Nocton Hall - Revelations of an Imp - Chapter 1

Nocton Hall - why she needs to be saved

I can think of no better way of reproducing Douglas Craven-Hodgson's wonderful tome to instil why this  property in the heart of the village must be preserved for future generations.  I have attempted to locate the publisher for permission to reproduce this text, but the company concerned was dissolved many years ago. The book is out of print and is only available on the secondhand market. If any current publisher wishes for me to remove this material, I promise to do so immediately, although it would be a shame to lose the story.

“The Revelations of an Imp”

20 Centuries of Characters who made Nocton Hall their home
By Douglas Craven-Hodgson

Early in 1981 after a series of illnesses, my thoughts became so morbid, that I ruminated on where I should like my ashes to find a resting place. These days, 67 years is considered youthful, and with all the remarkable skills of modern medical care, the average span of life seems to have extended beyond the quoted three score years and ten.

We must all have our own yard stick by which we judge physical condition. Certainly my pulse rate quickens when a shapely lady reveals those delicious garments, subtly concealed until climbing into a sports car! In fact, this surge would go into overdrive with the additional glimpse of stocking top and a shapely leg. Momentarily, the age factor melts away and I feel my batteries recharged.

North Devon was a beautiful countryside and we had lived there for 16 years amidst the scenery of woods and hills which eventually fell away into the Torridge Valley. A wealth of beauty, with so much to offer a country lover, but was this to be my home and final resting place? Deep inside my memory box, the pull of my childhood love of another part of England was becoming stronger, the memories more vivid, until the decision was inevitable. My parents and grandparents had all been buried in their turn, in the churchyard of All Saints, Nocton, the village of my birth just before World War 1. Perhaps we share the basic impulses of the ageing animal world and as we enter a certain phase, feel the magnetic pull to return home.

My beautiful wife must have noticed the human movements, which indicated a certain unrest in her better-half. When I suggested the journey from North Devon to this village in Lincolnshire, to see the environment in which my parents had introduced their third son, a 1914 England with so few cars, no telephones and a slower way of life influenced by a much slower transmission of news, she readily agreed.

Nocton is situated 7 miles south east of Lincoln, the Cathedral City so famous throughout history. Its magnificent Cathedral, set high on a hill, commands a panoramic view over Lincolnshire and has preserved our heritage through the ages from Saxon times. Always in life there is a snag! My old home had become a Royal Air Force Hospital and the Hall was now being used as the living quarters for the female officers of the Royal Air Force Medical Staff who served the wards under a high ranking Matron.

Betty and I discussed the possibility of acquiring permission to have a walk through the grounds and see the Hall from the outside. We did have just one contact, a very charming lady who was the personal secretary to a resident Group Captain. This delightful personality was one of the daughters of our head gamekeeper who, until his death, had remained in touch with our family.

Letters were exchanged and we were advised to contact the Commanding Officer Group Captain David Crockatt. A negative response was expected, but a reply came, far exceeding our expectations. We were not just invited to see the Hall, but a warm invitation was extended for coffee at 11am to be followed by a guided tour and lunch in the Mess dining room. What a wonderful surprise. Inwardly, I felt like a cock pheasant about to display the woods and countryside of my Father's estate to my hen bird. Seldom through the years was such beauty added to a landscape by the hand of man.

My horoscope had not predicted a journey or a visit to a stately home. When events come good in life, I have a habit of over exaggeration, so my dear wife suffered the boredom of hearing tales of a glittering past, intermingled with characters ranging from the Kings of England, through the nobility, to land with a bump with a plain Hodge as the inmate of Nocton Hall.

Here I must pause to pay tribute to my better half, she has patience beyond endurance to listen to such fantasy. My beloved colleen was tolerant and showed no sign of disbelief. Others listened politely to such stories, and with a stifled yawn, showed clearly they were bored. In their judgement, tales of my beginnings must have been of a humble origin and not associated with one of England's great houses. An expression came over my wife's face which I recognised as a signal to 'belt up'. None the less, I did detect Madame Hodge shared my excitement to be going home.

Our cottage in North Devon stood high on a wind swept hill. The gales from the west, in winter, blew with undiminished ferocity and our home shook to its very foundations, so it was a wonderful feeling to escape to quieter country for a short holiday before returning to see another winter through.

