Owner of Grade 1-listed manor house bans Women's Institute after incessant demands of a 'patronising' group who turned up unannounced for a tour William Cash astounded by rudeness of Women's Institute group One of them locked everyone outside the house - then asked why he didn't have a spare key Cash offered them private toilet but no gratitude was shown Owner tried to be hospitable to group who hadn't booked - but wished he hadn't have bothered By William Cash Action stations: Upton Cressett owner William Cash has banned Women's Institute groups from touring his manor house Trying to round up 30 women of a certain age and herd them towards the car park was a bit like shooing wayward geese. But my blood was up and my patience at an end. "You're no longer welcome on my property," I bellowed. Could you leave the grounds immediately! There were squawks of outrage and indignation from some but sly grins of unmistakable enjoyment on the faces of others. For them, an outing that ended with an angry scene was clearly a bonus. But I stood my ground and eventually they all found their way into the cars and mini-buses and drove off. Phew! It was over. I had just thrown the good ladies of the Women's Institute out of my Grade I-listed Elizabethan manor house in Shropshire - and banned all WI parties from visiting for the rest of the season. It had been one of the most infuriating afternoons I have had in 30 years of showing people around my family home, Upton Cressett. I'd smelled trouble a few minutes earlier when one of the women came marching purposefully towards me. Late 50s in age, I guessed, and with a jungle of knotty brown hair, she had the air of someone who'd done her share of student protests in her youth and who would still take to the barricades to prevent a bypass. But on her face she wore an expression that I have increasingly come to recognise. It's a mix of haughtiness and self-righteous indignation, laced with a love of confrontation that, in this case, had her almost licking her lips in anticipation as she marched towards me. There was no doubt about it: I was about to be monstered. She wasted no time. "You owe one of our members an apology," she snapped. I knew what she was talking about but I certainly wasn't going to be barked at in this way, particularly as I wasn't in the wrong. You mean the woman who marched into my house, demanded to use the private lavatory and then proceeded to lock everybody out of the house? I fumed. And who still hasn't apologised? Ms Knotty Hair - think Linda Snell in The Archers - didn't miss a beat, clearly accustomed to sticking her nose into things that were not her business. You made her feel small, speaking to her like that in front of everyone else. She didn't mean to lock the door behind her. You should carry a key in your pocket! Scene: Cash was surprised at the level of arrogance and patronising nature of a group of WIs who visited his manor house, pictured I smiled. I've been giving guided tours of Upton Cressett since I was 11 and I've learned there is always one person in any group who loves to find fault and complain, normally just after they've polished off their third helping of lemon drizzle cake and Earl Grey. What has surprised me, however, is how many of these arch-moaners are members of charitable, well-meaning institutions for middle-aged, middle-class ladies. These organisations do wonderful things - sustaining traditional crafts and championing activities from creative writing to belly-dancing. But these days some of their members almost seem to pride themselves on their ability to dish it out . . . particularly to men. I should have remembered all this when I opened the front door that day, earlier this month, in response to loud knocking and found almost 60 women waiting for a tour. It was an expectant sea of sensible summer dresses and walking sticks. The only problem was, I wasn't expecting them; not all of them, anyway. Not welcome: It is not known what the response of the WI has been since the banning We had booked in one 25-strong WI party, but not the second group. There was no record of a booking - no email or letter - and certainly no sign of a cheque for the deposit. A 50 per cent deposit was introduced earlier this year after a WI party of 45 failed to turn up. We'd brought in a professional guide for the day; asked Margaret, our wonderful cake-maker, to bake extra, and then . . . nothing, not even a letter of apology. Consequently, I was surprised to find these ladies on my doorstep, completely unannounced. But I'm a hospitable sort of chap - although we were temporarily short of staff, I thought we could muddle through, particularly if I could persuade one group to have tea while the other had their tour and then swap them around. We are not a grand stately home, like Chatsworth, that has turned visitors into big business. Over 900 years, Upton Cressett may have hosted everyone from Charles I to