West Sussex

Nothing could be further from my experience Vauxhall than this part of the world. From the winding light-dappled tree-tunnels of Surrey roads to the stone majesty of Arundel Castle, from the curved lines of Shere to the steamy kitchen chimney of Random Hall, I definitely feel like I am staying in a part of the world that is has chosen its identity in deliberate contradistinction to London.

And a large part of that is the hospitality we have received: never unctuous, never cold. Random Hall has been a godsend. In fact it has been so good that I am glad our stay in "High Edser" hit such a huge obstacle. Our haughty "Well if that's the way you're going to be about it, Carol, then we shall go to Sussex!" has yielded gold.

I'm not just talking about the bath. But I am partly talking about the bath. I can't stand to be too long without some immersion, and the lack of a working plug or cleaning products in Vauxhall meant there was water, water everywhere and not a drop to bathe. But here in West Sussex, it is all steam and cleanliness, quiet and comfort.

Our day started with a visit to Stuart's ancestral lands in Shere, a place with an almost overwhelming uniformity of architecture, trapped in amber really, so different to the hodge podge of London. It seemed to my artist's eye that none of the buildings were drawn using rulers - everything was hand drawn and hand built, wonky and uneven. The British love their wonk, their jaunt: everything seems to be based on the undulations of the grain in wood or slate. But there's a strict conformity that is almost theme park-ish.

Walking around St James' cemetery in Shere in the rain in the quiet was exquisitely melancholy. I loved seeing all those headstones eaten by lichen, ruined by time: so much for the immortality of stone. So much for any kind of lasting trace, really.

A quick coffee at White Horse pub in Shere (a huge picture of Cameron Diaz on the wall to commemorate the building's role in cinema), and we plugged "Arundel Castle" into my Australian-voiced navigation app. We were a little apprehensive since the drive to Shere had been so terrifying that even my soul was clenched: drivers in mini minors fanging it like Brabham at unwise speed over crests and around bends, speeding past every vision block. Driving in Surrey is a needless stress.

But the drive to Arundel was gentle. And we felt like we were being collected with all the other aged white tourists into its warm embrace.

The castle, the ancestral seat of the Duke of Norfolk, is a monstrosity. It is in fact four theme parks rolled into one: a medieval theme park, a monarchist theme park, a bizarre garden, and a historic art collection. I liked the first and the last, and was indifferent to the middle two. The old part of the castle was just alien enough to be affecting. Stuart and I climbed the tight spiral stone stair to the battlements, and felt that squeeze of panic, and of the memory of centuries of panic in that place.

The furnished rooms had a frilly opulence that left me cold. But the art collection took me completely by surprise. I was not expecting to Canaletto's Capricci of Venice, Gainsborough and Van Dyke's portraits, or even a signed death warrant from Elizabeth I, the scary Elizabeth. Walking through and looking at portrait after portrait of past Dukes of Norfolk was an absolute privilege, especially to see the poet Henry Howard, Henry VIII's last victim.

My foot was bung - quite bung - I don't know what I'd done to it, but it was bad. I limped out of the castle grounds after a stroll around the gardens (full of tropical plants, grossly Colonial), and went to Arundel proper to buy a souvenir: a collection of poems by e e cummings and an antique travel guide to Newquay Cornwall. Books really are a fading commodity, aren't they? They just don't store information anymore, but they do store nostalgia. I looked at Samuel Pepys' diaries and thought: today that would be a blog. Or a substack. Or a twitter feed. Or maybe they just wouldn't exist at all.

I asked if we could go back to Cranleigh, to the Richard Onslow, so I could have another one of those delicious 0% Tanqueray Gin and Tonics in a gay glass. Stuart obliged, and when we arrived there, he ordered a whole pint of some kind of beer, I know not what. He looked like a child holding an adult's drink. Pints are BIG. He became cheerfully tipsy, and then we went home for a bath and for a late dinner.

I conked out, so tired I was grumpy, and dreamt that my dentist was playing the saxophone in a 10 piece ensemble celebrating the end of the world. Life is strange, but good.Read more