightful lady I know, living outside Rome, recently entertained an American VIP of the highest rank. The FBI, CIA and Secret Service not only gave her house the treatment but, in the process, detected and identified the miscreants who, to her fury, had been stealing the eggs laid by her prize chickens.
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