

Exclusive use of the hall, the barn and forty acres of it. One wedding at a time, never two.
A gritstone hall above the river, empty since the last family left it in 1998 and brought back over six years.
You get the whole of it for two nights — the house, the walled garden, the orangery and the barn — and the gate stays shut behind you.

Glass on three sides, and whatever the sky is doing that morning.

Drinks are outside unless it is properly raining. It usually isn't.

Eighty down one table. Nobody stuck at the far end of the room.







The west front holds the light until nearly ten in June.

When the windows start to win against the sky.

Stone walls, no neighbours, music until one.

“We had the whole place for two days and never saw another soul. It rained most of Saturday and it did not matter in the slightest.”

Seventeen bedrooms across the hall and the coach house, sleeping thirty-four.
You have the house from three on the Friday until eleven on the Sunday.
Exclusive use, both nights included
Sunday morning, in the hall
Forty cars, plus room for a coach
Welcome, and they get the run of the field
Wrenfell takes twenty-four weddings a year. These are what is left.
Exclusive use, two nights, thirty-four beds. Catering is yours to choose — we have five kitchens we like and no commission from any of them.

That is when you find out what a house is like. Visits most weekdays, and we will put the fires on.
