The Cherry Orchard at the Palmer Hall, Fairford

Anton Chekhov's 1904 tragicomedy ‘The Cherry Orchard’ is a brave choice for an amateur dramatics group, and is certainly a far cry from the pantomimes that are usually the closest thing the small Cotswold town of Fairford gets to proper theatre. The play has a substantial cast, with many complex themes, and although some of its subtleties are lost in the mix, overall the Meysey Players have put together a very good production.

The Cherry Orchard of the title is situated on the estate of an aristocratic Russian family that is struggling to adapt to the changing times. The emancipation of the serfs had occurred some forty years beforehand, allowing former peasants to rise up and become successful businessman and at the same time reducing the power of the landed gentry. As such, nobody is quite sure where they stand in relation to both one another and the world in general. Servants come and go seemingly as they please, the aristocrats continue with the extravagance to which they have been accustomed despite the fact they can no longer afford it, and members of the emerging middle class take advantage wherever they can.

The nobles who live on the estate, led by Mrs Lyuba Ranevskaya who is ostensibly the head of the family despite her complete inability to make decisions, are at the beginning of the play so much in debt that their home will have to be sold. This is such a distressing situation that they do their utmost to avoid thinking about it, dismissing the plan of local businessman Lopakhin to sell some of it off as summer cottages, a plan that would indeed result in the destruction of the orchard but would at least allow them to keep their ancestral home. The servants, although concerned that they will lose their positions if the estate is lost, are wrapped up in pointless love affairs and it is only Ranevskaya’s adopted daughter Varya who makes any attempt to economise and thus improve matters.

Most of the comedy is in the form of farce, with a clumsy clerk and poor-mannered nobleman providing the bulk of the laughs. The overall feeling of the play however leans more towards tragedy; themes of unrequited love and loss abound, and the only characters who are satisfied by the finale are Lopakhin and the highly objectionable manservant Yasha.

The production was rather slick for the first night of a complex play performed by a group of amateurs, with only one slight slip up on lines noticeable throughout the whole evening. Some of the acting was perhaps a little over the top, but mostly the characters were very well realised. Special mention should go out to the actors playing the roles of Firs, the aged servant whose decline was symbolic of that of the Russian aristocracy, Lopakhin and Gayev, Ranevskaya’s slightly loopy billiard-obsessed brother. All of these had real stage presence and could easily put some professional actors to shame. The costumes and set were also impressive, especially as they had so much to fit onto such a small stage.

The play is running every night until this Saturday, 28th November, at the Palmer Hall in the middle of Fairford, and there are plenty of seats left. Tickets are only £10/£12 and can be bought on the door. The action starts at 7:30. This really is a good event for the town, and I highly recommend anyone in the area to go and see it.

The Meysey Players

The Hunterian Museum at the Royal College of Surgeons

The Hunterian Museum, named after the 18th century anatomist and surgeon John Hunter, is perhaps one of the most disconcerting places to visit in London, and as such is not recommended for the squeamish. It lies inside the grand Royal College of Surgeons which takes up most of the south side of Lincoln's Inn Fields, a typical London square bursting with interest. Open from 10 am to 5 pm Tuesdays to Saturdays, it is free to enter. Simply collect a visitor's pass from the front desk, walk up the staircase along which portraits of past Fellows of the College stare out, and enter the lower level of the museum.

Most immediately striking is the sheer quantity of specimens on display. Brightly illuminated glass cabinets are full to bursting with jars containing bits and pieces of every creature imaginable. From the tongue of a chameleon to the large intestine of a whale, the specimens are both fascinating and repulsive. Apart from those few examples where the entire animal is contained within its formaldehyde tomb, it is almost impossible without hunting out the label to guess the organism from which the sample came.

