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From an email received 18 August 2023. My Father was George Albert
McDouall. A wonderful man with many faults.
I lived for approximately 1-2 years at Kempton Manor at the age of
approx 4-5yrs.
The true Lady of the Manor sold it to my parents, and lived in a
small cottage, where we visited her. She made her cottage a very
welcoming home to us at Christmas, with a beautiful Christmas tree that
lit her arbour window as you approached it from the driveway. She had a
nephew/grandchild?, called Peter, who would play with us (myself, my 2
sisters and brother) at the Manor.
I believe the Manor property, like many historical estates, was all
that was left from a sizeable Country Estate that had been 'cut up' when
inheritance issues were claimed.
There was a clubhouse (where the Holiday Inn is now situated). I
remember the swinging sixties with the beat of live bands and dancing
and coat tickets littering the floors.
The neighbouring farm was just as welcoming, and we were allowed to
help with milking and herding and (when the adults were 'quiet') teasing
the bull and 'woolly' pigs who were left to grout the apple orchard,
picking and eating the centres of chamomile flowers from the green
centre lines of tractor trails.
We grew up with the ghosts of old, and a sense of comfort from that
history to take with us whilst we made our own.
I still, and always will, cherish these memories.
My England. My Home. Thank you.
Collett McDoull. |
