In the late 1730s Mark Amberley, of the Cottington Place estate in Southshire, England, built a sham castle on his estate. He also built a shell-encrusted grotto, which became home to the obligatory bearded hermit dressed in brown hessian robes. The creation of these follies is detailed in the family archive of letters and diaries, which was explored by a descendant in the twentieth century.

The book looks afresh at the murder of Mark Amberley, who was shot in the head on the very day that he returned to Cottington in 1768, after spending twenty three years in exile after the Jacobite Rebellion. The dust jacket gives a precis of the plot and notes that the story was based on unpublished material. But if one reads on to the end the truth is revealed: ‘Mr Bamford’s novel is, of course, pure fiction as are the statements in the above paragraphs’. The Flâneuse is always delighted to discover fictional follies, and the Amberleys, the murder, the sham castle and grotto are all the creation of Frances Bamford, and appear in his 1946 novel Return to Cottington.

Francis Bamford who was born on the Isle of Wight in 1905, the son of a clergyman. In his twenties he mixed with the Bright Young Things and became close friends with the Sitwell family of Renishaw and Weston. The patriarch of the family was Sir George Sitwell, and when his wife died in 1937 it was feared that Sir George’s eccentricities would no longer be checked by his spouse. Osbert Sitwell asked Bamford, who was then unmarried and in need of funds, to be secretary to his father and to accompany Sir George to his Tuscan castle of Montegufoni. When Bamford asked what the duties were, Osbert’s casual reply was, ‘Well, you must just take Mother’s place.’

In 1939 Bamford described himself as ‘Archivist, Historian and Author’, and by that date he had already published the correspondence of a Georgian lady as well as a history of Edinburgh written with Sacheverell Sitwell and a novel. With the outbreak of war, Bamford joined the Gordon Highlanders (his mother was descended from the Duke of Gordon). As the war progressed, Bamford found himself stationed at Stromness on Orkney. There he used his spare time to write his second novel, Return to Cottington, which was published in 1946 and dedicated to his friend Sir Osbert Sitwell (Sitwell’s signed copy is in the library at Renishaw, his Derbyshire seat).

Readers may wish to read the story for themselves, so we will leave the plot and consider the follies built by our protagonist, Mark Amberley. On the edge of the park at Cottington was a small hill, and upon its ‘flattened crest’ Amberley built ‘an improbable ruin consisting of twelve open arches flanked by two incomplete towers’. Work began soon after he inherited the estate in 1738, and was complete by 1742. As well as improving the view from the dining room, the family visited the folly for ‘pick-nicks’.

With the sham castle complete, Amberley began work on his ‘curious Gothick grotto’. This was a natural cave, in a disused quarry, which was extended to create two rooms – the first highly-decorated with shells and stone seats ‘carved to represent oyster-shells supported upon dolphins’. This led to a second chamber with a fireplace with its chimney ‘carried up through the solid rock’. From the grotto there were superb views to the mansion designed by Sir Christopher Wren. Peter the Hermit took up residence as soon as work was complete.

Perhaps the interior of the Cottington grotto was a little like that at Oatlands in Surrey, although that example was not built until two decades later.

In the late 1730s sham ruined castles were yet to appear in British parks, so if he had only been real Mark Amberley would have been at the forefront of folly building. We don’t know which genuine shams may have inspired Bamford, but perhaps he knew Hagley in Worcestershire…

… or Wimpole in Cambridgeshire.

After the war Bamford was employed as librarian to the Duke of Wellington: in 1950 they jointly published The Journal of Mrs Arbuthnot, based on papers in the Duke’s archive (genuine documents this time). By that date Bamford and his wife Marianne had moved to Ayton, near Berwick upon Tweed, to open an antique shop although Bamford also continued to write. He became known as an expert on Scottish furniture, but his sudden death in 1982 meant that his research was published posthumously a year later. Bamford may also have been camera-shy, as the Flâneuse has failed to find a single photograph of him.

