Why do we get melancholy about grand estates, crumbling or not? Back in the day most of us would have been sleeping in the stable or laundry, a lot less comfortably than Limey is now. That's if we were allowed on the estate at all and hadn't been shipped out to the corners of the empire.
Maybe it's fascination with the posh lifestyle, and reassurance the castle will be there just in case the pumpkin turns into a coach. In my tiny home town stands a huge stone manor house, guarded by a tall stone wall and gatehouse, all built of grapefruit sized fieldstone. I still can't drive by without my imagination firing up.
Don't worry glatt, each of those stones is held in place by a ghost.
