In the midst of the Home Counties, in a lush and verdant pasture, a beautiful thatched cottage stands alone in a little clearing. From the main room of this charming rural idyll, the occupier would have a choice of views: out front, to a small, semi-tame garden of potted roses, trimmed shrubs and thriving wildflowers; or to the rear, where the ancient English woodland teems with the small, intricate lives of squirrels and woodpeckers and the occasional twilight owl.
From the end of the long, narrow, stone-paved path, there is seldom any traffic to be heard. Not even the cheery local postman makes the pilgrimage out to this isolated retreat. Sitting in the back garden, in the shade of the centuries-old oaks, only the twitterpation of the birds and occasional drowsy note on an aircraft far overhead interrupt the perfect, beatific silence.
This is because the cellars are heavily soundproofed.
The cottage has been standing on this very spot since 1795 but, as part of the various political and legal wrangles consequent on the closure of the first Boer War, the land was technically ceded to the Afrikaans of the Transvaal in 1881. Thus, it is legally under South African jurisdiction. This fact goes unremembered by anyone except for a certain specialised branch of the British intelligence services.
The beautiful country setting acts as a potent reminder of the England that we love, the England that we cherish, the England that we seek to protect at all costs from those malign interests, within and without, that seek to see our way of life overturned.
We won’t show you the cellars. It wouldn’t help you to know what happens in the cellars.