According to the story, the sham castle was still standing when Return to Cottington was published in 1946, although by then it loomed over modern housing built in Cottington’s park. The impoverished Amberleys had sold the estate to the County Council, and the mansion was in use as a maternity home for working class mothers. The grotto was intact, but the walls were carved with the names of young men and women ‘seeking for one reason or another its sombre solitude’. Should she ever find herself in Southshire the Flâneuse will endeavour to discover if any fragments survive today.

Meanwhile…

Researching this post was great fun so the Flâneuse will be raising her glass to a group of friends – Guy Marshall for alerting me to the book; antiquarian booksellers Adam and Marianne Naylor for rapidly posting a copy to the eager Flâneuse; Chris Beevers, Archivist at Renishaw Hall, for help with the Sitwells and Mike Cousins (aka the Garden Historian) for helping with a chronology of sham castles and grottoes.

And thank you for reading. As ever, you can share your thoughts via the comments box at the foot of the page.

In 1857 an anonymous article appeared in The Builder magazine under the title Architectural “Follies”. The author used the word ‘architectural’ to distinguish from examples of folly in literature and art: he thought there were far too many books with an eccentric choice of subject, and that there were many follies ‘perpetuated on canvas’. Sadly, he failed to develop this theme, and the reader is left wondering what exactly he had in mind (the Flâneuse is making the assumption that at this date a journalist writing for a building trade magazine was almost certainly male). Happily, he was a little more forthcoming when he moved on to follies of the built variety.

The ‘Chinese bridges and temples of George III’ were confirmed as architectural follies in his mind, as was George IV’s Pavilion at Brighton.

His next two examples were recent additions to the streets of London. Today we would consider them monuments, but to the writer they were the very height of folly. The first was an equestrian statue of the Duke of Wellington in London, which he described as ‘an undoubted architectural folly’. More than one statue of the military hero, atop his horse, Copenhagen, could be found in London, but the author is probably referring to the colossal bronze by Matthew Cotes Wyatt that was hoisted onto the Wellington Arch in 1846. Our writer was not alone in disliking the vast statue, which was thought out of proportion to the arch. When the gateway was moved in 1883 to enable road-widening, the statue was taken down and, after much debate in the House of Lords, moved to a new home in Aldershot.

The writer then makes a brief mention of the ‘never-to-be-forgotten monument once at King’s-cross’. The Flâneuse hadn’t forgotten it – she had never even heard of its fascinating history.

The building was erected in 1830 as a memorial to King George IV, and topped with a cheaply made and, according to the Illustrated London News, ‘very uncomplimentary effigy of majesty’. This shoddy statue (when seen at close range) survived only until 1842, and the whole structure was pulled down in 1845, having apparently served as both a pub and a police station, although presumably not at the same time.

Whilst conceding that many a folly is a picturesque object, the author disliked sham ruins, believing that they mislead the tourist who might sketch them ‘in the belief of their antiquity’ only to have ‘all feelings of romance or poetry’ dashed upon discovering they were follies.  He likened their disgust to that felt by Jonathan Oldbuck, the protagonist of Sir Walter’s Scott’s The Antiquary of 1816. Oldbuck, a gentleman who sees a lost settlement in every bump in a field, fights hard to regain his dignity when the ‘prætorium’ he describes to his guest is announced to be the ruins of a shelter built only twenty years earlier.

Curiously, the writer doesn’t name any actual sham ruins in his tirade, so here are two of the Flâneuse’s favourites, the castles at Balcarres in Fife and Wimpole in Cambridgeshire.

Our high-minded author thought money frittered on follies could be better spent on building schools or cottages, so that the ‘labourer would have felt that he was bestowing his handiwork on matters of utility’. One suspects that as long as he was being paid, the labourer wouldn’t really mind what he was constructing: it’s unlikely a workman ever downed tools in protest when offered several shillings to knock up a sham castle (and, of course, what the writer didn’t mention is that some sham ruins were erected to create jobs and an income for those in need).

The Flâneuse disagreed with many of the author’s assertions, but happily she was wholeheartedly in concordance with his conclusion that follies are ‘worthy of thought’. Indeed they are.

