Death duties forced the Belowan family to economise and by the 1970s my great-aunt Mary was their only remaining member of staff. Twisted with arthritis, she could no longer climb a ladder to dust the chandelier in the library, or cook and serve elaborate multi-course meals, or dredge the lake wearing thigh-high waders.

Instead of a pension, Lord Belowan offered her the lifetime use of a tumbledown cottage on the estate, if she'd agree to take sole responsibility for its repair and upkeep. Aunt Mary didn't fancy that idea, she was fed up with property maintenance. All I need is a hollow tree, she said. A weary joke, but Lord B seized on it. Any tree you like — his arm swept the parkland.

Aunt Mary moved into an 18th century oak, feeling bitter. But it proved hospitable, with a high-up viewing hole and one leafless branch for perching on. It weathered storms like a rock. She got by on mice.

Lord B visited and asked her to keep the nocturnal noise down. Too much kee-wicking around the battlements. Aunt Mary bobbed her head at him. You granted me the right to live here in perpetuity and I can fly wherever I want.

She escorted him to the edge of his own wood, hopping from tree to tree. Great lord and great-aunt owl joined in a staring match. He blinked twice and she blinked once. She shook her wings and he bowed from the waist.


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