The home of William Morris needs saving – and the National Trust needs £600,000 to do so.

Nuffield Place is currently owned by Oxford Nuffield College. It has offered to donate it to the National Trust: but, despite the ubergenerous donation, £600k is still needed to secure its future.

The idea is to open it up once again to the public, as part of the National Trust estate – the cash sum is thus needed to renovate it, install visitor facilities and run through all the other necessary (expensive) processes.

Here’s where you come in: the National Trust is asking for donations, which you can make through the National Trust donations page.

OK… so, why save Nuffield Place?

The house near Henley-on-Thames was the home of William Morris – later Lord Nuffield – between 1933 and his death in 1963. Remarkably, it remains all-but unchanged – it is, says the National Trust, a rare example of a complete 1930s upper-middle class home.

Supporters say it is ripe for conversion into a working museum, one ideal for educational visits. More ambitiously, some see it, in time, becoming an unofficial offshoot of the National Heritage Centre in Gaydon. The cars would be at BMIHT: the lifestyle behind them, at Nuffield Place.

There’s also potential to extend its corporate use: fascinatingly, BMW Group has already said it is willing to hold management away-day meetings there, particularly those related to Lord Nuffield’s old Cowley plant (now MINI Oxford).

Basically, saving Nuffield Place would preserve a look into the home and lifestyle of a UK car industry giant, who has been shamefully forgotten and unrecognised up to now.

Who was Lord Nuffield?

William Morris was Morris Motor Company, whose achievements we all know well. Morris Motor Company was the Volkswagen of its day: in the 1920s, the Morris Cowley and Oxford duo alone represented 40% of all British car production. Morris was the industrial giant at the head of this powerhouse.

What’s less well known is Morris’ remarkable philanthropy. It is this generosity that the National Trust hopes saving Nuffield Place will bring to the public’s attention – because Morris was a very, very generous man indeed.

He founded the Nuffield Foundation in 1943, with a £10m endowment, charging it with advancing education and social welfare. He also founded Nuffield College, Oxford, and gave generously to many other good causes, too. He had no children: charity was his way of leaving a legacy.

Over his lifetime, he gave away £30m. An amazing sum… and all the more eye-opening when you realise that’s the equivalent of £11 billion in today’s money.

Yes, £11 billion.

He’s thus not only one of the world’s greatest automotive entrepreneurs, says the National Trust, but he’s also one of Britain’s greatest modern benefactors. Morris was a pretty standout industry captain, a fact simply not all that well known by non-car fans.

The idea is for Nuffield Place to become the flag-bearer to tell people about this.

Morris Motor Company today

Morris did what he always vowed he wouldn’t do by the time of his death in 1963 – joined forces with Austin. After his death, the company slowly declined, with the name being phased out unceremoniously in 1984.

The final Morris car was the Ital; the last Morris made was a Metro van.

Currently, the Morris name is owned by SAIC – which, in further irony, is now making MGs under the MG Motor brand at Longbridge, former HQ of Morris’ arch-rival, Herbert Austin…

Morris deserves to be honoured much better than he is. Here’s hoping Nuffield Place is saved. It’s not only a fascinating 1930s time capsule, but it’s also a very significant piece of British motor industry history that gives an insight into an historical giant.

Spread the word: Save Nuffield Place. And here’s more reasons why:

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ONE major advance of the Austin Maestro is often overlooked. Its fibre-optic instrument needle pointers.

Yes, indeedy.

See, in the olden days, cars used to have dials lit by a bulb drilled in the top of the dashboard. If, that is, they were lucky.

In time, makers such as Smiths integrated this into the dial itself, so the outside ring lit up. Very swish. But it was still somewhat coal-hole like in the dark.

Then, a few crazy car makers began to bedazzle awe-struck eyes like mine, with gorgeous backlit panels. These had all the lights behind the instrument face, with the numerals picked out in transparent plastic. The light shone through, as if the Lord himself had taken an interest, transforming night-time legibility.

But still the needles were just dumb sticks.

Enter the Maestro. And its fibre-optic instrument needle pointers.

How the motoring world today lives and breathes on these. Its influence is everywhere. It is the reason why the MkIV Golf got mouthwatering blue dials with red pointers. It’s how Volkswagen Group is able to differentiate stock instrument panels across different brands. It’s how Jaguar can refer to ‘Phosphorous Blue’ dial lighting in press info for the XF.

What is it? Well, just that. A fibre-optic, opaque-plastic needle. At night, light would shoot up it, bringing daylight to the entire needle. Like some sort of miraculous light sabre, it was Star Wars before your very eyes. It was why my Granddad had endless flat batteries on his Maestro Vanden Plas in winter.

Austin-Rover was dialling in a revolution here. How we should thus praise the majesty of the miraculous, mighty Maestro.

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