Around the edge of the room are displays which detail the history of both the College and of the science of anatomy in general. These are illustrated by both its human samples and by the tools that were used to obtain them. A particularly interesting exhibit shows large wooden dissecting boards with a different section of the nervous system on each. Less easily stomached are the examples of diseased body parts, showing starkly how things in the body can go horribly wrong. Other curiosities worth singling out are the towering skeleton of Charles Byrne, a so-called 'Irish Giant' whose body was collected by Hunter contrary to his wishes, and the pickled brain of the father of computing, Charles Babbage.

Picture by Paul Dean

For some light relief, head to the far end of the museum where a small collection of paintings are hung. These are not the kind of pictures that would normally be found in an art gallery, not due to lack of merit but rather due to the unusual subject matter. They depict people or animals which would have been highly novel at the time of painting: a rhinoceros hangs close to a portrait of a native American; a hugely obese man looks across at a noble with dwarfism.

Upstairs the exhibitions are more informative and less nausea-inducing. Here the story of surgery is dealt with, moving from Joseph Lister's groundbreaking discovery of antiseptics to bang-up-to-date methods such as keyhole surgery. It is staggering how much practices have evolved and improved over the past hundred years or so. I left the museum feeling slightly freaked out, but also very glad that I was born now rather than in the times when barber-surgeons considered a filthy, blood spattered apron to be a badge of honour.

The photograph on the top left of this post shows the skeleton of a hydrocephalus sufferer.

Birthday cakes

Birthdays are good for many reasons; reasons such as beer, presents and general frivolity. They are also a great excuse to make cakes, not just any old cakes but proper, highly decorated, completely over-the-top cakes. The kind of cakes that take a whole day to make, involve scary amounts of butter, chocolate and sugar, and weigh in at over a kilogram. It is no longer just about making something tasty to eat; rather the purpose is to make something that looks amazing. Any pleasure that can be derived from actually consuming the cake is very much a secondary consideration. If the recipient of the birthday cake doesn't feel a pang of guilt when cutting into it, quite frankly, not enough effort has been put into its decoration.

How then to go about making the cake look spectacular? An obvious starting point is to make it into a non-standard shape. It is unlikely that there will be strangely-proportioned baking tins in the cupboard, so a better bet is to make a round or rectangular cake as per usual and then cut it up and put it back together in an unusual fashion, using icing to fill in the gaps. This way the cake can be made to resemble a myriad of objects: a snake, a Lego brick or a house, perhaps.

Next, consider the icing. There are many different types, and the variety chosen will depend on the precise design of the cake. Rolled icing can be best for more regularly-shaped cakes, glacé icing makes a good cement, and creamy chocolate fudge is good for covering imperfections, but perhaps most versatile is simple buttercream. This can be applied using an icing tube with nozzle, or simply smeared on directly with a knife.

The birthday cake will look rather dull if the icing is just white or cream. Bright, gaudy colours are much more fun; obtaining these necessitates the use of food colouring. The little bottles of red, green or blue normally carry a warning, saying for example to only use 1 teaspoon per 250 g of icing, but this guidance should be ignored. After all, the whole point of using food colouring is to produce a vivid, unnatural hue, which often means putting in half a bottle. The people consuming the cake will probably be so high on sugar that they will hardly notice the difference from an extra drop or two of E numbers.

If after the addition of icing the birthday cake is still lacking a certain something, do not fear. A quick peek into the baking aisle at the local supermarket will reveal a mind-boggling assortment of sprinkles, chocolate chips, candles and silver balls. A selection of these should almost certainly make their way onto the cake where they can join other sugary delights such as chocolate-covered raisins, jellybeans and fudge. Worries that the whole thing might be looking rather crowded should be brushed aside; when it comes to birthday cakes the old adage that less is more should be thrown out the window.

Once the cake is complete the problem becomes transporting it to the birthday boy/girl. Often this is no mean feat as the distances are long and the cakes are quite fragile. However, it is possible to get the cake, perfectly intact, to just about anywhere. I personally have carried cakes whilst walking for a couple of kilometres through the suburbs of Birmingham, have taken one on a bus and another on the Underground, and most recently have held onto one for dear life as my boyfriend drove us for 10 miles through the hazard-ridden streets of south-west London.

