The more esoteric nooks of Sky Sports can turn up some startling discoveries, most of which revolve around the fact that millions of people pay good money to watch the most tedious of sporting activities, and mainly when it’s raining stair rods. One of these is ‘Formula Ford’ racing – oiks in souped-up saloons chucking themselves around a tarmac oval, all to win some crapulent prize or other – I dunno, a gold trophy or something. Best whack it in a vault, eh, someone might make off with it, or possibly go for a part-exchange at Timpson’s for a shoe-shine and some new keys.
Anyway, as you would expect, the men (of course they’re men) who have made it their lives’ work to follow such aurally-irritating tedium have the most painful voices this side of the man at the funfair who does the dodgems. Which is why when I hear the words ‘Castle Combe’, a small scalpel weaves its way down my spine, filleting my nerve endings with a practised hand, as my hands make an instinctive movement to the ears to forestall any more pain. For you see, the Castle Combe Circuit is an epicentre of such behaviour. The noisy machines rend the air, the birdlife scatters for miles, the overpriced hot dog stands waft their noxious odours over the local hedgerows, causing poor innocent voles and badgers to clutch at their witless furry throats and wonder at the sheer injustice of it all.
However, there is a ying to all this vile yanging, which is Castle Combe, the village. At the head of a delightfully windy valley is this old mill-town, often called ‘the prettiest village in England’ (although we know better than to read too much into such guff). Its few streets are higgledy, the houses piggledy. The church dates back to the Norman conquest; indeed, within its moss-encrusted walls sits a medieval faceless clock, one of the most ancient clocks in the country, they say, and a wonder to behold.
As far as victuals go, there are one or two friendly-ish pubs in the village, with pleasant, if slightly poor value food. However, the fanciest pad in town is the Manor House Hotel. Now, if we’re talking sports commentators’ voices, who could best be described as the vocal antidote to all that motorsport yapping? Why, it’s Peter Alliss, the man who famously never goes anywhere without his cashmere slippers and flask of Horlicks. Possibly. Anyway, he’d be a pleasure to encounter on a weekend stroll, where, if you were lucky, he might engage you in some rib-tickling discourse on argyle socks. As luck would have it, the Manor House Hotel’s main draw is, you’ve guessed it, an Alliss-designed 18 holes. Marvellous.
Ivy-covered walls, golf carts - what's not to like?
But you should have a nose around the hotel first, as well as a good, hearty slake, before trying anything more strenuous. Upon entry, you are greeted by the unmistakeable smell of burning pine logs – a treat. The floorboards creak, but the service is whip-sharp. Head for the Full Glass Bar, and order up a nice fat G&T or some such. Then have a small snooze in their voluminous seats, surrounded by contented sexagenarians. Yes. That’s much more like it.
‘And they’re off!’
Oh do be quiet.
Manor House Hotel
- Castle Combe
- Wiltshire SN14 7HR