The mention of Oldbuck reminded the Flâneuse that The Antiquary must surely have influenced the builder of a folly tower at Horsmonden, in Kent, which was dedicated to Sir Walter Scott. You can read about the folly tower here.

There’s more information on the King’s Cross monument here.

Thanks for reading. The comments box is at the foot of the page if you would like to share any thoughts or information.

In October 1834 workmen discovered a dungeon, or cell, when digging for stone on Market Hill in Hedon, in that part of the East Riding of Yorkshire known as Holderness. It was ‘several yards square’ with stone walls, and ‘a few remnants of military trappings’. James Iveson, an antiquary of the town, took possession of stone from the chamber and removed it to his nearby home. There he already had a hoard of carved stone, salvaged from the remodelling or demolition of churches in Hedon and beyond, and he used these fragments to create a sham tomb in his garden.

To tell the tale the Flâneuse is delighted to be joined by Holderness historian and writer Lucy Brooke…

The mausoleum purports to be that of Albina, a fictional niece of William the Conqueror. The tale (succinct version) goes that in the eleventh century William rewarded Drogo de la Bevrière (there are variant spellings), a loyal follower, with the title of Earl of Holderness and the hand of his niece in marriage. His bride, Albina, was a ‘young lady of extraordinary beauty’, but Drogo was an insanely jealous man, and he accused Albina of infidelity. Although she was proved innocent, Drogo poisoned her and left her to die in a dungeon. When her ’emaciated remains’ were eventually discovered, and Drogo was found to have fled, the local populace razed his castle to the ground.

Not content with simply erecting a sham tomb, Iveson (1770-1850) even commissioned a play telling the story of the doomed Albina. His chosen playwright was the prolific writer John Galt (1779-1839), but the two men were not acquaintances, and it is not known why Iveson chose Galt. Iveson sent him a set of illustrated notes, and this document (a brilliant find by Lucy) gives a firm date of 1834 for the construction of the tomb. The notes were accompanied by ‘three beautiful illustrative sketches’: the tomb, Hedon’s church of St Augustine, and an imagined view of Drogo’s castle in Holderness.

Galt was bed-bound when Iveson’s proposal arrived, but having read the outline with ‘thrilling interest’, he completed The Demoniack of Holderness: an Historical Drama in Three Acts in six sittings, and sent it to Iveson in November 1836. Although largely true to Iveson’s outline, for dramatic effect Galt has Drogo murder Albina with his sword when she refuses to drink a cup of poison.

The document tells that the ‘pilasters, columns and the segments of the front of the arch’ of the folly had only travelled across the road from St Augustine’s church when it was renovated. The floor, front walls and wings were built of stones from the excavated dungeon on Market Hill.

Iveson’s notes record that the two figures of King Athelstan and St John the Bishop were taken from the east end of Beverley Minster when ‘two modern figures of these personages were substituted’. Modern carvings added to Albina’s tomb included ivy leaves, a pun on Iveson’s name.

Iveson died in 1850 and Ivy House (as it had became known during his period of residence) became home to another historian, Godfrey Richard Park (1818-1907). Park wrote of ‘the pleasure and interest attending visits to the abodes and sepulchres of our ancestors’, so Albina’s tomb was in safe hands, and it was probably Park who extended it into a considerable garden room, as shown below. Park was the author of a history of the town, published in 1895. The volume included a few lines of verse about the tomb which begin:

Within a cell a corpse was found
Which told to all the lady’s doom,
And now, upon that spot of ground
Is built an arch, ‘Albina’s Tomb’.

Park opened his garden for charity events and in 1894 ‘The Ruins’ were ‘utilised for the Vicar’s stall’ at the Hedon Bazaar. The local paper noted that the vicar shared the space with the ladies of the town’s Sewing Meeting, although sadly it is not recorded what wares he and the ladies were selling. Rather more exotic was the fortune teller who had set up stall near the re-erected ecclesiastical fragments called the arcade. This sage had travelled ‘all the way from Egypt’ or, as the reporter thought more likely, ‘somewhere else’.