It is possible that at some point during the epic journey of cake creation and transportation the question "why didn't I just buy one from the supermarket?" will arise. Banish such thoughts. Making a birthday cake from scratch may well cost dearly in both pounds and in time, and afterwards the kitchen will almost certainly resemble a war zone, but it is all worth it. It is worth it because, however good they may taste, and however much hassle they cause to be avoided, shop-bought cakes are lame.

My most recent birthday cake, a mountain complete with chocolate raisin scree, marshmallow sheep, matchmaker trees, a caramel stream and a fudge trig point.

Leafcutter bees

I am always impressed at how obliging wildlife can be when we try to attract it to our gardens: put up a bird box and before long it will be occupied by a blue tit, dig a hole and put some water in it and as if by magic a whole wealth of aquatic creatures will appear. This year we put up a solitary bee home, and lo and behold, solitary bees appeared. It was fascinating to watch them as they went about their business, and highly impressive to see the rate at which they made the tube-filled log their own.

Most people imagine bees to be highly social creatures, living in large colonies to do the bidding of an all-powerful queen. This is indeed the case for common bumblebees and honey bees, but there also exist a number of solitary bee species, of which the leafcutter bee is one example. Leafcutters are fairly small bees at about 10 mm long. Their bodies are a dark brown with a dip in the abdomen where they store pollen; this differs from other bees which store pollen in sacks on their legs. They don't live long, normally only for two months, but they fill this brief existence with frantic activity

Upon emerging from its nest the female bee quickly finds a male with which to mate. Once it has done this it goes about finding a suitable nest site, ideally somewhere providing a hollow tunnel of a similar width to the bee itself, although it can dig out a tube if necessary. The nest could be in the stem of plants such as roses, in the soft depths of decaying wood, or in the tubes of a shop-bought bee home. Once a site has been located the bee will start collecting leaves. Whole leaves would be rather awkward for the little bee to carry, and so instead it cuts out small semi-circles which it carries back to the nest. It then uses these to fashion several compartments in the previously-constructed tunnel, into each of which it leaves an egg and a ball of pollen and nectar before sealing it up. Once the nest is completed the bee abandons it to fate.

Each female leafcutter bee lays up to 40 eggs, which means up to 40 compartments need to be made - this equates to an awful lot of leaf building material and explains why the bees are so busy. Life for the larva is rather more sedate. It soon hatches and consumes the ball of pollen left for it, then hibernates for the winter. The following spring it comes round and pupates, emerging as a fully-fledged bee at the beginning of summer. Males tend to develop in the compartments closest to the end of the nest, and so emerge first. Their sole purpose is to mate with the females, and after they have done so they die, taking no part in the nest-building process.

Miss Julie at the Rose Theatre, Kingston

'Miss Julie', playing until 28 November at the Rose Theatre in Kingston upon Thames, is an 1888 drama by Swedish playwright August Strindberg. It is a relatively short play, running here without an interval, but manages to pack a considerable emotional punch into its 90 intense minutes.

The bulk of the stage is taken up by a large 19th century kitchen, complete with working stove and water pump. On either side of this are bedrooms, and behind it lies a slightly creepy, ethereal wood, with long thin trees reaching up to the rafters. The play opens with a lone servant cooking onions - certainly the first time I have ever seen actual cooking taking place on stage. These onions turn out to be for the dinner of Jean, a smartly-dressed valet and the man betrothed to Kristin, the cook. The pair work in the stately home of a great Count, a man who is never seen but of whose presence we are very much aware. Despite their engagement, the pair seem somewhat prickly towards each other, perhaps reflecting their different desires in life. Kristin is devoutly religious with a strong sense of what is proper, and is content with her position of servitude. In contrast, Jean is a fiery, well-educated man tortured by the senseless inequality of his position who dreams of being his own master.

