Piano in Canons Ashby

The day started reasonably well. I was in a hotel having an all you can eat buffet breakfast with my colleague, Dajana, a lovely girl from Germany who was one week into her internship. We were being very professional and pointing to objects and amusing ourselves with how they’re pronounced in the other language (for example they call jam ‘marmalade’, and have no idea what real marmalade is – it’s absolutely bonkers).

It was to my great pleasure that she asked if it would be ‘too much of a trouble’ for me to correct her English when she talks so that she learns the language better.  I was half tempted to tell her that, in fact, it would be a pleasure more than a trouble, as I so often do this to my English friends and receive smarmy ‘know-it-all’ remarks, so to be asked to do it freely, at will, was like I was a child and had been told I was allowed to eat ice cream for every meal of the day.

I’d worked at an event in Northampton the night before and had booked off today so that I could visit a friend in the area. Unfortunately plans had fallen through for one reason or another so I found myself in a town I didn’t know with nothing to do.

Obviously, I went back to bed. I used the paper ‘do not disturb’ sign and hung it over the door while I starfished on the bed, feeling somewhat mischievous for still wearing my shoes. Mid-starfish I discovered there was a National Trust house about a forty minute drive from where I was, called Canons Ashby, and decided to head there for the day, if nothing else, than to be guaranteed with a good cream tea.

I needed to detour via Tesco, though. I seem to have contracted one of those head-cold things, where you’re not sneezing, nor are you coughing, but your face feels like it might fall off at any moment. Dreadful thing. I dosed up on lemsip tablets, bought a new wooly hat (I’ve been searching years for a good wooly hat and this is the first one I’ve found that hasn’t made me look like I’m wearing a marshmallow), and was on my way in search of this mysterious canon-less house.

I was met in the car park by a lovely man who greeted me by bellowing ‘good morning!’ even though it was five past midday. It was partially spitting so he offered me a ride to the main house in his National Trust golf buggy and I felt obliged to say yes, hiding my umbrella from sight. He gave me a brief history of the property in the twenty six seconds it took to reach the house. I assumed the buggy was more for young children and the elderly but it was a fun ride nevertheless and I saved my hair getting wet, so thank you very much morning-man.

Canons Ashby is not the grandest of houses, by any means, but it still has a sense of charm about it. It was built from the remains of the medieval priory over the road following the dissolution of the monasteries by Henry VIII and some of the original flagstone floor from the 12th century priory is in use in parts of the house today. The main bulk of the property used to be a farmhouse which was extended and extended until it became the fancy manor house it is today, and has been in the hands of the Dryden family for many centuries.

Canons Ashby. I borrowed this photo from the internet because it looked far prettier than anything I could have taken. Thank you, internet.

The wife of Sir Henry Dryden in the mid 19th century. I’d look that miserable, too, if someone had told me I had to pose holding a book but I wasn’t allowed to read it.

Now, no matter which National Trust property you visit, you can always guarantee the same warm welcoming feeling. The people working there are so passionate to be sharing their knowledge with you; you see it in their eyes as they greet you, they are genuinely happy you walked in through the door, and you can tell that a part of them wants to point out everything in the room and shout ‘LOOK AT THIS BIT’, and ‘ISNT THE DETAILING IN THIS TAPESTRY SIMPLY ASTOUNDING’ and ‘THIS IS MY FAVOURITE ITEM IN THE WHOLE HOUSE ISN’T IT MARVELOUS’ but their dignity makes them hold it in slightly and reveal just tiny tit-bits of information, to which you politely nod and say ‘oh really?’

I thought, as is always the case, that the Library would be my favourite room in the house. It is no secret that I love books. I love reading them, naturally, but I also love looking at them. Some people think paintings are beautiful, others like sculptures, but I like books. Even when they’re closed, they’re beautiful. Just knowing how much adventure, how much knowledge each one holds, makes every book case filled seem so magical. I tend to buy books in almost every bookshop I go into (which is quite a lot) and I know full well I probably won’t ever get round to reading them all, but they’re so delightful I just have to own them. Especially the ones that look old. I’m aiming to have my own library when I’m older, you see, equipped with one of those ladders-on-wheels like in Beauty and the Beast, so I’m starting my collection now.

The Library at Canons Ashby. There were gardening tools kept in here so that anyone who borrowed a book was guilted into helping to preen the many bushes in the landscape garden.

Now, I have to mention the stairs at these manor houses. Stairs often get left out, I feel – but I take particular notice. It’s only in these stately homes, where the steps are so shallow and so easy to walk up, that you realise how much of a chore regular stairs are. I seemed to float up these stairs, taking such minuscule steps in order to get to the next. One minute I’m on the ground floor, the next I’m upstairs, almost by magic; it’s so effortless and it’s actually rather fun, and I never thought I would describe ascending a staircase fun. So well done stately home stairs, with your fancy red carpets and carpet rails to hold the carpet in place, and decorative wooden banisters, the unsung heroes of the house. Well done, you.

Beyond the fancy stairs was a room I did not expect. Though the house was very charming, it wasn’t explicitly grand, but one room had more elegance than the rest. It was the Drawing Room, and the ceiling captured me the second I saw it – a barreled vault white plastered ceiling, with a large painted crest and marble fireplace.

The ceiling in the Drawing Room – rather fancy, isn’t it?

And then I spotted the grand piano.