At 10.55 am on 4th October 1981, we turned into the main drive of Nocton Hall Royal Air Force Hospital. We had given the car the full treatment. Polished outside, vacuumed in. Both of us in clothes so seldom worn in Devon that they looked tidy if somewhat out of date. The drive approach to the Hall was always impressive. Evenly spaced on either side of the carriage way, towering Wellingtonias planted by the Marquis of Ripon in 1887, just three years after his return from India where he had completed four years as Viceroy.

I glanced across to my passenger who had suddenly gone very quiet. As the car moved forward, we came to the famous West Lawns, lying on both sides of the Drive. Here in 1887 the Marquis held a political meeting attended by over 10,000 of his Liberal supporters from all over Lincolnshire. He addressed the large gathering from the Hall Garden steps overlooking his audience who stood quietly to hear his speech.

Now we were in sight of the Main Entrance as the Drive broke left to the front door. The sun's rays came across the southern face of the Hall giving a beautiful light to the pale amber appearance of the stone, making it look even more beautiful than my memory had projected. This was indeed a moment when we both felt we had stepped back into the age of gracious living. A vivid mental flashback to the time of coach and horses, with servants in brown and gold livery and on the rear stand, the footman with his horn. Days long past, before the family left Lincolnshire to travel north to the black smoke of the West Riding of Yorkshire. So much water had passed down the River Witham, which bounded our estate to the east, in those last 60 and more years.

We brought the car gently to rest near the front door where the Commanding Officer, with his wife and Squadron Leader King, formally greeted our arrival.

We humans on these occasions, remind me so much of our canine world, the difference being, of course, that our clothes prevent us 'spending a penny' on a large stone or car tyre. We just shake hands and our eyes transmit the message either to play or have a rough and tumble. This vital moment caused, in my case, the most pleasurable wag of the tail so everybody was off to a good start. My own violent wag, if indeed nature had endowed man with such a luxury, would have competed with any Jack Russell on the return of his master. It was for both of us, a moment never to be forgotten. This beloved Hall in all its beauty, looked to me like the gates of Heaven, and we were duly welcomed to take coffee in our old library.

Changes had been inevitable - gone the furniture that would have kept an antique collector in ecstasy, the Persian carpets and paintings, but in the knowledge that without the Royal Air Force Command, this magnificent house could so easily have been derelict. We both felt the fullest satisfaction and our host, with his gentle manner, made our return complete as the atmosphere was so relaxed and informal. After coffee, we both enjoyed our 'walk about'. Conversation flowed freely. What about the Ghost? Have you seen the Grey Lady? What was the number of staff in our time? What an awkward question to answer truthfully in 1981. Time was slipping by and the get togetherness had, by now, turned strangers into friends. 35 was my reply to the number of our staff. Perhaps that may have included the outside staff such as grooms, coachmen and gardeners.

Momentarily, I felt awkward that any family should have such a number, but later, one realised that a house with well over an acre of roof would need an efficient and large enough body of ladies and gentlemen to maintain and keep such a Hall in tip top condition. When I mentioned the number serving us, the Group Captain did not appear surprised. I was tempted to ask the strength of his personnel, but refrained. It must have been a large work force. The Hall was immaculate, the grounds and parkland maintained to a very high standard, and we were yet to see the Hospital which which had been constructed on our east lawns. Eventually our tour of the Hall was complete. We adjourned to the Officers' Mess Bar for a drink. The bar had been built in a hallway to the west garden. It was, in fact, on the steps down to the garden, that Lord Ripon addressed his fellow Liberals so many years before and later where many of our family photographs were often taken. A perfect location for early photography, as the south west sun gave a strong light through the clear atmosphere. The background also lent a little prestige to a group photograph, the garden steps acting as a height adjuster for those with long or short legs. I feel many of the Officers must have used this setting, during the Royal Air Force's 35 years at the Hall, for a similar 'shot' to send to their loved ones.

Finally lunch. The dining room was still the same room but the view through the east facing windows showed the Hospital, whereas previously, we had an unrestricted view across sloping lawns, rose borders to the ha-ha, and beyond to the double Lime Avenue, progressing as far the eye could see to the eastern horizon. To the left was the lake, which had been filled in, to give the Hospital sufficient space and recreation grounds.

