Nostalgic about Chatsworth

There’s certainly nothing like a return to your home town to invoke feelings of nostalgia – I can certainly connect more with Cinema Paradiso. Every nook of my home time offers up memories so I realise I must have explored quite a bit in my youth but perhaps one of the most nostalgic places for me would be out of Chesterfield, in the Peak: The Chatsworth Estate.

My mum would remind me about our visits to Chatsworth as small children but to be honest I can’t recall. It’s only in adulthood that I can recognise just how much of my childhood was spent in autopilot. My earliest memory of Chatsworth was Peak 90 – an international Scout and Guide camp held there every five years. I was 9 and we were in Cubs, so went for a day visit and I was in awe of all the amazing things like fly fishing, pioneering and archery – the staples of a Scout activity camp. I’ve always intended to make my own bow but I’ve done so much archery over the years that I could take it or leave it. Back then though, handling a weapon so powerful it could kill was, well, nothing short of immense.

My next visit, 5 years on, was to return as a Scout for Peak 95 but by this time, we were teenage boys and our interests were exclusively smoking cigarettes, hair gel, drinking shandy and chasing after guides from foreign troops – we managed the first three well. In fact, the chasing girls was only a consolation pastime because as I recall, we were all smitten with a girl in our troop, from our school, in the year above. Indeed every boy who had ever met her was also spellbound.

Fast-forward a few years and a friend encouraged me to work at Chatsworth. He made no disguise that his eagerness to work was because of the, very attractive, girls that worked in the farmshop. It did indeed seem they had a very selective recruitment practice, which rated the aesthetic highly. Fortunately this practice did not apply to boys and so I worked there during the summer, and weekends while at school. This was before minimum wage was introduced in 1999 so the pay was low (I vaguely recall just over a couple of quid per hour) and if I’d factored in the transport costs (a responsibility that alternated between our parents) then I don’t think we would have earnt a penny.

It wasn’t exactly torture: I worked alongside the outrageously hilarious son of the manager, Stuart, and a fellow cinephile, Rich, in the warehouse out in the park. We would stack up trolleys with stock for the farmshop, transport it across a gorgeous park (being careful to avoid cows, sheep and old people), replenish the shelves and then relax with a fabulous beef sandwich for lunch and chat with the girls. I can still remember those sandwiches. I always thought to myself what a raw deal the others had. The bakers, the butchers, the till operators – they actually had to graft; but we kept our freedom a secret. As I got into cooking later in life, I often think it would have been handy to have trained as a butcher.

Freedom was not the only perk, we were permitted to consume anything that was broken or out of date. I don’t even think we had to note it down. We never abused-abused the ‘perk’ though. Bear in mind these were all luxury foods and drink, either produced locally or sourced from the very finest suppliers, and I don’t know if I would have exercised the same restraint had it not been for the manager’s son who was, in fairness, reasonably responsible. I’d be loading bottles of Elderflower cordial (none of which were ever damaged – hated the stuff at the time, love it now) and I’d hear Rich at the other end of the warehouse declare he’d found a damaged box.

A letter of reference after leaving Chatsworth Farm Shop in ’98

“Oh, that’s a shame” came Stuart’s acknowledgement and few moments would pass before I would follow-on with “What is it?”. “It’s another one of those Duchy Originals All Butter Highland Shortbread boxes” Rich would respond with a rehearsed tone of indifference. I’d down tools and be on my way back to the work desk (basically a tea station) where Stuart, having already prepped the kettle, would be awaiting said box for inspection. We’d all go through the motions of inspecting and agreeing that the item was not worthy for store presentation; with Stuart’s verdict final. Then of course, we’d commiserate the loss with a cup of Earl Grey and that very shortbread.

In fairness, some items (mostly the ones I would chance present to Stuart) were deemed fine so we didn’t pig out, per se. Of course I romanticise; sometimes we’d end up with an old box of dates – a taste for which I have never acquired. I can’t imagine a logistics operation permitting staff to handle breakages in this manner nowadays, especially when I hear of stories like the Sports Direct birth and watch programmes like the BBC’s Amazon: The Truth Behind the Click. There’s a whole other post for comment there. Anyway, I couldn’t tolerate the low pay and resigned later in the year but with, surprisingly, a nice reference.

I went to yet another Scout camp, Peak 2000, but this time we were Venture Scouts. I volunteered to assist with the chaplaincy team and this was great fun and I got to work alongside such lovely people. My shifts were different to everyone else from the unit though, who had gone on the utilities team. I just couldn’t do it. Now I wouldn’t care but at the time, the idea of cleaning porta loos was revolting. We did overlap some leisure time but I’d made a couple of good friends I spent my time with. I like the circle of Scouting: I’d gone to the camp as an eager-eyed Cub Scout the first time, then as reckless teenager and finally to return as a helper. Still, I remember Peak 2000 to be amazing and I always recall the massive stage when I hear “I’m a Believer” by The Monkees or Darude’s “Sandstorm”. To be in the beautiful grounds of Chatsworth house, mixing with like-minded people from all generations and corners of our planet was a real privilege.

My real memories of Chatsworth are with a friend. She loved Chatsworth and once I’d gotten a driving license, we’d drive to the park in the evenings and sit there for hours listening to music and chatting. I can’t recall a single conversation, nor am I willing to confess what music we listened to (we were both huge fans of 90s Transcendental Dance) but I do recall a feeling of bliss as we whiled away those cold nights in the car.

I’ve never been in the House and by all accounts, it’s superb. Even during my time as a National Trust member though, it’s always been the outside spaces I enjoy. I think stately homes can be too grandiose for my tastes and I can’t help but ponder the toil that peasants, labourers (and even slaves) must have endured to bring about the opulence now exhibited. I haven’t got any photos of the place at all so I endeavour to visit the House and grounds soon; and even have an afternoon tea at the farm shop. When I worked there, it was always said to gain free admission, one simply shows their old work tie – I’ll see if that rule has weathered the decades.