From the little road between Tremeirchion and Bodfari, turn right; follow the drive towards the river for half a mile till the house comes into view. It is Victorian gothic with tall twisted chimneys, built of bricks made using sand from the pit down the hill, a mellow pink. There are woods on both sides, and the mound of Denbigh in the distance behind.
People are emerging from the front door, there are hugs and greetings and we are whisked into the hall, the hub of the house with a smell of beeswax. The wooden floor is polished, the staircase goes up on three sides, the landing above is a gallery on three sides, all with a wide polished wood balustrade and elaborate turned runners. There is a large farmyard scene on one wall, a narwhale tusk in a corner, a coco-de-mer, an ostrich egg, three brown china bulls, and other Victorian memorabilia with yellowing labels. Come through to the library, where tea is laid on the octagonal bog oak table. We can sink into one of an array of shabbily comfortable arm chairs facing a blazing log fire in a huge fireplace. Two walls are lined with ancient books, twelve feet from floor to ceiling. Vacant wall space is crowded with naval battle scenes. There are tall gothic windows with shutters. Here and throughout the house, all the doors and the windows and shutters are of pine, soft, long-lasting, gorgeous.
Pine double doors, with a scalloped arch above, lead to the drawing room facing South and West with a silvery Paisley wallpaper. Here is gilt furniture, a Singhalese circular ebony specimen table, a walnut grand piano, a pair of Meissen parrots, a window looking out on to the fountain, glass cabinets with trinkets. But it is an adult's room, a bit alarming, with a cocktail party in progress. Let's escape.
Halfway up the stairs is a green baize door leading to the nursery wing. This is where I spent the first years of my life. But now it is disused, and the loo no longer flushes. Looking through dusty shelves of children's books, I find one is inscribed 'Pyers for his third birthday'. Although I have no conscious memory of it, re-reading brings out a strong reaction from my sub-conscious, a powerful and pleasant sensation.
From the nursery, we can go on up the back stairs to the top floor, lots of pokey rooms that used to be servants' quarters but are now disused. They are not empty, though. Every room has its litter of engravings, books, suitcases bulging with old letters, chamberpots. (I once did a room-count, and got to 80, six grand rooms for entertaining, eight grand bedrooms, and the rest for the servants who had all gone by the time I arrived). From the top floor, we can clamber into the roof, armed with a torch and careful not to tread between the beams, as big an explore as any child could desire.
Back down the stairs for a scone or a bun or whatever is going. The kitchen is archetypical Victorian, with a stone floor (from the local slate quarries), a range, a stone sink, a large table, shelves with blue and white striped earthenware. Someone has put up a flamboyant blue rose wallpaper, but it has not really worked. There is a pantry with sets of silver and china and glass, and a row of walk-in larders. One of these is filled by an array of lead-acid batteries, used to supply electricity for the whole house. Another houses the generator which noisily recharges the batteries in the morning. It is bedtime, a last pee into the commode with its flowered bowl and brass fittings, the whole encased in a polished wood cabinet with a lid. Then a stiff climb up on to the mattress of a four-poster bed in a big room with wardrobes and thick curtains and shadows where gubbers lurk. But in summer the windows are open and the woodpigeons are cooing as though they would never stop. And in winter a coal fire is burning, and the twinkling glow soon induces sleep.
It's breakfast in the dining room, looking North up to the Graig, and dominated by family history. At one end is a full length portrait of Philip Pennant Pennant, larger than life, every inch a Victorian gentleman. Facing him, a mere six foot square, are David, Margaret and Pyers, Cavalier ancestors in a Roundhead neighbourhood. The remaining wall space is covered by a couple of dozen other Pennants, Peter in his wig and red velvet suit, Thomas as a child in 1720, David playing chess with his three sons, Daisy and Lilla, elegant young ladies in 1900; looking down, benignly or severely, on a noisy mix of cornflakes, coffee, devilled kidneys, and toast.
Sixty years later, the valley is not much changed. But the old generation have all died. The house is no longer lived in and is going downhill. The private water supply from a local stream has silted up; now there is a trickle of brackish water, unfit for drinking. Bats have got in and leave piles of droppings in dark corners. The blue rose wallpaper has come loose from the kitchen wall. Hundreds of hungry cats prowl the nether regions. Even upstairs, there is a damp chill in the air, and rust patches on the bedding. The pine windows have lasted wonderfully well, but water has got in round the atrium and there is dry rot in the roof. Unless the roof is mended, things will quickly get worse.With children and grandchildren, we camp in the house for a final farewell weekend. One loo is still flushing, and there is an immersion heater. It's bottled water and picnics, and sleeping bags on smelly mattresses. Children roar round the attics and the stables, their noise driving away both bats and cats; they have a memorable time. And so do I; the soul of the old house is as captivating as ever.