I left the elderly couple that I had been wandering around with and walked to the front of the piano to have a look at it. The music sitting on top of it was Claire de Lune by Debussy, a piece I know rather well. I glanced up at the National Trust lady, in full conversation with the couple, hoping she’d look over to me. I did what any other English person would do, and instead of politely asking for permission to play, I over exaggerated my enthusiasm at seeing the piano. I turned the pages of the music, I kept on lifting the lid to the piano stool, I even un-latched the metronome so that it began ticking – all in the slim, vain hope that she would let me play the piano. I have never been to any manor house where they have allowed the instruments to be played by any old member of the public, nor did I ever expect to find one.

“Do you play?” she eventually asked me.

“Well, you know, a little bit here and there…” I admitted.

She gestured to the piano. “Please, do play anything you wish.”

It was as if I was a child let loose in a toy store. I wasted no time in unfastening my coat and placing my bags in the corner, ready to begin playing. Was the piano stool at the right height? Would it sound too loud when I got to the forté bits in the pieces? Oh, who cares.

Me, sat the grand piano, with my ‘oh my god as if this is actually happening, this is so cool‘ smile.

I began with Claire de Lune, as it was there, open, in front of me. However, as I started playing I felt my hands shake. I was nervous – nervous because I was playing a grand piano (which, let me assure you, is a very, very rare occurance) and was playing it in the most beautiful setting I have ever played in. It was, without a doubt, a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity. What if I didn’t do it justice? What if I messed up so badly that the woman revoked her invitation for me to play?

But no. My nerves would not get the better of me – not today. This was my moment. Life is made of little ‘moments’, I think – little slices of your life where all time seems to stop, where you feel so many emotions at once you wonder if it’s real, where your mind takes a still photo of everything, of every little detail even down to what clothes you’re wearing, just so that in years to come you’ll see the imprinted image in your mind and it will be almost like you’re back in that moment.

I closed the piano book in front of me, and began to play from memory. I play better from memory, because it means I could switch off my head and let my hands move freely. It was as if I was letting go and letting someone else play for me, but when I looked down at the keys it was my hands moving. Einaudi’s ‘I Giorni’ echoed through the vaulted room, down the staircase, into the Great Hall and seeped up into the bedrooms. I could hear people in the rooms either side going ‘ssh! Is that someone playing?’ and then more and more people began filing in, carefully taking a seat on the fancy sofas, and I could feel them smiling at me, I could feel the happiness in the room, happy that they were sharing my moment with me.

Being perfectly honest I can’t remember how long I was sat at that piano. An hour, perhaps. Maybe more. I lost track of time. Everything sad and hurtful that had been getting to me in the last few months, every bad memory, every negative feeling, was drifting away. It was as if the more I played, the happier I became, the higher I climbed away from everything, away from everyone. I lost track of where I was, of why I was in Northampton. Nothing mattered anymore. None of it. I played and I played and the piano was singing under my touch, until there were no more songs left to be played. I’d played everything I could remember, and had gone through the piano music and played everything I recognised. How I wish I could have stayed there all day, stayed all evening. I didn’t want to leave the piano, to leave the glittering vebrato of the piano and the magic it installed upon all who sat in that grand Drawing Room. I wanted more than anything to stay in that moment forever. Wouldn’t that have been lovely.

The room seemed eerily quiet as I took my hands off the keys and closed the lid to the piano. A hollow silence filled the room. After I put everything back, and the room had emptied, I sat with the National Trust woman on the sofa next to the piano. We sat there for ten minutes or so, neither of us saying a word, just taking everything in. It was beautiful that we could enjoy the room as it was meant to be enjoyed, as if the house was still alive. 

The rest of the house was lovely, as every National Trust house is. I said goodbye to the woman and headed across the landing towards the bedrooms where am elderly gentleman was talking to a small group huddled around a wall. I learnt how the house had been rented out in the 1950s to quite eccentric characters who, unfortunately, didn’t understand certain historical importance of some of the artifacts. For example, there was a tapestry in the bedroom I was in which covered a large part of the wall. It was a very old and precious tapestry, and behind it lay a door leading to a cupboard. The tenants wanted to access the cupboard, so instead of moving said tapestry, like any normal and reasonable person would, they decided to take a pair of scissors to it and cut a door-shaped hole in it. The piece cut off ended up as a blanket in their dog’s basket, and the tapestry is now almost worthless.

The door-shaped hole cut into a very old and very fancy tapestry. Sigh.

The next hour was spent ambling around the house’s landscaped gardens – a beautiful collection of orderly hedgerows and topiaries. I sat down in one of the sheltered garden seats and let time pass me by. There was a book next to me that had a list of all the flora and fauna in the garden, and lots of people walked up to me to glance through the book despite it being late Autumn so there were no flowers blooming, and I said hello and they said hello back, and we chatted about how dreadfully windy it was (hence me taking shelter). People are very friendly at National Trust houses, and I like that.

Admiring the view in the garden with my very crinkley jeans.

And so here I am, sat in Starbucks, next to a delightful* family of four screaming children, writing up my day. In truth, I hadn’t expected to get so much enjoyment from spending the day exploring on my own, but it’s funny how things like that happen.

I didn’t get my cream tea in the end, by the way. I was playing piano so long that the cafe in the old stables was closing by the time I approached it, so I settled for a Toffee Nut latte from Starbucks instead.

*I say delightful, when really I mean it’s children like these ones next to me who make me want to reconsider whether I actually want children.