Tag Archives: blackmore farm

The Cat of Blackmore

The Cat of Blackmore

I do not know this cat’s name, but he lives at Blackmore Farm, a fantastic 15th century manor house. His people do dinners for guests sufficiently far-sighted to organize themselves into a group of about 25, and book some months in advance. The guests are entertained in the great hall. They bring their own wine, they are served delicious food and there are unlimited puddings. There are pointy things, suits of armour, and the heads of dead things on the walls, and several cannon balls and mortar shells around the enormous hearth. Sir Cat comes in to check that all is done correctly, and strikes a pose with a nonchalantly lifted front paw.

The Cat of Blackmore

The Cat of Blackmore

Here is the drawing I did last year, of Sir Cat’s great hall. It doesn’t do the hall justice: on the opposite wall there were far older pointy things than a couple of rifles with bayonets, but there is only so much a person can draw in one sitting without appearing antisocial….

The Hall at Blackmoor Farm

The Hall at Blackmoor Farm

The dining room at Blackmore Farm

At Blackmore Farm…

Blackmore Farm is rather more stunning than the name would imply: it is a 15th century manor house, complete with pointy things, dead things and guns on the walls, and a magnificent fireplace with canon balls just lying around in the hearth. They do dinners, but you probably have to book about a year in advance, and have about 25 people coming. They cook food, you bring the wine, and they also provide unlimited puddings!

The village Share Club is fond of it as its annual dinner venue, and we get invited as extra guests as my parents are members. It would have been rude to sit there and sketch, so I did just a bit, but not for too long …so I missed getting some magnificent suits of armour and pikes into any sketches. The poor old deer seems to have been peering down upon proceedings since 1911.

The Hall at Blackmore Farm

The Hall at Blackmore Farm

On the way home there was Abba, at too loud a volume, but it was a thousand times preferable to the insane rendition of ‘Humpty Dumpty sat on a wall’ that the minibus driver saw fit to blast out about a half dozen times and say that you could tell [lost in the noise] about passenges at the end of an evening by their reaction to it. I shouted that I was prepared to kill people if it didn’t stop soon. It stopped, though honestly I don’t think he could hear me.

On the way home

On the way home…