Goodbye, Debbo, Darling!

It is odd how certain fleeting images impinge themselves on the memory.   One such for me was my visit many years ago to Chatsworth, the home of the Dukes of Devonshire which, just to confuse American tourists, is actually situated in the Peak District not Devon!  I remember driving slowly through a wood on a minor road which I was assured would eventually lead to Chatsworth when suddenly we came out of the trees and there it was across the valley.  I skidded to a halt, entranced:

I should make clear that visiting 'stately homes' is not my idea of fun.  Usually they are dank and dark and full of truly awful paintings.  But Chatsworth was exceptional!  Elegant, comfortable and stuffed full of works of art - paintings and sculpture both ancient and modern,  and superb examples of craftsmanship especially from the great Grinling Gibbons.

     But above all was the impression not of a preserved mausoleum but of a busy, bustling, successful business.  There were play areas for children in the grounds, excellent cafes and a garden center selling a huge array of plants, flowers and shrubs.  Whilst mooching through this gardener's delight a grey-haired lady wearing an apron was busy getting her hands dirty as she and fellow workers 'potted up' (I think the expression has it) sundry plants.  I was nudged and told that that was Deborah, Countess of Devonshire, the chatelaine of the house which she, almost single-handed, had turned from a near wreck to the magnificent and thriving home for her and her family whilst providing a million plebs with the visit of a lifetime.                She has just died at the age of 94.  The Telegraph obit provides the details of her life.  She was, of course, one of the (in)famous Mitford sisters whose various lives are the stuff of at least a dozen novels.  Happily, Deborah, was the one with high intelligence and the capacity to work.  Also, with the capacity to love, not just her late husband, but his glorious ancestral home.   So thanks, Debbo, darling!