After more than twenty years in solving the cold-chain packaging riddle - trying to maintain 2-8C,  I believe I found the place where no such challenge exists. That illusive temperature range seems forever a constant here among the bucolic fields and fens of Hertfordshire, England. 

And while engineering solutions for cold-chain has been a constant pursuit that may to some seem droll and unexciting, I feel compelled to relate to you a recent cold-chain poltergeist experience. 

My day-long journey came to a close amid one of England's legendary fog-shrouded evenings, at the end of a narrow  drive - through a wood which opened onto a broad, flat lawn on the outskirts of the medieval town of Tring. Perched in the middle of the lawn was my destination for the night: Pendley Manor, a beautiful, but quirky Victorian Estate-turned-hotel. pendley-manor.co.uk 

The front lamps near the two-story main entrance glowed with halo's through the fog and the headlamps from my colleague's car revealed no other in the parking lot. We said our good-bye's and each step echoed with the hollow sound of the wheels of my suitcases as I towed them along the walkway. I stopped in front of the entrance for a moment and craned my head upwards in appreciation of the grand architecture – although I could not see the top as it disappeared in the fog, as did my colleague's retreating tail lights.

I awoke the night receptionist as I clamored in – a plump older gentleman with a throaty voice who boastfully displayed long, wispy, mutton-chop sideburns of pure white. He had a rosy, cherubic face to match his disposition, and at the very tip of his long, pointed nose rested a pair of reading glasses. He looked like a badger.

With my room key in hand, I entered the massive, dimly lit foyer lined with life sized portraits of old British gentry who seemed to watch me as I plodded my way up the creaky Mahogany staircase. Their dignified poses, opulent dress and importance to society were of no consequence to me as I clumsily climbed to the myriad of dark hallways above. 

My room, one of 79 at the manor, was dimly lit and adorned with a gigantic four-poster bed, floor-to-ceiling tapestries, flowery carpeting and a 14 foot ceiling. The bathroom was ancient but spotlessly clean and cozy with a slipper tub and porcelain water fixtures. I pulled back the heavy window drapery and was startled to catch a glimpse of a ghostly image ‘falling’ off the balcony. I stepped back, waited a few seconds, and drew a deep breath before leaning forward - only to bang my head on the interior storm window while trying to view the empty parking lot below which was illuminated by a single lamp that hung from a nearby tree.

Tired as I was, I grabbed my digital camera and was delighted with prospect of exploring the old mansion.

Tapestries loomed above me. Giant oriental urns and over-stuffed chairs were placed throughout the halls. Scenes of foxhunts, men and women of society, and gatherings of various occasions were handsomely framed along the walls. The uneven floors squeaked and groaned as I slowly but alertly made my way up and down stairs, through low doors and around the corners of one winding, empty hall after another; some filled with noticeably sudden chills and drafts. I slipped past the lounge, a well appointed dining room, a ballroom, and spa with a pool, sauna and whirlpool. They all quietly awaited guests that never arrived that evening. All the halls on all levels eventually led back to the grand foyer.

It was on to the basement, whose foundation I would later learn, dated back to 1066. These halls were exceedingly narrow and I had to bow in order to get my 6'1" frame past the arches overhead. The maze of hallways led nowhere. There was a gymnasium, a dance studio and exercise room and a door, marked (oddly enough) 'do not open this door'. I saw a light spilling from a doorway at the end of the hall and decided to investigate. I thought I heard footsteps as I approached. It was the snooker room. A massive and ornate green felt table sat in the middle of the room. Billiard balls were scattered around the table as if in mid-game, and a pool cue leaned precariously against one side. But I saw no one. I quickly found the nearest staircase to the main floor. I headed in the direction of muted voices echoing from the foyer. But the foyer was empty. I peeked into the reception area. The badger was watching BBC on the television. Were those the voices I heard? By now I was feeling a bit anxious and decided to go back to my room; applying all three locks to the door - just for good measure.

The room was dark and cold and I could not find a thermostat. I tried calling home - for it would be late afternoon - but my cell phone read "no signal". No sooner than I had entered my room I began to hear things. Doors opening and closing, hurried tip-toeing, silverware dropping and water running through banging pipes buried deep within the walls. Exhausted, I drifted off to sleep in a chair in the corner of the room farthest from the door. Such a restless sleep I had filled with bizarre dreams of Dutchmen's clogs left in the hallway, a Chinese woman in a cotton nightgown wandering the halls talking to herself in a language I could not recognize and I saw shadows cast onto the floor from the sliver of light beneath my door. I heard strange, haunting cries and cackling. When daylight came, I found myself lying on the edge of the bed still in my clothes with the heavy bedspread pulled over me. I saw the shadows like those from my dreams in the sliver of light coming from under the door and heard the clear voices and chatter of the women from housekeeping - though they were speaking in a language I could not identify. I staggered over to the window and pulled back the drape. I yelped when I saw what looked to be a Peacock, completely void of color, perched on the ledge of my balcony, staring wistfully at me. Was I still dreaming? The camera! Still groggy, I quickly took a picture of the odd looking bird and searched for my Blackberry to check for the time -  1:10 a.m.? Could this be right? It was daylight after all. The signal was strong. I decided to lie back down. I awoke to the staccato ring of my room phone. It was the front desk. "Mr. O'Donnell, your driver is here to take you to the airport, yes?" I heard the young woman say with a distinct Polish accent. I asked if the driver would be kind enough to wait, and I appeared, tired and disheveled at the front desk some thirty minutes later. Before entering his car, I heard the same strange cries and cackling that I heard in my dreams a few hours before. I looked to see what it was. Across the lawn I saw several Peacocks, including one of white, state-fully prancing and pecking at the grass. "Are those... Peacocks?" I asked in disbelief. "Indeed they are sir. Pendley is famous for them - including that albino one over there." Said the driver, as he carefully placed my bags into the car.

On the drive to Heathrow I related the peculiar experiences of my stay to the driver. "I'm not surprised, sir. You're not the first to tell me that." He chuckled. "Everyone around here knows that Pendley is haunted, sir."

Haunted, I thought? I don't believe in such things. As an engineer, I tend to rationalize everything. But this was the most peculiar experience I have ever had and I think I would rather leave it that way. I suppose I could explain most of it. But this makes for a much more interesting story - don't you think?

Attached for your amusement are some digital photographs of Pendley. Enjoy.