The enlarged tomb was still standing in the 1980s, but by the time the present owner, Greg Butterworth, bought Ivy House in 2016 the upper section had collapsed, the tomb was completely hidden in a dense web of ivy and thorns, and the interior was filled with rubble.

With Lucy’s help this has since been cleared, and the collapsed masonry rescued for safekeeping, but the folly (grade II) remains fenced-off until funds are available for further consolidation. But the tomb does have regular visitors – the ghosts of Albina and Drogo are said to haunt the ruin.

The gardens were also home to a rustic tea-house (only the tiled floor survives) as well as the arcade mentioned above. This was a substantial structure built out of fragments of masonry from churches in the district. It too has been rescued from the brambles and awaits further research and restoration.

Ivy House (grade II), a handsome red-brick Georgian residence, is a private home but the garden is opened regularly for Heritage Open Days in September. The next opening is 19 and 20 September 2026.

There are no records of The Demoniack of Holderness being performed in Iveson’s lifetime, but a manuscript copy survives in Hull History Centre should anyone wish to bring it to the stage. Thanks to Martin Craven, Greg Butterworth and the team at Hull History Centre for their help with this post.

Lucy writes about the history of Holderness at her new website theholdernesshistorian.com

Thank you for reading. Your thoughts are always welcome – scroll down to the comments box to get in touch. If you would like a complimentary folly story in your inbox on Saturday mornings please visit the ‘subscribe’ page.

In 1836 General Loft, a committed church-crawler, visited Fotherby, near Louth in Lincolnshire, and found the ancient fabric of the church of St Mary’s ‘now terribly mutilated’. In the later 1850s a major rebuild was proposed, and the Bishop of Lincoln threw his weight behind the appeal with a donation of £20. James Robson, tenant and later owner of Brackenborough Hall, an attractive moated Georgian house about a mile from the church, was also a donor. As work got underway, he salvaged some of the stone from the old church and used it to build a sham ruin on a mound in the corner of his garden.

James Fowler of Louth was chosen as architect for the new church at Fotherby, and with funds in place it was agreed that work could begin in 1861. The crumbling old church was pulled down and, after a period of worshipping in nearby barns and meeting rooms, the congregation assembled in the new church in May 1863. Fowler was congratulated on the ‘imposing appearance of the edifice’.

At Brackenborough the folly was built on a mound in the corner of the moated enclosure that surrounds the garden. It was probably built contemporaneously with the new church at Fotherby, in the first years of the 1860s, but no records seem to survive to confirm an exact date. Robson (1820-1899) was a churchwarden and contributed to the cost of the new church, but no records of him acquiring the stone have yet been found. The folly no doubt functioned as a belvedere, summerhouse and eye-catcher, and in what was described in 1887 as ‘fine hunting country’ it may also have been a landmark for the hunt. When first built the south elevation was higher than the other sides and incorporated further recycled masonry, as seen in this 1907 view. No architect is associated with the folly: Fowler may have given advice, or it may have been Robson’s own design.

Brackenborough stands in an elevated position (relatively, in the flatlands of Lincolnshire), and before the plantations matured the view from the folly would have taken in local churches: there is still a vista to the elegant parish church of St James in Louth, with its spire said to be the highest of any parish church in Britain (the church was restored by Fowler in the 1760s).

Robson was declared bankrupt in 1887, after a collapse in the prices of agricultural produce, and the estate was put up for sale. Frustratingly, the sales particulars for the auction of the estate that year make no mention of the folly, although it was certainly extant a year later when the 25″ Ordnance Survey map was surveyed (published 1889) and the square tower is shown on its mound. The earliest written description found to date is in the sales particulars when the estate was again put up for auction in 1907. The folly was then noted as a ‘picturesque keep erected from stones from an old Ecclesiastical house’ (with house used in the sense of a church, or house of god). The estate was purchased by Frederick W. Bennett, whose family remain at Brackenborough today.

