The kitchen, like the library, has an unfortunate tendency to be gloomy. This is partly due, as in the upper room, to the rather small windows, and partly to the relatively low ceiling. For whatever reason — quite possibly because of the extra headroom provided on the ground floor — the beams that support the floor above are fixed at a height of only just over six feet above the flagstones, and male visitors of a more gangly nature often have to be warned to negotiate the room with some care.

This room always manages to give the impression of having a slightly lopsided appearance, as if on this floor the staircase is not quite central. However, it's an illusion — caused by the presence of two further small rooms at the back which are not visible from the doorway. The lack of windows in the dividing wall contributes further to the gloom on the far side of the kitchen...

The rom is dominated both in winter and in summer by the vast dark curve of the range, couched in softly-purring slumber against the wall; and incidentally blanking out yet another window. In the winter its warmth is an almost tangible embrace, calling the intellect down from the high philosophical fastnesses of the tower in quest of the bodily comforts to be found at its base. The very stones of the floor feel comforting to chilled toes.

In the summer the warmth can be less welcome. But — barring accidents — the range remains alight all year round. There would be no hot water or cooked food if it were allowed to go out; nor is it a simple matter to get it lit up again. Perhaps it is not surprising that the food here tends to be baked, roasted and stewed rather than grilled or fried; although it is possible to make very good toast on the hotplate, once you have the knack. Balancing a bowl at the back of the range is also a good trick for getting the bread dough to rise.

The bread is excellent here. So are the egg custards.

As for the rest of the kitchen; it is full. Full of cupboards, full of dressers, full of utensils hanging from hooks, of pans ranged along beams, of knife-handles in an angled block, of damp tea-towels and dry cloths and piles of clean washing waiting to be hung out below. And then, of course, there is the table.

The table was built to fit the room, and because of the shape of the tower it is not exactly rectangular. Instead, there is a crescent-shaped section carved out of one end, as it fits against the side of the staircase where three slabs project slightly from the stonework. These take the weight of one end of the table. The other is supported by two massively-braced legs, angled inwards under the single slab of the table top. It is long enough to seat nine at a pinch, and strong enough to bear two men's weight or a cask of lamp-oil — let alone sturdy enough to withstand kneading bread!