The stories came thick and fast. James's grandfather, up at quarter to six with a cup of tea, ready and waiting at the door for a closed-set scene he was never allowed near, sheets draped over the monitors so even the crew couldn't see in. James himself, turned away from rooms in his own house by a production team who had no idea who he was. Charles, wandering his own grounds during filming, fielding the same confused questions. These are not the polished, glossy stories of Rutshire - they are the genuinely funnier, stranger version that only the people living through it could tell.

But beneath the comedy was something more serious. Both men were candid about what it costs, in every sense, to keep these houses standing. Charles spoke about the targeted spend that filming income makes possible at Berkeley - cleaning pictures, repairing a roof, restoring a room - work that, without it, simply wouldn't happen. James described filming income as his estate's bonus fund, the money that pays for the things that don't generate revenue but matter all the same: the stable yard, the chapel, the outbuildings. It even bought a lawnmower, fittingly named after Poldark. Underneath the jokes sat a clear-eyed honesty about the financial reality of custodianship - that keeping a historic house alive for the next generation often means spending money you won't see returned in your own.

That honesty is what made the evening land. As Charles put it, owning a house like this is a privilege, but it is not all glamour and putting your feet up - it's hard work, and no day is ever the same. James's closing thought stayed with the room longest: now is the time to double down on our history, to get out and experience these houses for what they are, because that's what makes Britain special.

Watch the full conversation here.