They start gossiping about Miss Julie, the Count’s daughter who has recently broken off her engagement, an event about which she seems to feel a sense of humiliation. To escape these unpleasant thoughts she has taken to frolicking with the servants, raucously dancing at their Midsummer's ball and generally behaving in a way inappropriate to one in her position. She bursts into the kitchen and begins to flirt outrageously with Jean despite Kristin's presence. Kristin, exhausted from her hard day's work, soon falls asleep, provoking Miss Julie to be even more blatant in her attempted seduction. Jean is initially reticent, but eventually succumbs to his lust, with the end result being that he pulls Miss Julie off into his bedroom and they have sex.

This is the pivotal event in the play, and the bulk of it is spent with the two protagonists arguing over its consequences. Miss Julie feels she has fallen and can no longer occupy her lofty position as a Count’s daughter; in contrast Jean feels this could be his chance to rise up and follow his dreams. However, both characters are confused and they constantly change their minds as to what is the most appropriate course of action.

Miss Julie herself is a mass of contradictions; she has been fed starkly opposing views and values by her mother and father and as such has no idea who she really is and what she actually believes. Her indiscretion is the last straw that causes this inner turmoil to break out and she rants and raves as it threatens to tear apart. Jean is the more grounded of the two, coming up with genuine plans and suggestions in amongst Julie's hysteria. Whenever the Count is mentioned however, this steely façade crumbles and he becomes the humble, pathetic servant once more. They are doomed and both know it.

I saw the play this past Saturday, at the matinee performance. The Rose is a fantastic, modern theatre not yet two years old, which has an expansive stage and has been designed so that every seat provides a terrific view. Unfortunately, barely 10% of the 900 seats were filled. This is a crying shame, as 'Miss Julie' is well worth seeing, and certainly a better use of time than shopping, which is what the majority of visitors to Kingston that day seemed to be absorbed in.

The acting is excellent. I felt a little sorry for Lucy Briers, the actress playing Kristin, as she had to spend most of the play pretending to be asleep, but when she did get to do something she did it well. Rachel Pickup captures the wildness and instability of Miss Julie but gives her enough depth that she seems human, allowing the audience to feel sympathy for a character who could easily be made abhorrent. Daniel Betts is also good as Jean, changing in a more controlled fashion between calm realism, passion and cruelty.

My only complaints would be that it is not completely clear why the initially level-headed Jean would risk all for a moment of passion with his feared employer's daughter, and that the ending is rather sudden. Otherwise though, it was a play that I am very glad I went to see, even if the experience was not exactly enjoyable. I was left feeling emotionally pummelled, and that, for a cast of just three in a near-empty theatre, is no mean feat.

Rose Theatre

Bad taste

When recently confronted with the above object all I could think was why? Why would such a hideous thing come into existence? Why would someone design it? Why would some company agree to manufacture it? Why would some member of the public then hand over their hard-earned cash in exchange for it? And now I have to ask myself, why am I sharing it with the world?

I simply do not know the answer to any of these questions.

Marmite marble cake

Marmite, the thick black goo extracted from yeast left over from the brewing process, is well-known for being one of those rare things which incites either all-out revulsion or all-out adoration in those brave enough to try it. I fall into the latter camp, feeling especially that cheese on toast without Marmite is scarcely worth eating at all; the thin veneer of the black stuff elevates this humble dish to positively divine heights. Marmite is of course perfectly acceptable when spread straight onto toast at times when the extra lardage provided by the cheese would just be too much, and can be added to cooking sauces in order to provide an extra kick, but surely more can be done with it, surely it can break out of its restrictive savoury mould and assume its rightful place in the ranks of the most versatile kitchen essentials?

With this goal in mind, I have endeavoured to include Marmite in recipes where its presence would normally raise eyebrows, to venture forth into previously undiscovered Marmite territory. Some of the results have been surprisingly successful, including that of Marmite marble cake, the recipe for which I will give here. This tasty snack met the approval of not only myself and my parents, but also of my grandmother, who does not hesitate to say exactly what she thinks and so whose opinion can be considered highly reliable. Here goes:

Ingredients

• 175 g self-raising flour


• 175 g caster sugar


• 175 g butter


• 3 eggs


• a little hot water


• Marmite (1 tsp to 1 tbsp, according to taste / sense of adventure)

Method

• Preheat the oven to 180 °C or Gas Mark 4.


