BY NIGEL WINTER

Does the National Trust need protecting every bit as much as its property?

There is questionable merit in revisiting the former site of happy memories, for fear that the passage of time has left an unwelcome mark. But in a nation that bestows its trust upon the National Trust, one might reasonably conclude that such a risk is minimal.

For my family, one such place is Mottisfont Abbey in the tranquil Test Valley of Hampshire. The area is fed by chalk springs that bubble up from under down land which results in a fine network of streams that meander through the dappled Hampshire countryside and have made the region famous as the world’s premier trout fishing location.

Before we had a family we took any means of transport to visit Mottisfont that didn’t involve a car. Eccentric holidays bereft of the bristle of modernity were our forte and my overriding memory of this time, is of the sound of the wind in the trees.

In the face of such wisdom, we returned by cycle with our eight-year-old, meandering around the gentle rolling hills.  The holiday season had not yet commenced, and the journey was reminiscent of the carefree era when we could holiday in term time and witness bucolic England quietly going about its everyday business. Indeed, the pace of life was preserved because the passing traffic saw no reason to depart from the main road. Thus, with little more than the season’s first mayfly for company we returned to Mottisfont.

Through the trees sprouting the first buds of spring we spotted a shining reflection. Our anticipation rose at the prospect that its charms had not been dimmed, but that shimmering surface turned out to be an extended car park: no trout here. 

We turned in to the grounds as a thoughtless driver turned sharply in our son’s path and gazed, nonplussed by the presence of a cyclist.

In another age, we had cycled here to be welcomed by a volunteer from the comfort of a wooden visitor centre, replete with thatched roof. She expressed interest in our travels and guided us to the cycle park, from where we made our unhurried way. But today the thatched roof had been bulldozed, the old lady given way to an intense young man who thrust a pile of leaflets in our hand and advised that the cycle park had passed the same way as the wooden thatch.

Now the gravel path previously lined with cow parsley sported corporate logos and billboards advising of the coming of a new visitor centre. And there in a clearing where once trees had co-existed in happy commune with the old thatched shed was a building site, iron girders, scaffolding and a digger.

The National Trust is utterly transparent on its designs for the future. Seldom does one encounter progress without being reminded of the old adage about the difficulty in pleasing everyone. Thus, in order that members know how the future face of conservation will appear, there was an artist’s impression of what the new build will look like. Much was made of the use of “cor ten steel” and glazing and the drive to ensure that it is “in keeping” with the environment, notwithstanding the fact that it is the only property on steel stilts in the entire Test Valley. We struggled to take in that our charity is applying our fees, to construct something that looks like a light industrial unit often found on the outskirts of Walsall.

We were holding people up as we gazed at the changes that the passage of time has wrought. The man in the uniform, sensing our unease added that a new cycle park was being created in due course too.

Our son looked up at us, “we don’t usually come to places like this”. Indeed not.

The clouds parted and the wind took hold of the remaining trees, like a call from the past, reminding us of quieter, less complicated times. And with that we strolled through the recently erected corrals towards the grounds.

Mottisfont comes with a rich and eccentric history. It had been home to the naturalist and travel writer Richard Meinertzhagen who kept an aviary of Eagles in the grounds. James Bond creator Ian Fleming had once been a guest and inevitably there were rumours that a spy ring operated out of the house during the war. Either side of the conflicts the privileged incumbents were field sportsmen and availed themselves of the fishing waters that run through the grounds as well as nearby.

To an eight year old who likes fishing and the countryside, it wasn’t difficult to “big up”  Mottisfont, in modern parlance.  Having been promised a tranquil day out in a country home in which his Mum and Dad have some fond memories, our son found a building site that seemed to be part of a scheme to rebrand the countryside as “the environment”.

Away from the development we crossed a bridge over the stream and found ourselves in the Mottisfont we knew so well and took the riverside path to the restaurant. To an eight year old who had just completed a cycle ride, this is where the priority lay. In the past the cool hallway leading to the house had provided welcome relief from Hampshire’s searching sunshine. On stepping into the shade we had marvelled at the fine array of stuffed animals that previous incumbents had collected. They lived in an age when the sportsman was also an amateur naturalist. Wading birds and raptors once gazed down on the visitors and I recall a huge Pike in a bow fronted case that literally took the breath away. But now they have gone. And the kitchens felt like they’d had a rebrand by consultants more familiar with motorway service stations. My son drank his juice through a straw and looked around: where once a stuffed Heron had gazed over diners, there was now a series of rather “corporate” photographs. I spotted our son looking at one. Well he might; it was of a cushion. It probably meant something to the person who took it. The old feeling that you used to get was that his Lordship had just popped out a few moments ago. Now it felt like he was long gone.

Outside the wind blew and happy families rolled down the hill. One of the recent great achievements of the Trust is to include young people and encourage involvement rather than standing from afar. Indeed, somewhere I’d seen an instruction to “hug a tree”.

