Cannes, particularly at this time of year, conjures up dreams of impossibly chic yachts, Hollywood stars on the red carpet and sun-filled days scoffing prawns and aïoli washed down with buttery white burgundy.
Last summer, I went — not for the film festival, but for the advertising shindig that follows. It was hot, the food was pretty good — well, it is France — and there were indeed cocktails supped on a gin palace upholstered in white leather.
Yet I left deeply underwhelmed.
If ultra-conspicuous consumption is your thing, the Côte d’Azur is nirvana. If, however, you just want to hang out somewhere pretty by the sea, you should avoid Cannes and anywhere like it. Let the plutocrats pay through the nose for the south of France — leaving everywhere else on the planet to the rest of us.
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In any case, they don’t make plutocrats like they used to. I know we’ve got Chelsea’s owner, Roman Abramovich (happy because his team have finally won the Champions League), and Mark Zuckerberg (bless, the Facebook mega-geek didn’t make his new wife sign a prenup). But even with all their billions, they are nowhere near as rich relative to the rest of us as the toffs of old were.
These days, most of us — at least in the developed world — don’t live in muddy, rat-infested hovels, 10 to a room, as most of our peasant ancestors did. So, although the gap between the 21st-century oligarchs and the rest of us yawns, it’s not of the same order as, say, an 18th-century squire who owned everything and lived in a mighty manor while his tenants worked the land or, later, dug his coal.
Just how vast this gap used to be was rammed home by my visit to this week’s property. Hathersage Hall, 15 minutes outside Sheffield in the Peak District National Park, had a mighty boiler and heating system, not to warm the house itself (there was a whole other network for that), but to ensure that the garden walls were sufficiently toasty to enable figs, lemons and oranges to bear fruit.
Yup, hot stone walls in the middle of a freezing Peak District valley. There’s an extravagance that knows no bounds.
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Charlotte Brontë is thought to have based the village of Morton, in Jane Eyre, on Hathersage. I couldn’t help wondering, during a tour by the hall’s present owner, Michael Harrison, a financial publishing magnate, whether the barred windows of one of the first-floor bedrooms were the inspiration for the bonkers Mrs Rochester, imprisoned in the attic at Thornfield.
They could be. Brontë visited Hathersage often, as one of her friends lived at the vicarage. She even nicked Jane’s surname from the Eyre family, who once owned Hathersage Hall and, at the time of Brontë’s visits, lived at nearby North Lees Hall, the model for Mr Rochester’s mansion.
The house today is like a time machine. The oldest part — a Tudor fortified dwelling — dates from 1496 and is replete with a dungeon and a stone slab for slaughtering meat. (The blood drained away through a central hole.)
The most beautiful part of the house, however, is Jacobean, with a glorious three-storey staircase in dark wood, off which are a panelled dining room on the ground level and the master bedroom. The latter’s ceiling dates from the reign of Charles I, and Harrison was appalled when one prospective buyer suggested installing spotlights. English Heritage would no doubt have plenty to say on that matter, too, because the house is Grade II*-listed.
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The front part is typically Georgian, with a series of elegant, sunny interconnecting receptions, mirrored on the floor above by four of the house’s 10 bedrooms. All have sumptuous proportions (the smallest measures 19ft by 11ft) and have been decorated in muted pinks and greys; three have up-to-date ensuite bathrooms. From the second floor, where 16 maids once lived in three rooms under the eaves (the male staff lived out in a barn), there are terrific views of the Dales.
The heart of the house is the mighty kitchen — again, a tasteful mix of ancient and modern, with a huge American-style fridge, an Aga, hooks in the beams where the meat would have hung, cold stores and a giant fireplace. Other period touches include the intact butler’s pantry, a huge scullery, with the old stone bench for clothes-washing and another big fireplace, a Victorian orangery with a lily pond in the middle, and a conservatory with an ancient fig tree. In the four acres of grounds are a series of walled gardens, mature shrubberies and some of the most impressive fruit trees and bushes I’ve seen.
Hathersage Hall is a marvel, a piece of living history for a connoisseur, not a blank canvas to be smashed around by some flash-Harry footballer wanting a swanky pad for his Wag. Frankly, they should stick to Cannes. At £2.59m, this place needs a rich but discerning owner. Home-grown Derbyshire lemons, anyone? Now that’s what I call luxury.
Hathersage Hall, Derbyshire, £2.59m
What is it?
A historic 10-bedroom house set in four acres
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Where is it?
In the Peak District, 10 miles from Sheffield
Who is selling?
Michael Harrison; 01709 371851
If you’d like Eleanor to cast her critical eye over a property you’re selling, email btb@sunday-times.co.uk