There is a fascinating debate going on in the British press at the moment over the fate of a country house called Tyntesfield which may soon be offered for sale. For us Irish, the fascination must principally lie in the fact that the concern generated by this potential sale simply would not arise here. While the British recognise that grand country houses are an integral part of their heritage, we somehow still regard them as alien objects in the native landscape and are largely indifferent to their fate, writes Robert O'Byrne
Throughout Britain, hundreds, if not thousands, of old houses and estates have been saved for future generations by a variety of means. Many have been taken over by the National Trust, while others have received assistance from a variety of state sources, thereby allowing them to remain largely in the same state they were over the last few centuries.
In fact, it might be thought that there are already more than enough such properties preserved without worrying over the future of Tyntesfield, however interesting the place might be. And the house certainly does sound rather special; set in a 2,000 acre estate close to Bristol, it was built in high neo-gothic style by a rich Victorian industrialist called William Gibbs. Rather charmingly, the family fortune was made through the importation of bird droppings for use as agricultural fertiliser.
Not that there is any evidence of this in the decoration of Tyntesfield and its 43 bedrooms, central glazed courtyard and drawingrooms, all of them elaborately ornamented in carved stonework, wood panelling, hand-painted tiles, marble and mosaic inlays and stained glass. Dating from the 1860s, the original interiors survive almost intact, along with all the furniture either bought or made for the house. There remains the original gas-block built to heat Tyntesfield, as well as taps for both soft and hard water, a heating system based on a combination of ducted hot-air and radiators and a hydraulic lift.
No wonder that its fate is proving to be a subject of such concern, because the last owner left the place to 19 heirs who understandably now want their share of the estate. Still, contrast the flurry of public anxiety in Britain over Tyntesfield's future with the total disinterest whenever an equivalent property is at risk here. The most recent instance of this was Farnham House in Co Cavan, an estate owned by the Maxwell family since the 17th century. When the 12th Lord Farnham died last year, his family put the house and land on the market, an event which appeared to cause no disquiet among either the local or national authorities.
As a result, a collection assembled over centuries has now been broken up and dispersed. Some of Farnham's contents were sold in situ last January, and around 200 lots more are to be auctioned by Christie's in London later this month. That means that furniture made in, and for, this country and which had stayed in the same place for hundreds of years, has now gone overseas, perhaps never to return. The only items remaining are a group of family paintings which Lord Farnham's widow has arranged to lend to the Cavan County Museum. But that no one has shown the remotest worry over the sale of Farnham's unique furnishings is an indictment of our interest in the national heritage. We have allowed a link with some 350 years of our collective history to be broken.
The sale of Farnham House and its contents could hardly be regarded as a unique event. Such occasions have occurred all too frequently during the past century. Last year, Terence Dooley published a book called The Decline of the Big House in Ireland which made for grim reading. Here was a history of abandonment and neglect; houses of stunning architectural merit either pulled down or left to collapse because no one could be troubled to ensure their salvation.
Just as sadly, their contents were dispersed, usually out of this country. In June, 1920, Killua Castle's furniture and pictures were sold, the latter including a Holbein, a Caravaggio and a Rembrandt. Seventeen years later, a similar auction was held at Dartrey, Co Monaghan; among the paintings lost on that occasion were work by El Greco and Zoffany. Potential overseas bidders at Dartrey were reminded that furniture over 100 years old could be imported duty free into Britain, a fact as Dooley notes "that was largely responsible for the loss of so many Irish big house treasures to this country".
Some years ago, the late Cynthia O'Connor wrote an essay on the dispersal of Ireland's country house collections, replete with melancholy information about just how much of our shared heritage had vanished. She records how a set of five chairs from Pallas, Co Galway, were sold on behalf of the 12th Earl of Westmeath in 1934 for £19. When the same set came up for auction at Sotheby Parke Bernet of New York in 1974, they fetched $207,500. Similarly, when the contents of Charleville Castle, Co Offaly, were disposed of over five days in November, 1948, the lots included a set of five views of the demesne by William Ashford; together, they made £18. In 1991, two of these pictures turned up at Christie's in London and there went for £100,000 and £120,000 respectively. When the contents of Shelton Abbey, Co Wicklow, were sold in 1850, they included a Saxon jewel known as the Sutton Brooch; bought for 10 shillings, it is now in the collection of the British Museum.
There is a story that when the Russian Imperial family fled St Petersburg after the outbreak of revolution in 1917, a mob broke into the Winter Palace determined to loot the building. They would have done so, but for one of their number calling a halt to the destruction. This wise man pointed out that the entire population of the city and country had a shared ownership of the palace's contents and that these should therefore be preserved. As a result, the Winter Palace, together with many other historic buildings in St Petersburg, remains much as it was 100 years ago. We in Ireland, on the other hand, still remain quite determined to relinquish an important part of our history.