Prior to any association with a fictional spy, Mottisfont had spiritual connections and the Monks had seen off the Black Death and much else. The monastery would be a permanent place of worship, provider of spiritual guidance and rudimentary literacy to an impoverished peasant stock. The monks constructed their monastery with permanence in mind and the cellars were open for our enjoyment, having escaped what the Trust’s website boasts as the process of “transforming Mottisfont”.

I confess to being concerned by the disappearance of the stuffed exhibits for it had completely changed the tone and inadvertently the history of the house. It was as if someone preferred a past that wouldn’t introduce the visiting public to a set of values that departed from a more regulated vision of the countryside. I therefore thought I’d raise a query with one of the many volunteers who seemed harassed by the looming holiday season. Indeed, they were all somewhat intent in purpose compared to the day when volunteers were pooled from the redoubtable tweed clad ladies of the parish who dispensed local wisdom from memory. Now their successors come in an acrylic uniform and they all look rather like Tesco’s employees. And not one of them could remember if there had ever been any stuffed animals but instead proffered a life size horse cleverly fashioned out of chicken wire. This was a copy of one ridden by the local Vicar who so frequently went a-hunting that he drove the local foxes to extinction. Or so we are confidently told.

I recalled a still day in spring years ago when we happened upon the stables. With the opening of each door there revealed some ancient and indeed relevant artefact. The gentle amateur feel of a place, run by well-meaning and relaxed individuals pervaded. One felt, “in the country” and far away from any Metropolis. We had been guided there by wooden signs that have since given way to metal constructions that would make someone from Basingstoke town centre feel quite at home.

On entering the stable block we were met by towering glass doors with the Trust’s corporate logo emblazoned across them, and it wasn’t clear if we were supposed to pass through them to buy jam or open a bank account. That “transformation” is well under way, yet there remained in the far corner of the stable block, the second hand book shop that we recalled so well, as yet having failed to attract the attention of the messianic glazier. Behind the desk sat a gracious silver haired old man, bereft of polyester or a clip board.

 “Things have changed since we were here last”

He looked up and I pondered if witnessing the “transformation” that was creeping down the stable block and awaiting one’s turn was rather like being on a kind of architectural death row as the hang man worked his way down the cells.

There had indeed been stuffed animals; this was a country house after all, but no more. I fear that at the current rate of transformation the book stall won’t be there much longer and neither the old man. By the look in his eyes, I suspect he knows it.

So what has happened to our National Trust while we have been rearing a child? A quick “Google” only fed a growing sense of unease and it appears that the National Trust needs preserving as much as its property. There is a laudable policy of accessibility, the metropolitan definition of which differs quite considerably from that of the countryside. And there is an inevitable tension between preservation and people, and the trust appears to be gravely concerned about our impact on the planet, but less so about building visitor centres in the countryside. The reality is that the books have to balance, even if that means the trust loses out to political considerations over preservation.

We are not active members and have historically been happy to trust our heritage to those who have hitherto excelled at this purpose, while we get on with our lives.

But we did not join the Trust to swap this:

For this:

Even our eight year old was too embarrassed to say what he really thought  about this offering from a profession, famous for self-congratulation. He was certain of one thing, frankly he’s produced better designs for school. Consequently the expression, “doing a Mottisfont”, has entered our vocabulary to describe second rate school work.

During our absence, the difficult decisions have become the sole preserve of a metropolitan elite with careers. And the Trust has 240,000 acres that are prey to development and its members may have a view on how far that should be given over to car parking. Indeed, in a conflict between accessibility and preservation, the Trust seems poised to justify serving the former, thereby perfecting a complete departure from what the members think their donations are going towards.

Hampshire in spring still looked lush with so many vistas of tone across the downs. The fields of oil seed rape turned the hill sides bright yellow and filled the air with its sweet aroma. The summits of the rolling hills were coated with copses that echoed to the call of jackdaws that occasionally took to the air, between noisily building their nests. Could I picture this landscape swathed in solar farms, with windmills dwarfing the woodland on the horizon? Not really, but I do not have a general objection to windmills. However, it is not the place of a benign charity to ram mine or anyone else’s opinions down the throats of its unsuspecting members, as The National Trust (Enterprises) Limited is tending to do. This and the threat to “take on the government” merely serve the careers of a few well-paid individuals at the expense of the Trust’s reputation.

We duly picked up our cycles and slowly drifted out of the car park. Over the bridge where once we had heard the churp of the Kingfisher and moments later witnessed a blue flash dive into the water below. We heard him no more, drowned out by the weight of passing traffic. The safely ensconced incumbents may one day be able to enjoy a photograph of a Kingfisher in the visitor centre. And then wonder where they all went.

Nigel C Winter is the author of Travelling With Mr Turner.