Pembroath

Pembroath. The name sounds strong, silent, possibly foreboding. It has a ring of Mandalay about it; a hint of Rochester perhaps. It doesn’t come prefixed to the building….not, for example, Pembroath Hall. Pembroath alone is sufficient. It says it all: the Master is away. Or, the hounds are howling up at the big house. The reality couldn’t be more different.

They stuck a photograph of Pembroath on my Christmas card. It’s the only postal token of the season that I kept in the post-festivities clear-out because the house looks so beautiful. In this image, Pembroath, covered in a sprinkling of fresh snow, sits proudly against a clear blue Cornish sky. There are no invasive footprints to muddy the pristine path from the wooden gate to the porch and the garden still contains enough healthy foliage to add contrasting hues.

Ask a child to draw a picture of a house in winter and this would be it: square, solid and symmetrical; a large granite Edwardian construction with three windows on the top floor and one either side of the front door. Each window is divided into four panes through which hospitable yellow light shines at night. And yes, there will be roses around that door in the summer. There are four healthy looking red and brown chickens that strut around in the day. Two disinterested cats, that have better things to do in the adjoining hedgerows than worry the silly hens, also reside here. This was the house that the farmer built for himself when his original abode failed to keep up with his changing fortunes.

Inside, the house, like its current owner, is warm and cheerful. Those alterations and adjustments that were necessary to bring Pembroath into the twenty-first century have been attended to. Largely though, we take our tea in a pleasing time warp. A real fire burns in the grate and the light is suitably dimmed. Carnations sit in a glass vase. Interesting old paintings and photographs that provoke questions and conversation line the walls with no apparent sense of order or priority.

It’s not really necessary to talk continuously. Upstairs, in the middle bedroom, a ghost goes quietly about its business. It never shows itself but its presence is noted and respected. The spoilt cats prefer the bed in the front room. Downstairs, Nanny Mollie and I sink into aged armchairs and breathe in deeply. Outside, under the watchful seven stars, crocuses are pushing their way upwards.