Tales Of The Country: Save Hampton Court. No, the other one

A few miles from us stands a medieval castle called, slightly confusingly, Hampton Court. It has wonderful, extensive gardens, open to the public, but is unrelated to the Hampton Court Palace of great renown. This throws some visitors to Herefordshire, especially Americans. Indeed, whenever there is confusion over which Hampton Court is which, I am reminded of a classic eavesdrop on the Eurostar to Paris some years ago. A young backpacker from the north of England started chatting up an American girl, who was travelling with her parents but sitting separately, across the aisle. My wife Jane and I listened in as a comic misunderstanding unfolded.

"So where 'ave you been in England?" he asked. "Well, this morning we went to Leeds Castle," she said, meaning, of course, the moated edifice in Kent. "I never knew there were a castle in Leeds." "Oh yeah, it's real neat." "Are you sure it's in Leeds, cos I live near there, in 'alifax, and I've never seen it." "Real sure."

And so it went on. But back to Hampton Court, the Herefordshire version, which stands in 1,000 acres and is owned, coincidentally, by an American family, the Van Kampens. Fundamentalist Christians, the Van Kampens own a bible-based theme park somewhere in the United States, and apparently it was their intention to create one at Hampton Court. But sadly Mr Van Kampen Sr, the scheme's representative on earth, died suddenly, and Herefordshire was denied its holy ghost train, or whatever it is they have at bible-based theme parks.

Hampton Court is now up for sale, reportedly for £8m. And Herman the Handy Husband - who advertises as such in the Hereford Times and is here again doing some jobs for us and making me feel like Brian the Buck-useless Husband - tells us that he is part of a concerned group of local people who want to lease Hampton Court from the Van Kampens and preserve or even enhance it as a local resource.

So the search is on for some serious funding. In the meantime, the worry is that a rock star might buy the place and convert it into a private home, which is a great deal less than Hampton Court deserves.

A grilling from the toast-rack inspector

Never did I expect to feel any kinship with Basil Fawlty, but I can quite understand why he came over all a-twitter when he heard that there were hotel inspectors in the Torquay area; our holiday cottages have just been given the once-over by the Heart of England Tourist Board.

Actually, once-over is not the word. A kindly yet redoubtable woman called Amanda inspected them as scrupulously as you might expect Baden-Powell to have inspected his Boy Scouts. She carried a clipboard and an air of brisk efficiency. If, in a cottage intended for six, there are only five egg cups, be sure that the Heart of England Tourist Board will find you out.

Other preconditions before the conferment of stars include one toast rack per cottage, one butter dish, and enough cutlery for a two-course place setting for each person. In our house we use neither toast rack nor butter dish, but the biggest mistake you can make, as a holiday cottage owner, is to expect others to live as you live yourself. We had a family in Woodlands Cottage a couple of weeks ago who left a note lamenting the absence of a tea cosy. And I know of some people in Cornwall who own several extremely chic cottages, and invite departing guests to record their feelings in a comment book. "A really wonderful, relaxing stay," someone wrote. "But unfortunately, not enough cake tins."

So the trick is to cater for all needs, within the bounds of common sense. Not to mention propriety. Manor Cottage, which has one bedroom with a four-poster bed, is popular with young couples enjoying romantic trysts, and I am sometimes tempted to stick a supply of condoms in the bathroom cabinet. But lots of elderly couples stay there too, and I would hate to offend them. On the other hand, they might be flattered.

Anyway, Jane heard about the toast-rack ruling in advance of the inspection, so she hurried out to buy some and placed them so prominently that the inspector did well not to fall over them. At least Amanda didn't arrive incognito, the scenario that caused Basil Fawlty so much angst. "It's always a pleasure to find someone who appreciates the boudoir of the grape," he said, ingratiatingly, to the man he thought was a hotel inspector but turned out to be an outboard-motor salesman. "I'm afraid most of the people we get in here don't know a Bordeaux from a claret."

We never did find out the upshot of the inspection of Fawlty Towers. The upshot of ours was that Amanda awarded us three stars, and said that we have the potential for a fourth, although for all I know we might first have to tackle our serious loofah deficiency.

The best-laid plans

Our broody hen is still brooding, and won't leave the hen-house. As we don't have a cockerel, her eggs stand no chance of being fertilised, and her baleful presence is putting her housemates off laying. In a fowl version of Big Brother, she'd be voted out straight away. What to do? We've been told that there is a box specifically designed for a broody hen, so uncomfortable that it will put her right off sitting down. The other solution often recommended is to place her in a bucket of water, which apparently has the same effect. A local farmhand has offered even more brutal advice. "I'd wring her bloody neck," he said. Watch this space.