Walcot Hall sits in the valley of the River Kemp which flows serenely towards the Clun between the round-topped, wooded hills of southwest Shropshire. In 1764, Clive of India chose to settle in this beautiful corner of England, just east of Offa’s Dyke, and bought the house with its 80,000 acre estate. He commissioned an architect, Sir William Chambers to re-order the house, which he then left to his son Edward. Walcot Hall remained in the Clive family for 170 years, during which time vast sums were also spent on improving the grounds. A mile-long lake, enlarged by Napoleonic French prisoners of war, still spans the view from the Hall.  In 1800, a spacious ballroom was added in order to house a carpet presented to Edward while he’d been governor of Madras.

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Like all dedicated seekers of truth – eternal and ephemeral – this blogger likes to expose himself (though not in his Burberry mackintosh) to the edges of human experience – last week, in two unusual expeditions.

Ludlow Racecourse is an attractive sporting venue set on the gravel-bearing flood plain of the River Teme. There has been recorded horseracing there since 1729, and about a hundred years ago a fine members’ stand was erected in cast iron. Facing north, it prevents a low winter sun from shining in the punters’ eyes. However it also exposes them to the full blast of any northerly wind descending off the Shropshire Hills.

A serviceable, if not architecturally outstanding Members’ Bar and Restaurant was put up about a dozen years ago, and now earns extra revenue – like any sensible Members’ Bar – as an antiques fair and general entertainment venue. Last week it hosted an auction of German Nazi memorabilia.

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There were no Ferraris at the Ludlow Hunt point-to point, held on Saturday below the massif of Titterstone Clee on a magnificent spring day, where the SUN put in an appearance in more ways than one.  Shropshire (and I’m glad about this) is a long way from London and is not Ferrari country (apart from the chap who owns the excellent Golden Moments Indian restuarant). However, there was a Red-Headed visitor from the metropolis who kept us on our toes. I was first alerted to her presence by finding former racehorse trainer, erstwhile Lothario, latterly Telegraph columnist and newly arrived novelist Charlie Brooks waving the punters into the car park. Staying with local friends, he was taking the opportunity to promote his new novel among the large gathering of horse folk.

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The Media Standards Trust is concerned with protecting the freedom of the press and protecting the public from harm. They are dedicated to achieving the fairest and most fruitful balance between these contrasting points.

Their report published this week, A More Accountable Press makes a strong and publicly supported case for more effective curbs on excessive breaches of personal privacy by some sectors of the press.

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Anyone who’s spent a few hours in Ludlow will tell you it’s as handsome a town as you could find in Merry England (imagine all those parfit knights, codpieces and Black Death), stuffed with alleyways, timbered houses with oaken chins that jut over narrow streets and a fine castle built on a rocky mount above a gushing river. It still even has a suite of late-Georgian Assembly Rooms, as favoured by Ms J Austen and her sort when seeking social interaction. Despite being coloured an iffy crushed-blackcurrant-and-cream that Farrow & Ball must have been selling off cheap, the Assembly Rooms still serve their original function as a place of encounter and diversion in this small town. Last Saturday – a techno dance rave, next week – jazz rapper, Soweto Kinch. There are plays and concerts and other types of dances, although no White Sergeants dashing or otherwise engaged in cotillions or quadrilles or any of those high-waisted Regency dance routines where you barely have time to say, ‘Lah, me, Miss Jemma, you put me in mind of a frisky filly,’ before your partner hurls you into the solid bosom of a passing matriarch.

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