• Cream the butter and sugar together, thus creating one of the most horrifically calorific, yet strangely compelling, substances known to mankind.


• Add the eggs to the mixture. If you are feeling brave, crack them directly into the mixing bowl. If, like myself, egg cracking is not your forte and such a method would result in a cake full of bits of eggshell, crack them into a mug first, then transfer.


• Mix together vigourously to create a sloppy mess.


• Bit by bit, stir in the flour.


• Divide the mixture into two separate containers.


• Dissolve the Marmite in the minimum amount of hot water, then stir this into one half of the mixture.


• Grease a cake tin with a little butter, then add alternate dollops of Marmited and non-Marmited cake mixture to it in such a way as to produce a nicely marbled effect.


• Bake in the oven for about half an hour, until a knife inserted into the centre comes out clean. If the top starts to go overly brown cover the tin with foil.
• Leave to cool, then try a bit.


• Be pleasantly surprised!

A (heavily extended) stroll in the northern Carneddau

The Carneddau comprise the largest area of high ground above 2500 feet in the UK south of Scotland, and as such provide a wealth of entertainment for the keen hiker. The southern half of the range, containing peaks such as Pen Yr Ole Wen, Carnedd Dafydd and Carnedd Llewellyn, is easily accessed from the Ogwen Valley and as such is normally crawling with people. Indeed, until a couple of weeks ago the car park at Ogwen Cottage had been the only starting point from which I had successfully completed walks in the Carneddau, and these walks had only yielded very limited views. They had provided other entertainment, such as gusts of up to 70 mph which on one occasion knocked myself and my entire group off our feet, and which almost lost me my much-prized ‘skull and cross bones’ Buff, but had yet to give up the stunning vistas that I knew must be possible.

In contrast the northern Carneddau are much more rarely frequented. The hills have a completely different character to their southern brethren; in place of steep ascents and bouldery summits are grassy slopes with more occasional rocky outcrops. The paths are less eroded and have only been reinforced by paving slab-wielding National Trust volunteers in a handful of places. Quite a few sturdy-looking ponies inhabit the lower reaches, and at the beginning of the walk we paused to watch several sheepdogs at work, herding their charges off the hill and down to the valley bottom.

We started our hike from a small car park near the end of a minor road leading south east from the village of Abergwyngregyn. Most people parking here do so for the brief trek to see the Aber Falls a couple of kilometres away; these waterfalls do indeed seem to be impressive, but alas it was too dark to properly appreciate their splendour by the time we reached them. Rather than crossing a nearby bridge and heading straight for the falls we instead continued along the road to its end where it turned into a gravel track. We quickly left this behind us, and freestyled our way up through patches of prickly gorse to the top of the first hill, the diminutive but still rather nice Foel Ganol. From this vantage point we could see across the Menai Straits to Anglesey looking one way, and to the cloud-swathed peaks that were our playground for the day in the other direction.

The ponies viewed us with a mixture of contempt and annoyance, clearly not impressed to have humans invading their space. We brushed off this unfriendly welcome however, and strode on, across Pen Bryn-Du and Carnedd y Ddelw. We ascended this latter well and truly enveloped in the clag; a minor annoyance, but not anything to get too worked up about as after all, we were in Wales and this is the sort of weather that Wales does best. Next up was the refreshingly-pronounceable Drum, where we stopped for a well-earned snack, followed by Foel Fras; a thoroughly respectable 942 m high and bearing the first trig point of the day.