In the first edition of the Buildings of England: Lincolnshire, published in 1964, John Harris described the garden ornament as a ‘felicitous folly concocted from the remains of Fotherby church’ (for the Lincolnshire volume Nikolaus Pevsner concentrated mainly on churches and left secular buildings to Harris). Harris identified the fragments incorporated into the little tower as a thirteenth century arch, a three light Perpendicular window and a Decorated window ‘all built into a rugged ruin’. Photographs taken by Harris in 1959 during his research (Historic England collection) are similar to that shown above, and show that the south elevation was largely intact at that date.

The folly was ‘toppling precariously’ by the time Barbara Jones saw it in around 1970. The building was listed at grade II in 1986, by which time the upper section of the south elevation must have collapsed and it is not mentioned in the description. For years afterwards the folly was smothered in ivy and brambles and a large sycamore had taken root within the structure: it had become what Jones called a ‘ruinous sham ruin’ (Follies & Grottoes, 1974).

In 2015 Paul and Flora Bennett commissioned a structural survey from Capstone Consulting Engineers which concluded that the options were to repair and consolidate the folly as a ruin, or to repair and restore the folly creating a more ‘robust structure’. In 2020, after discussions at local and national levels, the Bennetts were given listed building consent to dismantle and reconstruct the badly listing folly under the supervision of Historic Building Consultant Liz Mayle.

The folly was dismantled, the stones numbered, and the folly rebuilt on secure foundations with new oak lintels and steel ties to support the structure. Flora even trawled the moat in search of stones that had toppled from the folly. In 2023 the restoration was recognised by a Pride of Place award from Louth Civic Trust.

Brackenborough Hall is a private residence, but the folly can be seen from a public footpath through the park. Or you could celebrate your wedding there, with the folly as a backdrop to your photographs, or stay in one of the holiday lets on the estate (which include an apartment featuring both the workings of the Coach House clock and a grain winch). To find out more visit brackenboroughhall.com.

Thanks to Steffie S. for alerting the Flâneuse to the restored folly, and to Paul, Flora and Poppy the exuberant labrador for a tour and a welcome coffee on a frosty morning.

Thank you for reading. To share any thoughts please scroll down to the comments box at the foot of the page. If you would like a complimentary folly story in your inbox each Saturday morning please click on the ‘subscribe’ tab.

Hockley Abbey was built in around 1779 by Richard Ford, an ‘ingenious mechanic’, out of the waste or dross from a nearby furnace. Built in the form of a semi-ruinous monastic edifice, Ford had the date of 1473 picked out in pebbles on the front ‘as a false suggestion of antiquity’, although this was soon covered over by the ivy which he encouraged to creep all over his new home. The house was demolished in the second half of the nineteenth century, but is remembered in paintings, prose and poetry.

Mentioned in 1788 as the ‘Cynder House at Hockley’, the earliest comprehensive reference is in rhyme. In 1800 James Bisset, the custodian of Birmingham’s Museum, published a curious hybrid, which was part poem and part who’s who of Birmingham, under the snappy title of A poetic survey round Birmingham; with a brief description of the different curiosities and manufactories of the place. Intended as a guide to strangers. […] Accompanied by a magnificent directory; with the names, professions, &c. superbly engraved in emblematic plates. Bisset invited the reader to join him on a tour of the town, and there was a pause to admire Hockley Abbey and its curious construction:

Close by the LAKE’S pellucid stream, behold
A GOTHIC PILE, which seems some cent’ries old,
VULCANIC FANCY there display’d her taste,
And rear’d the fabric on the barren waste;
The FORGE materials for the work provides,
Rude cinders clothe the front – compose the sides.

The ‘abbey’ was described in detail in by Charles Pye in his Description of Modern Birmingham. According to Pye, who toured Birmingham in 1818, Ford noticed that the workers at his manufactory spent several shillings each week in the pub. Not a drinker, Ford decided to put aside two shillings each day until he had enough money to build the house. With the funds in place, his workforce were sent to collect the ‘large masses of scoriæ’ from the Aston furnace and cart it to the building site. By the time Pye saw the abbey it was covered with ivy and he wrote that the uninformed visitor would be ‘at a loss to know what substance the walls were built with’.

