Doddington Hall, Lincolnshire, became an objective back in October last year, when we saw a photograph of their Egyptian tent at a temporary exhibition in KL's Islamic Arts Museum.

They open from mid-day to 4.30 on selected days during the spring and summer season, and just after opening time there was already a reasonable crowd. (Round here, be it noted, we tend to be by far the youngest out and about during the day.)

The house is a joy. Three storeys. Not too grand. Historic but with a homely feel. On each floor, there is a particularly large, light airy room. On all sides, there are lovely views, down to the gardens and across to Lincoln Cathedral. In one of the rooms, they're painstakingly restoring the floor-to-ceiling tapestries.

On the top floor, as well as the long gallery, there is a room called "the museum room", which houses everything the family has ever owned, it seems, from Civil War pikes to Gary Glitter-like 1970s silver boots.

And, of course, there is the tent room...





After a restorative pot of tea (complete with flapjack and Bakewell tart), we toured the gardens, which were bright with sunshine and blossom. We walked to the Pyramid, a latter-day folly closing off the vista from the house, sat by the little boating lake, and bought jam and Lincolnshire plum bread from the extensive shop.









Delightful...

Touring ancient piles was a favoured pastime when we lived in the UK. The components were always the same: history, fresh air, tea, and a rummage in the pretty-goods shop.

Admittedly, you had to occasionally put up with some crashing middle-class bore spouting amateur history to his luckless offspring. And weekend patrons often experienced jams on the stairs, and congestion in the tea-rooms.

But it was all so very civilized. A history to (pick suitable alternative) glory in or be glad we had escaped from. A heritage to rediscover in the safe shape of traditional biscuits or patterned tea-towels. Enough prosperity in the surrounding society to ensure that reasonable numbers could at least occasionally indulge in these little pleasures.

Of course, it probably wouldn't be too hard to deconstruct most of this. A little scratching beneath the surface would no doubt unearth a saga of economic exploitation, social conservatism, and manufactured heritage. It would be easy to sniff out smugness and complacency.

But for now I have no interest in doing that. I just want to enjoy the spring sunshine, and the fine vistas, and the sense of continuity that England provides in spades.