It was at this summit that we came across our first fellow hiker, sheltered behind a wall and enthusiastically tucking into his sandwiches. There was also a scattering of sheep posing quite elegantly by the edge, providing perfect foreground interest for when the clag momentarily cleared:

Things were starting to get rather good. After a few minutes more walking in the grey the cloud rose again, lifting our spirits with it. The sky revealed itself to be a bright azure blue streaked with wispy white, the sun beat down with a strength belying the fact that it was almost winter, but best of all was the way in which the low clouds still remaining were gracefully decorating the flanks of the hills before us. By the time we reached the rocky rise of Garnedd Uchaf (recently renamed Garnedd Gwenllian after a Welsh princess who spent most of her time locked up in a Priory), the view was spectacular.

Our initial plan had been to use this walk as a gentle warm-up, and to descend over Llwytmor from Foel Fras and to be down by early afternoon. However we were hungry for more and hence had stayed up, continuing on to Garnedd Uchaf. It didn't take us very long once here to decide to extend the walk still further; after all Foel Grach was only a kilometre away and the view was so good that it would seem rude not to keep going. At Foel Grach a similar argument spurred us on to Carnedd Llewellyn, whose summit provided one of the best views I have ever seen in my life.

The clouds were positively caressing the mountains in front of us; pouring over the ridges like breakers on the sea. The grand figure of Snowdon stood proudly in the background, itself for once completely clear. The low afternoon sun illuminated the scene beautifully, catching the tops of the clouds and making them shine pearly white. I could have stayed and watched forever. Alas, the sun was descending rapidly and we had a long way to walk back to the car, and so we had to tear ourselves away.

We retraced our steps over Foel Grach, skirted past Garnedd Uchaf and moved on to Bera Bach. This impressive pile of rock was crying out to be scrambled over, but alas we had not the time, and so reluctantly passed it. The last hill of the day was the cairn-topped Drosgl, from which we could look back over the chains of now completely cloud-free mountains. There was no opportunity to linger so we headed down to the col, from where we used sheep tracks to make our way down to the valley bottom. Fortunately luck was with us, and we easily joined up with the wide tourist trail leading to the waterfall. It was now rather dark but we resisted getting out the head torches, preferring to let our eyes adjust naturally to the gloom. Before long we were back at the car, looking forward to sating our post-walk hunger for tea and cakes.

Millipedes

There are around 8000 different species of millipede in the world, of which 52 are present in the UK. The name 'millipede' translates as ‘thousand legs’, and although these creatures are indeed many-legged none of them quite reach the thousand mark, with 750 being the record (held by Illacme plenipes of the USA). Their bodies are made up of multiple segments, most of which carry two pairs of legs and are protected by a chitinous cuticle. The different segments are connected together by ball and socket joints, allowing the creatures to be incredibly flexible, and they will often curl up into a compact spiral if they sense that a predator is nearby.

Despite all those legs millipedes are rather slow-moving in comparison with similar critters. They are herbivores and therefore have no need to chase prey, preferring to spend their time burrowing through the leaf litter and chomping on the decaying vegetable matter that is highly unlikely to run away. This lack of speed does put them at a disadvantage when escaping from predators, and so as well as employing the tactic of coiling up they can emit unpleasant chemicals such as hydrogen cyanide in order to make themselves less palatable. Despite this defence other creatures do manage to eat them; they are at risk from frogs, toads, some spiders and birds. Starlings seem to find them especially tasty - millipedes can make up half of their diet in the spring.

I have recently spotted two different species of millipede. The first, shown above, was hanging out on a shady crag close to a forest in Northumberland, at a rather higher altitude than they would usually be found. This was a White-legged Snake Millipede, a common species that can grow to about 5 cm long. The second, shown below, was much smaller, barely more than a centimetre in length, and at first glance I thought it was a woodlouse. Its very shiny body and evenly-sized segments however proved it to be a Pill Millipede, a less common species whose party trick is rolling up into a tight ball. I found it on a beach on Anglesey, not its most usual habitat by any means. It is much more likely to be found, like the others, in woodland and on rough pasture where there are more tasty dead leaves to munch on.

