On a quiet stretch of countryside near Roscrea, Bellefield House sits like a secret waiting to be rediscovered. Its story embodies a rare kind of cultural heritage: one that is not preserved behind glass but lives and breathes through the people who care for it.

George Cunningham, a local historian with a love for books, trees, and the natural world, is one of those people. He speaks of Bellefield the way others speak of old friends. For him, the estate is a living ecosystem of stories, plants, and rare books.

Bellefield's modern era began shortly after COVID, when the house opened once more. Though not a “big house” by aristocratic standards, its character lies in its intimacy: the walled garden tucked behind its walls, the once‑busy veterinary surgery with its separate entrance, the landed histories of families who lived and worked there. But it was Angela Jupe, a visionary gardener and collector, who breathed fresh purpose into it. Discovering the two‑acre walled garden in a state of neglect, she saw not dereliction but possibility.

Upon her passing, Angela gifted Bellefield to the Royal Horticultural Society of Ireland with one poignant wish: that the estate become a place of learning.

At the heart of the estate lies a library that could rival academic collections. Angela’s own books (around 1,500 volumes) form the foundation. George added his extensive collection, and members of the RHSI contributed more. Because the house now operates partially as an Airbnb to support funding, the most valuable volumes are safeguarded in the old surgery room, while others line the stairs, landings, and ground‑floor rooms.

When George speaks about these books, he handles them like living things. There is the facsimile of John Evelyn’s Silva, a 17th‑century classic that laid the foundations of forestry. There is the 1776 York edition by Hunter, its pages astonishingly unblemished after two and a half centuries. And then there is the crown jewel: the seven‑volume Trees of Great Britain and Ireland by Elwes and Henry—monumental, privately published, and, in George’s case, a gifted copy numbered “2.”

Beyond trees, the library is filled with botanical beauty: oversized florilegia, limited‑edition volumes on lilies, and the breathtaking Flora Superba, whose illustrations unfold like gallery pieces. George flips through its pages. “Books like to breathe,” he says. “Even this little journey today—taking them out, opening them—does them good.”

Every Wednesday, a lively cohort of volunteers descends on the grounds tending beds, restoring pathways, and preparing for open garden events. Snowdrop Day draws crowds each spring, and plant fairs keep the garden’s community spirit thriving. These gatherings are as much about connection as horticulture: knowledge passed from hand to hand, traditions shared in muddy boots and warm conversations.

Still, Bellefield's potential is only beginning to unfold. The former coach house is currently being renovated to include accessible facilities and a coffee shop; Angela’s salvaged window greenhouse is undergoing sensitive restoration. The larger dream (one that requires funding and perhaps a generous patron) is the creation of a dedicated library and study centre, complete with student accommodation. Such a space would finally allow the collections to be displayed and used as intended for learning, discovery, and inspiration.

In the meantime, the estate continues to evolve organically. George sees the future clearly: an arboretum where families can plant commemorative trees, a garden that teaches as much as it delights, a library where books breathe freely and students find quiet refuge.

Bellefield House grows through stories, through shared labour, through the turning of seasons and pages. In its gardens and bookshelves, in its volunteers and visionaries, heritage is not merely preserved but continuously made.