During lunch, we explained that later that afternoon, our journey was north to Edinburgh, and hoped to spend the night at Piercebridge. Group Captain Crockatt told us that he knew that part of the world well. We both indulged in memories of Bowes Moor and the wild conditions to be faced especially in winter when heading west to Appleby. I recounted my school days, hitch hiking to Kirkby Stephen with another boy named Theakston, son of a Masham brewer, with the purpose to try the ale in this well known market town. It was then that we clicked with the knowledge that we were both at the same 'approved' school (apologies to Sedburgh) but of course with a divide of a few years.

Eventually, we came to say our farewells. The Commanding Officer and his attractive wife gave us the warmest invitation to return. What about next spring? It was suggested May, the flowering Cherry trees would be at their best and we must see around the Hospital which alas during the visit, the time factor had prevented such a privilege.

When total strangers are thrown together, it was out of character to be received so warmly, yet we both felt that the Hall was still our home. We drove away with a feeling of contentment. Nocton was in the safe hands of caring individuals. The friendly spirit, so unique to our old homeland, was projected through to the time of our visit. We both felt the 'Please return' message was probably just a polite 'send off. We were to be mistaken. The following year, in late April, the post brought an invitation from R.A.F. Hospital, Nocton Hall, to attend a 'Dining-in' on the 16th May 1982. We were both excited at the prospect off yet another visit. My wife, on this occasion, was to join another party of ladies, hosted by the Group Captain's wife at their official residence whilst I was to join the Officers' Mess and say a few words on the conclusion of the dinner.

Nocton Hall was, at one time, the home of a 'gentleman' who married the widow of a late owner, Sir William Ellys, but that was long ago. Francis Dashwood Esquire, may ring a bell in the mind of the pure in heart, but he only lived at the Hall for four years before he returned to his family seat in Buckinghmashire, which he made famous as the founder of the 'Hell Fire Club'. Was this material for an after dinner speech? We decided that a short summary of my childhood would go over better than a historical narration. I then told the story of how my brother and myself 'peed' on the coal fire in our nursery, one wet afternoon when nannie felt 'walkies' might end in a drenching. The event of that afternoon still remains clear in my memory. Turning coal into coke was fascinating. We were in big business. When nannie returned to a steam filled nursery, with a sickly sweet aroma, she had no hesitation on the corrective discipline. The hair brush on plush pink cheeks concluded the experiment. I related this human and childlike story to a receptive audience but did add a postscript that if only my Father and Mother had realised how close we two boys were to beating the Americans in the production of Coca-cola , we might still be living at Nocton Hall.

The remainder of our weekend gave us the opportunity to have a conducted tour of the Hospital. We were both deeply impressed with the homely atmosphere. Wards decorated with cheerful floral patterned curtains, bed sheets to match. In every way, one felt a sparkle and dedication to lift a patient's morale. Bright and colourful decorations with views to the open parkland through so many windows. If the human generator had broken down, what a wonderful place to rest whilst true experts, backed up by a nursing force of 'bluebells' carried out their routine to return the body to its full vitality. A compliment to the R.A.F. Officers, not to be confused with the ladies of the Champes Elysee! The borders outside the wards displayed an early show of roses. With windows open, their fragrance permeated into the Hospital, helping to take away the characteristic clinical smells associated with ward efficiency.

The Top Brass of Nocton were proud to show their visitors an immaculate Hospital in a setting unequalled anywhere in this country.

On the Sunday evening before our departure, our host asked if I would write a history of Nocton. All my life I have suffered with one great fault, and spontaneously, I replied 'yes' when a wiser man would have said 'no'. The tragic news that this wonderful Hospital had succumbed to the political economic 'chop' and was to close the following spring, made us all sad. The Group Captain explained that a recorded history might give pleasure to old and young and not least, provide a lasting memory to the loyal staff who had dedicated their skills to making so many people well.

What about the 'babies'. In 25 years, generations of new Noctonians could claim their birth in a Royal home. Need I say more.

Let us now go back through the midst of time and persuade everybody to join this adventure, especially those Nocton babies. Follow your Pied Piper back through the centuries to Roman Britain.

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