Castles in North Wales: Penrhyn vs Conwy

I have just come back from a week in North Wales, a part of the country I knew well from a hiker’s point of view, but no so well from that of a tourist. We therefore took the opportunity of a longer-than-usual stay to visit some of the region's lower altitude attractions. I am a bit of a sucker for a good castle, and so we ended up visiting two. But which one was best?

First off, I freely admit that this is in no way a fair comparison. Although both termed 'castles' they are completely different beasts, both in age, style and most importantly purpose. We also visited one when we were completely fresh, and the other after having done a 17 km hill walk, the exertion from which had made us more interested in tea and cake than in culture. Despite all this, in my mind there is a clear winner.

Conwy Castle occupies a commanding position on the edge of its small walled town. Considering that it was built between 1283 and 1289 it is in excellent condition, with most of its towers and even a few archways still intact. It is one of many castles built for Edward I after his suppression of a major Welsh rebellion, and was designed in part to guard the mouth of the River Conwy. It proved itself able to withstand a lengthy siege a mere six years after its construction, but by the 17th century had fallen into disrepair. It is now under the stewardship of Cadw, the organisation charged with the preservation of Welsh history.

Conwy Castle is from the outside a grand structure, a dominant presence that looks just like castles should with its thick walls and sizeable turrets. Inside however, it is slightly disappointing. Yes, there are plenty of spiral staircases to climb up and down; and yes, the views from the tops of the towers are impressive, extending over hills, river and sea. But the explanatory signs are few and far between, one tower is much like the next, and it is difficult to get a real feel of what the castle would have been like in its prime. Many rooms are simply latrines for the pigeons and the only real attempt at an exhibition is a display about chapels in Welsh castles in general, which failed to grab our interest. We stayed just a short while before moving to a nearby pub to put our booted feet up.

Penrhyn Castle on the other hand had me captivated instantly. It is an entirely different proposition: rather than being a true castle designed for defensive purposes it is a 'fantasy' Neo-Norman stately home built by Thomas Hopper for the astoundingly rich Pennant family from 1820 to 1845. The Pennants made their fortune from slate quarrying in the surrounding hills and from the sugar industry in far-off Jamaica, getting rich off the labours of others who unfortunately included a large number of slaves. The grand scale and lavishness of the castle reflects well this extreme wealth, and it must have been a magnificent, if rather unnerving, place in which to live.

The first room entered after passing through the entrance corridor is the dazzling great hall. This is a vast space with an intricately patterned vaulted ceiling, stained glass windows and imposing fireplace. It has a cathedral-like atmosphere to it, and must have made visitors feel very small indeed. The next room is the library and it is here that the full force of Hopper's over-the-top design hits you. Everything is unique, no surface remains undecorated, gilded ornamentation and intricate carving abound. It doesn't necessarily look good, but it does look 'wow'!

Another highlight is the grand staircase. I originally thought that the pillars and walls were made of plaster casts but it had in fact all been carved out of sandstone. Gargoyle-like faces look down on you from everywhere, each one different, each one intriguing. Upstairs things are toned down slightly, becoming merely excessive rather than extravagantly so. Few sandstone creatures inhabit the bedrooms, supposedly in order to let their human occupants sleep without being terrified, however Hopper couldn't seem to resist putting a few wooden ones on the furniture. In short, the place is full of the stuff of dreams, or the stuff of nightmares, depending one’s individual inclination.

So, which castle is the best? Older or newer? Practical or fanciful? Style or substance?

For me, Penrhyn Castle wins easily. Its ostentatious design is almost certainly all in very bad taste, but nonetheless I find it mesmerising.

I am now of course going to make the above comparison completely pointless by concluding that if I had time to visit just one castle in North Wales it would definitely be that of Caernarfon, which is a fantastic, immense and mostly-intact structure containing ample nooks and crannies which allow for a cracking game of hide and seek...

Conwy Castle
Penrhyn Castle
Caernarfon Castle