What's the first thing that springs to mind when you think of Wortley Hall?  The spectacular gardens of course.  Tucked away in the picturesque sleepy village of Wortley about halfway between Huddersfield and Sheffield, you may already be aware that it's one of my favourite workplaces in Yorkshire.  Weddings are satisfyingly hard work and this venue makes them a joy.  My only complaint is that I never have enough time to explore the Hall and its grounds to their quietly spectacular sprawling extent.

My first experience of Wortley Hall was around eight years ago when I was invited to play at the wedding of my former next door neighbours' granddaughter.  I think it might even have been my first time playing at a wedding this side of the Pennines.  I wasn't disappointed, and having been based in Manchester and in North Wales before that, my wedding clientele were primarily Cheshire folk and city centre dwellers and had clearly seen and heard a few harpists.  More often than not, there was no sense of novelty or specialness when I made my guest appearance with my harp.  At Wortley Hall I found the complete opposite.  The staff were warm, relaxed and friendly, and generous in their welcome, and I got excited at any inquiry that involved my new secret discovery.

I remember playing for a wedding years ago just after my return from South Africa at a very grand residence on the outskirts of my home town Denbigh.  Having been asked to meet the homeowners, the bride's parents, prior to the wedding to discuss arrangements (with hindsight maybe also to see if I was the type of harpist that would nick their family heirlooms), I remember my sense of excitement at working locally and at such an exclusive venue draining gradually throughout the day.  The first thing the bride, a beautifully haughty expensively bronzed brunette, asked me to do was move the heavy water-filled plastic base of the cheap tatty parasol they deemed to provide me.  I felt the upwards surge of my indignation as I lugged this ridiculous object along the gravel outside their luxury abode.  I felt embarrased for them that their budget didn't stretch to something more chicly adequate than this pathetic umbrella with its garish 1970's design that would barely provide enough shade for me let alone my harp in the midday sun on a hot July day.  I also felt embarrassed that the bride would ask me to drag a heavy weight that left a trench-like trail through the stone chippings just as I was about to a play a long set of music.  I should have told her to do it herself in her exquisite designer dress.  Needless to say, I ended up playing in the hot and sticky open fronted marquee.  If I'd played under that parasol I'd have been sunburnt within half an hour never mind the sun damage to my harp.  To this day I don't play outside at weddings, although marquees are ok.  It just doesn't work in this unpredictable climate even if I had the inclination to have one of those big fancy iPads, which I don't, and somebody to put all my music on it.  Anyway, I digress.  It was a memorable day for all the wrong reasons.  I even got road raged as I desperately tried to leave their posh property - they had altered the access to accommodate their guests' swish and swanky convoy of prestige cars and SUVs in their extensive grounds.

Not so at Wortley Hall!  After I arrive and set up, I'm always offered a hot drink even though I usually bring my own.  None of this silver platter nonsense, it's a mug from the kitchen and I love that.  I'm treated as an equal.  Time flies past way too quickly and I often feel a pang of guilt when my five minute break stretches to eight as I get engrossed in my thoughts either sitting outside on the peaceful patio as my guests enjoy their dinner or, weather depending, tucked away in one of the quiet boardrooms with their bountiful bookshelves.  When I'm not distracted by those blissful views, the ample reading material or the last resort of my mobile phone, I get lost in my inner conversations and find myself musing that if I ever got married, it would be here, except that it will be in Las Vegas or some quiet registry office with my cat as my witness!  Boy, she'd love it here.  Maybe I could go on honeymoon to one of their lovely looking holiday cottages?  Or a couple of nights' stay in one of their cosy looking rooms?  The beds look enticing as I walk past the open doors of the rooms being prepared for the next lucky guests.  Then there's the ducks which have quite rightly set up residence at this perfect pick location.  They're more often than not my quirky quacking welcoming committee and it doesn't feel quite right if I don't see them during my visit which always feels too brief, even after the longest wedding.  The aromas emanating enticingly as I wheel my harp through the thoughtfully named Ruddy Duck restaurant get me salivating and planning a trip for Sunday lunch.  Their Yorkshires look like flying saucers.

I often wonder with some relief why this hidden gem isn't heaving with guests.  Maybe its comfortingly retro vibe with the disappointingly reassuring wood chip wallpaper amongst a host of intriguing vintage features hasn't elevated it to the five star status it deserves and hopefully doesn't get.  Don't get me wrong.  It makes me think of a wonderful curry house I frequented in Manchester which had similar decor.  When it underwent its stark slick neon facelift I swear the food tasted different, as though its warm flavour and convivial soul had been sucked out of it.  When I imagine the maintenance and upkeep of this place, my eyes water. How do they do it?  The ceiling in the exceptionally beautiful dining room must take a fortune for it to retain its intricate original stained glass glory along with its characterful painted flora and fauna.  The heating bill in the cooler months must be eye watering too as all the windows are original sash, thank goodness.  I can't imagine it has many ghosts as there is always a good energy there and a healthy feeling of history which makes me feel a bit nostalgic whenever I leave.