Yesterday, is a bit of a blur, as I was dead tired, as floppy as a jelly fish, after being evacuated from the hotel in the Cotswolds, yesterday morning.

I wanted to revisit some haunts nearby, as the little cottage we rented, when the children were six and four, has bonded me to the area forever; nostalgia has woven an umbilical cord that occasionally pulls me back. We also visited there with my brother and wife, Shaun and Wendy, when the children were teeny tiny.

I adore Nancy Mitford’s novels, detailing the idiosyncracies of the British aristocracy. She was firm friends with Evelyn Waugh – Decline and Fall, Brideshead Revisited. She was an aristocrat herself, a toff, and she lived for a brief period at Batsford Park.

These days you can walk in the arboretum, but you can only glimpse the house. It cries out, “Look, but don’t touch.” It is a miniature Houses of Parliament: not pretty, but intimidating – and vast. The Pursuit of Love and Love in a Cold Climate were inspired by her life there. In these classics, Lord and Lady Radlett dwell with their children, all Honourables, styled Hon., at Alconleigh, a vast and freezing house, inspired by Batsford Park. The Hons commune in the airing cupboard, where the heating dries the linen, to gossip, as it is the warmest place in the house. If they like you, you are a honorary Hon.

I also visited the gardens of a smaller private house across the road, Bourton House, Bourton on the Hill. It is reputed to have one of the finest gardens in England. I visited with Wendy, in May, 1997.

As I arrived, the owners were getting into their car. I gushed like a water tap, “Are you the owners?” They didn’t wince – looking down their noses at a paying punter. They were friendly. They were American. I continued to gush, “I visited here when my children were very small.” They appeared genuinely excited that it was a special place for me.

The garden had matured to perfection. Topiary was trimmed to immaculate geometrical shapes, like French women. Nancy Mitford, adored France, but loved England. Two of her male characters are French. France features prominently in her writing. I gazed at the bench positioned in an archway. I remember Geoff and Wendy sitting there. I could see Ryan, my nephew, just about to turn one, sitting on the stripey lawn. Nostalgia, good for you or not?

I then headed to my trust meeting. The house it was held in was private, and not open to members of the public. It was eye-wateringly beautiful, and it was on a grand scale like Brideshead: an example of strawberry gothic. The windows contained numerous gothic arches, encased in gothic stone surrounds. A flag was flying of the family crest – a stag. It was a good omen, that I was right to style male Sloanes as stags in my diary.

I was ushered into the library. Stags and pheasants like a witty story, so I told them about my escaping death that morning when the hotel almost went up in flames.

It was a very Nancy Mitford moment. I took in my surroundings. There were leather bound, gold lettered books everywhere. There was a lot of taxidermy. A stuffed leopard, with his teeth menacingly exposed, was perched on the back of one sofa. There were small stuffed crocodiles. Crocodile Dundee would have approved. “Strewth mate,” he may have remarked, “that’s a shrimp – prawn – of a nipper compared to the ones I wrestle.”

When we went for a quick walk after the meeting, to give Domino a stretch, the daughter commented to me, as we gazed back at the golden building lit by the sun, “It’s England.” I responded, “Yes, I feel like I should sing Jerusalem.” She grinned.

As we arrived back, I said that I was mad about architecture. So she showed me around every nook and cranny of every room. Would she have done that if I had been a pheasant? No, she knew that kangaroos are a different breed and have no aristocracy to mention.