Ford told Pye that Hockley Abbey was built ‘without advancing any other money than the fourteen shillings a week’. This all seems a little fanciful, and it is likely that Ford had to dip into his savings to fund the improvements on his new estate.  As well as the house, with its ‘feign’d time-shook walls’, he also laid out ‘beautiful grounds and walks, interspersed with fanciful curiosities’. These included a grot decorated with spar and shells, the ‘beauteous spoils of Neptune’s realms’.

The abbey became an object of interest for tourists visiting the area (Hockley Abbey was contiguous with Mathew Boulton’s much-admired Soho estate, where a grand manufactory stood alongside his mansion with pleasure grounds). The artificial ruins built out of ‘cinders and vitrifications’ were considered by one visitor in 1799 to be in such good taste that it would be ‘illiberal to pass by without notice’.

This 1868 photograph shows Hockley Abbey shortly before it was pulled down and the site redeveloped. Hockley Abbey is best remembered today as the trademark of John Rabone & Sons of Hockley Abbey Works, Birmingham. The measuring tools that they manufactured, and in particular spirit levels, brass rulers and tape measures, are now collectors’ items.

For more follies built out of furnace waste see this post about Morris Castle, near Swansea

The Flâneuse sends best wishes to all readers for the year ahead. Thank you for your continued support. As ever, comments are very welcome via the box at the foot of the page.

Hubert Walter Wandesford Fenwick, architect turned architectural historian and writer, was a regular contributor to The Scots Magazine, a monthly publication that claims to be the oldest magazine in Britain still in publication, having been launched in 1739. In 1965 Fenwick wrote an article about ‘Features and Follies’, in Scotland, illustrated with his own very attractive colour sketches.

Fenwick (1916-2003) starts, as so many writers on architectural curiosities do, with the thorny question of how to define a folly. He quotes the Universal English Dictionary which states that a folly is a ‘useless, fantastic structure, built from foolish caprice’, but he does not think it is an accurate description. He then launches into an analogy which the Flâneuse rather likes: ‘… after all, most oil paintings are useless, unless they happen to cover a gap or a dirty mark on the wall. Most paintings are fantastic, some even foolish, but they, nevertheless, tend to make life more interesting and civilised, and they express an aspect of the human spirit.’ It is, he concludes, the same with a good folly. He is however strict about his classifications of what is a folly and what is a feature.

McCaig’s tower at Oban, for instance, is a feature, not a folly, as it was originally intended as an ’eminently practical’ museum. According to Fenwick’s rules, the Wallace Monument at Stirling is a commemorative tower, not a folly.

The buildings that do qualify as folly in Fenwick’s opinion are a particularly lovely bunch, and amongst his selection are The Whim at Blair which he describes as a ‘dummy fort’, the sham ruin on Balcarres Crag in Fife, the tower on Kinnoul Hill in Perth which was built to show that the Tay was the equal of the Rhine, Ossian’s Temple (aka the Hermitage) at Dunkeld, the Craigiehall Temple and Hume Castle which is a ‘magnificent fake’. The Pineapple at Dunmore is included for its ‘extremely clever and imaginative design’.

Fenwick wrote the piece in response to a book about follies which he had recently read. He felt cheated as it contained ‘less than a dozen Scottish examples’ (actually there are exactly twelve), and only two that ‘could legitimately be so designated’. He failed to name the book, but he does give the clue that it was produced by a ‘petrol firm’, so we can be sure it was Follies, written by Ella Hatt, beautifully illustrated by Paul Sharp, and published by National Benzole in 1963 (there’s more about that book here.) In case you are wondering, the two true follies that Fenwick approved of in the book were the sham on Balcarres Crag and the Hermitage at Dunkeld.

You can read more about the history of the Scots Magazine here.

Thank you for reading. Your thoughts are always welcome so please scroll down to the comments box at the foot of the page if you would like to get in touch. Don’t forget that clicking on the highlighted text will take you to further folly stories.

