We moved into the “Jenkinson’s” house (Manor Farm House) in September 1980 having been to see the house 3 times. It’s a Georgian two up, two down farmhouse, dated 1777. The Victorians added bay windows, a cellar and more rooms in 1899. A decade later, the Edwardians built another floor on top. Straightaway we knew it was going to be a long roost. The downstairs walls had 25 years of dark green or dark red paint and heavy dark velvet curtains took out much of the light. I remember looking at the “lake” in the cellar where water had gathered, wondering if we could live with the downstairs gloom, while we decorated upstairs? A phone call settled it – an unknown neighbour – dear Kirsty Raphael – demanded: “What are you going to do about that horrible kitchen floor?” All right then. Nothing! Bit by bit…we’ll get to it all.
The children wanted to be on the top floor so we needed to get going there first.
Alfie Chubb at Manor Farm
Our 4-year-old son Alfie, started making friends in the village nursery in the St Laurence Hall, run by Bridget Bowsher and Sheila Pitt, (who later became a dear friend and advisor). Our 2-year-old daughter Georgia was investigating every crook and cranny so a stair gate was a priority. John and I spent the next four years scraping off ancient paper full of arsenic, pasting up fresh paper, painting ceilings and woodwork and plastering wherever needed. It was the third house we’d done up, and being young, we were keen to do everything in the decorating line ourselves.
1980 was a severely cold winter and it snowed heavily in January and February. December 1981 was one of the coldest recorded in the 20th century – the temperature in Benson was minus 9 and the radio said it was the coldest place in the UK. In 1983, we invited Alfie’s schoolfriends to celebrate his 7th birthday in January, with a tobogganing party. We had a great time on the Witches’ Hat in Watlington (although one Mum said, “How did you know when the invites went out in November that it would snow?” (Truth was, it never occurred to me it wouldn’t!)
Luckily the Jenkinson’s left us their 70-year-old cast iron Aga, which needed to be emptied, riddled, and filled with coke twice a day. It was a Godsend and we all loved it. Early that winter the pipes froze and we were so lucky to be able to heat water on the stove for John (a lot slimmer then), who had somehow squeezed himself into the old-fashioned china sink, determined to have a bath,
We made the curtains and moved down a floor. Alas, a plumber, who was doing a last-minute job upstairs, replacing the water tank (which had previously been pumped up from rainwater collected downstairs,) shouted out in alarm. Tearing up the stairs, afraid he’d had an accident, we discovered a vital cap had been left off a pipe in the loft, and water cascaded down through the house, drenching all my evening dresses in the top wardrobe, all our clothes on the first floor, finally reaching the sitting room and soaking the sofas and carpet. Poor, poor Mr Meers. We felt utterly wretched for him. He was a lovely man and cheered up only when we said we were fully insured.
When the insurance chap arrived, he told us to buy everything new, but as we went around the house, we became gloomier and gloomier. We liked our old stuff – most of it from our two previous houses. And the thought of more shopping didn’t appeal at all. In the end, it all survived with endless humidifiers, and dry cleaners, who tackled carpets and curtains.
It took four years to get to the kitchen and sort that out. Luckily John is a brilliant carpenter. We moved the Aga (on Alfie’s roller skates!) to its present place, tore off the (asbestos) covering the chimney behind – and lo and behold! There was a beautiful Victorian Kitchener stove. On cold days it is bliss to light an open wood fire there. The chimney sweep every year looks at it with horror and says how he and his brothers worked hard, to yank out a stove just like it from his mother’s kitchen -and now she’s all electric.
My son Alfie remembers that soon after we moved in, we all started working on the path near the trellis and discovered that underneath the grass which covered it were cobble stones! And as we moved down the path, we saw that Diamonds, Hearts, Clubs and Spades had been set into the cobbles which was a lovely surprise…”
Mrs Hutt aged 99 who lived in Green Lane, told us that during the war she used to work for Farmer Drewett who had the house until it stopped being a farm in 1960. She said she had to get up at 3.30am to pick the fruit before the birds did; and Farmer Drewett made her pull off his boots at the end of the day. She said our laundry room during the last war was where clothes were boiled and villagers queued up to get their milk in churns.
In 1995 my mother came to live with us when she was ill with lung cancer. Hard days… and months. She died on December 9th aged 79. We were all blessed by her life. Her ashes are buried under a Magnolia Soul tree in the orchard and Reverend Myles Godfrey made a memorable and special service for us.
The Garden at Manor Farm
One of our great friends was Theo King, in The Old Post Office, the unofficial priest of Warborough, and the kindest man and best of cooks. Other friends were the wonderful Arnolds in the village shop; whenever one of the children got sick, Pat would send round a little bar of chocolate. We met so many generous, welcoming people and have lived alongside the same neighbours all our lives here: Joyce and Martin Vaughan and their children James and Ruth (now with children of their own) and Wilf and Liz Eaton who take care of endless destitute children in Kenya. John retired as Deputy Chief Accountant of Oxford University in 2005. In 2025 it was our 50th Wedding Anniversary and 45th year of living in Warborough and we held a garden party to celebrate – when Wilf and Liz lent us all their wonderful china and chairs etc to make it easy and Wilf’s jazz band made glorious music.
So nice to still be here in the house in our 46th year. When I retired from full-time work with The Prison Phoenix Trust, the trustees gave me a sundial which can now be seen above the blind on the back of the house. On it are the words: “Vocatus atque non vocatus, Deus aderit”
It means: “Called or not called, God is Here.” No doubt about it.
Author: Sandy Chubb