Here at least they were by the sea—which, I remember, several of them had never seen before.

From Trying to Please by John Julius Norwich.  Page 33.

It seems extraordinary that in a house as primitive as ours—at least by today’s standards—we should have had such a copious domestic staff. Every weekend the whole lot would come down by train from London. Apart from Miss Wade, who had a room of her own at the end of the upper floor, there was Mrs. Wales the cook, Holbrook the butler (doubling at Bognor as my father’s valet) and at least three continually changing maids, two of whom slept in a room next to the kitchen while another—the kitchen maid—shared Mrs. Wales’s room in the Lodge (of which more in a moment). Both these bedrooms had old-fashioned washstands, with basin and jug—nothing more; but once again, at least as far as I was aware, there were no complaints. It was probably no worse than the poor girls had been used to at home, and here at least they were by the sea—which, I remember, several of them had never seen before.

The first home we lived in England in the mid-1960's was the central 1/3 of an old country home which had been divided into three sections.  Echoes of an age when there were servants were still plentiful were all around.  

As children, we loved getting out a step ladder to climb into the finished attic on the third(?) floor.  These had been the residence of the staff with many small rooms.  After WWII large homes with staff died out and the third floor was converted from servant housing.  The rooms and corridors remained but were now filled with retrofitted plumbing and heating ducts almost to the point of being a jungle gymnasium but when you twisted and contorted your way through this labyrinth, you could access the individual servant rooms.  Laden with dust, there was an eery Mary Celeste atmosphere about them.  They were no longer furnished but they retained a feel as if they had only recently been vacated.