Baroness Thatcher, Boris Johnson to Elizabeth Hurley, but it is relatively modest in size and we open it to visitors because we love it, not to make money. The house has been featured in a BBC adaptation of Dickens and is regarded as an inspiration for Blandings Castle, as P.G. Wodehouse grew up in the area. Our Upton Cressett team consists only of me, Louisa, who helps serve cakes and tea but had gone shopping with my mother on that fated afternoon, and Pedro, our Spanish part-time gardener. This year we even have team T-shirts, bearing the red Upton Cressett "sea dragon" logo. I was wearing mine proudly that afternoon for the very first time. The plan was for the unannounced ladies to have tea on the lawn, while I took the other group around the house and grounds. But it was when I headed inside to the kitchen to check we had enough lemon drizzle cake and chocolate sponge that things started to go wrong. "Are you staff?" snapped a tall, white-haired woman who'd followed me in, despite the fact the Hall was clearly not yet open. "Where's the toilet?" she asked imperiously, peering at my T-shirt logo through her glasses. Ah, the perennial toilet question, the bane of anyone who opens their house to visitors. Old houses such as mine may offer heritage and history but, in my experience, what many guests are most interested in is tea and toilets. "I'm not "staff,"" I replied as politely as I could. We don't offer any public lavatories inside the house. But if you want you can use the loo under the stairs. Remember them? These are the original 'Calendar Girls' - Women's Institute members who stripped off to raise money for charity - but the recent WI members who attended Upton Cressett were less than generous There was no word of thanks from Imperious Woman. I prepared tea and headed outside to get the groups organised. There, the scene on the lawn - somewhere between a Saga cruise and a cast outing from the Tottering-by-Gently cartoon strip in Country Life - was convivial. I began to relax. And then Imperious Woman emerged from the front door, her pressing needs relieved and forcefully pulled it shut behind her. It closed with a loud - and ominous - clunk. It was deadlocked and the only key to open it was inside. We were now all locked out of the house I was supposed to be showing everyone round. "Oh dear," I said. You've just locked everybody out. I don't think either the tours or the teas are about to happen any time soon. She replied grandly: "I didn't mean to. Haven't you got a spare key? There was no apology and, as for the spare key, it was locked in the house, too. We solved the impasse by Pedro breaking a pane of glass (cutting his hand in the process), his son climbing through a small window. We were back on track. So the last thing I expected, as I prepared to collect payment from the two groups, was to find Ms Knotty Hair bearing down on me. "I don't expect people to be rude to me in my own house, whether they mistake me for staff or not," I said. We don't offer public toilet facilities in the house but I still allowed her to use the loo - as I did all your group all afternoon - but still got no thanks. "Our members must have access to public toilets," interjected someone else. It's a basic requirement. I'd had enough. We have public toilets in the car park; it was just unfortunate that someone had disappeared with the key that morning. That's why I'd been letting them all use the loo inside. I said: "Why don't you all just kindly leave right now. You can keep your money. In 30 years of giving tours, your group are the most objectionable and rudest I have ever encountered. Your branch of the WI are banned from ever visiting here again - and I'm going to extend this ban to all WI groups for the rest of the season. And that, dear reader, is how I came to ban the WI from my house. Or so I thought. You see, this is where I have to confess to a rather shaming mistake. I later found out that the group of women who'd turned up unannounced - and of which the toilet lady was a member - were not from the WI after all. In fact, they were from a Townswomen's Guild some miles away. Women of the WI, I hereby apologise. My war is not with you - it's with bossy, self-righteous middle-class ladies of any organisation who think I and my colleagues at Upton Cresset are peasants to be patronised, and who forget their manners when visiting another person's home. Just because a few pounds have exchanged hands - not that they had in this case - doesn't mean "guests" have the right to think the "client is always right," that most nebulous of modern mantras. It does not give them carte blanche to abuse the owner's invitation. Too many of the members of these groups delight in their reputation as forceful, no-nonsense women but some, especially when backed up in sisterly numbers, don't know the difference between being forceful and being downright rude. But at least at Upton Cressett, they do now.