The Mansion and Hotel
In 1794 the mansion was burnt down and was then rebuilt in the Gothic style of the period. After the death of the Duchess of York in 1820, the whole property was sold. It was bought by Edward Hughes Ball Hughes in 1824 (although it was not until after The Duke's death in 1827 that the sale was finally concluded) and again remodelled in 1830. Hughes had actually tried to dispose of the estate by public auction in 1829 but this part did not sell. He let the Mansion and the adjoining parkland to Lord Francis Egerton for a seven-year period in 1832 and renewed for a similar period in 1839. The arrival of the London and South Western Railway in 1838 made the area ripe for 'a daily commute to town' and in 1846 the estate was broken up into lots for building development and sold at three public auctions in May, August and September of that year. Following a period of private ownership by James Watts Peppercorne, the house became a hotel in 1856 known as the South Western (later Oatlands Park) Hotel.
From 1916 to 1918, during World War I, the hotel was used as a hospital for New Zealand troops injured in France. Subsequently one of the main streets in Walton-on-Thames was renamed to New Zealand Avenue in honour of these men.
The Oatlands Park Hotel now occupies the site where the Oatlands Mansion (Oatlands House) once stood, and there are still some elements of the earlier chapters of the house's existence visible within the core of the building. Contrary to claims sometimes made it is not on the site of the Oatlands Palace, which was situated further 'down the hill' in Weybridge. The hotel is rated 4 stars by the AA and 4 diamonds by the RAC.
Read more about this topic: Oatlands Palace
Famous quotes containing the words mansion and/or hotel:
“Look,
I draw the sword myself; take it, and hit
The innocent mansion of my love, my heart.
Fear not, tis empty of all things but grief.”
—William Shakespeare (15641616)
“...what a thing it is to lie there all day in the fine breeze, with the pine needles dropping on one, only to return to the hotel at night so hungry that the dinner, however homely, is a fete, and the menu finer reading than the best poetry in the world! Yet we are to leave all this for the glare and blaze of Nice and Monte Carlo; which is proof enough that one cannot become really acclimated to happiness.”
—Willa Cather (18761947)