Early in the nineteenth century, Samuel Russell Collett moved to a farming estate at Swinethorpe in Lincolnshire. There he constructed a ‘romantic seat’, in the form of a sham castle, which by 1824 was known by the curious name of ‘The Jungle’.

The reason why Collett decided to build a house in this form seems to be long forgotten, and it is not known if he used an architect or designed it himself. Lucinda Lambton names Thomas Lovely as the builder, and he was presumably the Lincolnshire bricklayer by that name: The Jungle is built out of over-baked bricks (ones that have been in the kiln for too long and become dark, glassy and misshapen in appearance). But building the facade must have been quite a novel experience for Lovely, as the bricks are not laid conventionally, but are a haphazard jumble that creates a most unusual texture and appearance.

Initially Jones struggled to find the history of the building: ‘it has no history’ she noted, and all the information she could garner was that ‘a man built it’. Eventually, she was shown a manuscript account of The Jungle written by Major General John Henry Loft, a Lincolnshire M.P. and antiquarian soon after the house was built. He noted his observations, mainly of ecclesiastical subjects, as he travelled around the county, and happily for history they had survived.

In 1826 Loft diverted from church-crawling to visit Collett at his ‘very singular but tasty and handsome Residence’. He described the house as being ‘composed of over burnt Bricks’ built up in a rough state in ‘the manner of a Castle’ with a ‘grotesque but not inelegant appearance’. Around the house were gardens with ornamental trees amongst which different kinds of deer, several ‘very fine Kangaroos’ and a male and female buffalo with a calf wandered freely. Golden pheasants had their own enclosure, and gold and silver fish swam in the pond. In the house Loft admired ‘many good Apartments’, but he didn’t elaborate further.

Three years later a ‘liberal reward’ was offered for information on the ‘strangers’ who were suspected of stealing from The Jungle. Their haul comprised of ‘nine golden pheasants (viz. six cocks and three hens), a mongoose, some fancy rabbits and two storks’. The felons were soon apprehended, but the fate of the creatures is not recorded.

It is assumed that this menagerie gave the house its name of ‘The Jungle’, which first appears in print around 1824, Collett having previously being described as ‘of Swinethorpe’. And is it coincidence or nominative determinism that The Jungle stands near the village of Eagle? This remains one of follydoms great mysteries.

Collett died in 1850, and his wife continued at The Jungle until her death in 1854. The house was then let by Collet’s heir, and by 1899 was home to the Bingham family. The Jungle was a welcome sight to touring cyclists, as for many years Mrs Bingham offered teas and accommodation. By this date the building’s history was forgotten, and an 1890 guide described it simply as an ‘old house’ that was ‘very picturesque’.

Barbara Jones visited in the early 1950s when researching for the first edition of Follies & Grottoes, published in 1953. She described the ‘fanged and snarling facade’ which fronted the ‘plain farmhouse’ and sketched the strange structure.

In the 1960s Audrey Houlston, whose husband was a Lincolnshire potato farmer, was out riding and spotted the house. It was love at first sight, and the Houlstons bought the ‘dairy and arable farm’ with 150 acres at auction in 1964 for £22,700. When asked about its appeal, Dennis Houlston explained that they liked the fact that the house was so unusual and ‘the only one of its kind’. The Houlston’s added a modern house, of a ‘clean rectilinear design’ behind the folly facade, and reassured the locals that they had no intention of having a menagerie in their grounds.

When The Jungle was offered for sale in 2000, the picturesque property understandably caught the eye of newspaper editors with property pages to fill. The Daily Telegraph gave the ‘bizarre, elfin-gothic castle’ a double-page spread, and thought that with an asking price of £500,000 the ‘quaint folly’ was both a ‘bargain and an opportunity’.

The Jungle remains a rather special family home, and can only be glimpsed from the road. The folly facade is listed at grade II*.

Thank you for reading. The comments box is in its usual position at the foot of the page if you wish to share any thoughts or further information.