Not one to spurn a chance to advance himself socially, David Loughrey made the most of an opportunity to see and be seen with those at the manor, and enjoy a delightful piano recital in the drawing room.
There is much to be said for a driveway broad enough to take two vehicles travelling in opposite directions, if only to accommodate the needs of guests, family and friends in their comings and their goings.
The very best have pebbles of a light brown-yellow hue - a pleasant brown-yellow, and just the right roundness that produces a solid, satisfying crunch under a shiny leather shoe.
Shiny leather and polished wood, china, brass and gilt-framed art of the finest pedigree - that was the sort of environment on offer this week, as the door to the trappings of privilege was briefly opened to the common folk.
And in the driveway we arrived, 50 well-brushed and polished and decent people ready for a refined party at the manor - the grand house on the hill - Olveston.
Should we be there?
Were we grand enough to sit among the stunning art on polished floors 'neath sharp chandeliers in drawing rooms of wealth and taste?
Oh yes! Yes, and yes again!
We were the sort who love to listen to Liszt, just like the swooning ladies of 1839 who grabbed for locks of the virtuoso's hair.
We knew Chopin's second name was Francois, and Schubert's the more prosaic Peter; we were cultural, educated, and had earned our place.
It was necessary for most to buy tickets, to be fair, but the pebbles crunched under the leather shoes all the same for a crowd ready to be transported back to yesteryear, when the likes of the Theomin family, original owners of Olveston, were so inclined to entertain at home.
The family were so inclined to host elegant and sophisticated recitals in their magnificent residence on Royal Terrace.
And what a rare delight to relive such a stylish and intimate tradition.
Who doesn't tire of friends and family and desire to mix with a better crowd?
And so, near the giant fireplace, under a mantle so solid it has seen hopes and dreams of generations rise and die like embers blown in a cold wind, we sat, hushed in the presence of great things.
We had passed through the vestibule, wandered blinking and only slightly awed into the Great Hall, where Dorothy Theomin had her coming-out party, when minstrels played in the gallery overlooking that grand arena.
And the elegant stairs that take one to that gallery; the huge painting of such bulk it seems to spill historic scenes which tumble their dramas to the carpet below; the Japanese finery behind spotless glass in hefty cabinets; the huge china vases so strong and yet so breakable - these things make us know we are home.
Where we should be.
In the drawing room, the grand piano and its enormous lid, angular and dark against the decorative windows and the tall trees, spoke of secure respectability - a respectability time and fate will not sweep away.
In the drawing room was the softest burble of the voices of the visitors to the manor, a gentle perfume, and wool and cotton and lace.
We were seated.
Enter the pianist; he strides to the grand piano, a man of confidence and flourish, a man dressed in the most elegant black, a man who needs no musical score to remember the complexities of Chopin or Schubert, a man who can play for guests who understand and appreciate high art.
We do, sir.
We do.
Give us Johann Sebastian Bach.
His notes come in waves; they rise and fall, stop, start; they meander down lanes beside bubbling streams before suddenly embarking on unexpected journeys down musical byways on an 18th-century whim.
We guests do our best to keep up, but we give ourselves away now and then - we drop keys noisily on the floor, we begin to clap when there is a moment's silence in the music, just to be ashamed to find it is yet to finished.
The pianist of course is unfazed, his riot of curly hair aflame in the light of an anglepoise lamp, his concentration intense and his hands a blur of motion.
The music simmers and boils, becomes overwrought, then rests, is strident, then coy before rising to its inevitable and grand crescendo, and in a passion the pianist throws his hand in the air and his head back in the glory of his art, as the composer guides his fingers to the end of the composition.
By now we have learned to sit quietly and wait a full five or even 10 seconds to show our appreciation, just to make sure.
But we clap - how we clap - there is even a ''whoop'', and perhaps, just perhaps, somebody near the front chose to stamp their feet.
To each their own.
The pianist knows how to act in the drawing room at Olveston.
He bows.
He bows deeply and with intent, then rises, triumphant in his ability and the unconstrained approval of the guests.
Then, for the men who carefully brushed their hair before arriving, the lady in lacy sleeves with eyes closed in rapture and head cocked to one side, for the middle-aged ladies in smart suits and the woman with her hair cut in a bob, he gave us Chopin, told us about Liszt, and wandered with Schubert before even more dramatic bowing, and of all things, an encore.
We loved it.
We clapped long and hard, we beamed and felt privileged, and we left feeling very special.
We were.
We'd been invited to the manor.
And this was our night.