A thousand Downton Abbeys vanished from Britain in the 20th century, as the minor gentry found themselves living beyond their means. Many big houses brought low left no visible trace – a garage rests on the footprint of Girtford Manor, five minutes from my house, and I play with the thought of pumps serving petrol in the exact spot where servants once offered canapés. Our long-demolished 18th-century rectory had enough rooms to house both the minister and his whole congregation. A strictly functional 1970s building occupies a fraction of the space.
Three miles up the road, passing motorists can glimpse the windowless wing of a mock Tudor mansion before a tall hedge swallows the view. Those on foot can slip through a gap, past a modest entrance lodge and a derelict stable block, with a rusted winch poised over the hayloft and a zigzag crack down one wall, through which it would be possible to feed a horseshoe.
