Brodsworth Hall: Behind the scenes of a restoration project like Jenga on an industrial scale

To understand the wall, you have to know a little about the history of the place. When George Hay, the eighth Earl of Kinnoull bought his estate in South Yorkshire in 1713, he had only seven years to enjoy his purchase, and the new house that he demanded. His Lordship was a shrewd politician – but he also held a major investment in the South Sea Company, whose purpose was to carry on and exploit the slave trade, to speculate in stock and shares, and also to do a little whaling on the side. It later emerged that the company was riddled by insider trading, and held together – for a while – by fraudulent loans. The Earl lost a lot of his own money when the ‘South Sea Bubble’ burst in 1720, and was shunted off to Constantinople to serve as British Ambassador. He (nor his ten children) got to enjoy their new seat, Brodsworth Hall, and it was sold to a Swiss banker, called Peter Thellusson.

Thellusson – who was also heavily involved in the slave trade – and his descendants lived quite happily in their Georgian home until 1861. The railways had arrived in nearby Doncaster, they had ditched slavery in favour of a considerable interest in the local pits. They needed somewhere that could display how influential they were. The old house was demolished, and a new building was commissioned from an obscure London architect, Philip Wilkinson – who was only 26 years old. The Hall was to have every modern convenience then available. It was to be the epitome of modernism and style, and no expense was spared. Much of the stone for the new building was quarried from their own land, and it later became a space that was part of the garden. The slightly eccentric Thellussons entertained lavishly – and an invitation to the Hall when there was a nearby race meeting, or for the shooting, was considered to be a wonderful entrée into local society. The guests and the family all loved the new house, but there were also extensive formal gardens and, beyond them, a huge pleasure ground. “The old stone, and many of the fittings from the first house, were used as rubble and building materials for the re-planned ‘informal’ area,” explains Dave Lodge, a lead volunteer, who has been part of the Brodsworth team since the house opened to visitors. “I’ve found part of a Georgian window-frame, and dozens of slates, each of which has the pair of drill holes at the top, indicating that they would have been on the roof.” He has lost count of the number of (very heavy) original stones he’s prised from the earth, but he admits with a chuckle that he is “pretty fit for someone at 76 – they weigh quite a bit, believe me!”

After the end of the First World War, the fortunes of the family reversed swiftly, and expenses were indeed spared. Everything slowly started crumbling, and the main expenditure was chanelled into keeping the lead roof intact. There were leaks everywhere, and one by one, room after room was shuttered and closed. Ironically, subsidence from the mines from which the family income had come was also badly affecting the structure itself. It wasn’t just the interior that suffered. The grounds were neglected, and where there had been rose gardens, seasonal plantings and manicured lawns, it all started to look like a real-life home for Sleeping Beauty – with thickets of brambles, thorns and intrusive roots, unplanned tree growth and collapsing walls.

When the last resident of the house, Sylvia Grant-Dalton, died in 1988, she was living in one room, with a two-bar electric fire. Sylvia’s daughter realised the enormity of the task to upkeep, or even maintain, the Hall, and sold it all to English Heritage in 1990. The contents were also purchased, and it was decided to open the house to the public – after much painstaking and expert conservation – “as found”, to show the story of a once great home across the decades.

The gardens, however, were quite another story. They were destined to be restored to all their former glory. It is most probable that they were designed by the Head Gardener of his day, Samuel Taylor, who worked to Victorian design books, showing how beds should be laid out, and the flowers that should fill them. “They were changed every four months, reflecting the seasons,” says Hale. “We do it twice a year. But then, he had a team of 30 full-time gardeners, there were more in the kitchen garden, and gamekeepers for the woods and fields beyond. These days, it’s me, and my small department – and the marvellous volunteers.” The pleasure gardens appear to have evolved at the whim and instruction of the owners and their wives and families. The newly restored wall looks over an archery field, the mock Swiss chalet that served as changing rooms and a place to take tea when the weather was inclement, an ‘eyecatcher’ folly created as a visual adornment to the vista, and the great fern dell, which still today has one of the best collections in Britain of that species of plant. In addition, there’s the rock garden, a Romano-Greek temple that sits atop a steep flight of stairs, and the rather poignant little cemetery, where the pets of the house were buried. When Heritage took over the Hall, all of this, and every object, was overgrown. “You couldn’t believe the tangle of vegetation, of roots, all the briars and brambles, the trees and shoots”, says Dave Lodge, “it was just incredible, but slowly, and painstakingly, the restoration goes on”.

Hale adds: “It’s a process of slowly peeling it all back, and then replacing, re-pointing and making sure that it is safe and faithful to the original.”

That wall might be Jenga writ large. But unlike the domestic version, it’s not going to collapse with a clatter. This wall is built to last.