You can now sit where The Sitwells sat, though, as the house has become a country house hotel, managed by a couple who glory in the names of Pontus and Miranda Carminger. As I blew in through the heavy door, the staff seemed unruffled by my dripping coat and muddy boots which I left by the hall fire to dry as I ordered tea and pumpkin soup. I wandered through the lounges and eyebrows hovered above Telegraphs and groups of elderly ladies stopped their chatting and clinking of cups and politely nodded greetings. I found a snug empty lounge and settled into a Windsor chair by the fire with a volume of drawings of the estate. The tea arrived in a silver pot on a silver tray and a teacup with the satisfying ring of bone china. The soup was superb and subtly spiced against the cold. An after-tea whisky put me into a drowse and I had the temporary fantasy of being in a plush Agatha Christie murder scene.

I eventually put on my nicely dried waterproofs and headed back down the lane to the sea stopping a couple of times to have an internal debate about going back to the fire. Boldly I decided to veer west and onwards to Bognor but I found myself clambering over groynes on a fast diminishing beach as night fell with the town still a distant pink glow. It was a relief to pass Butlins and the train carriage shacks and find myself amongst the dangerous dogs and muffin tops of the seafront. As the bus back to Littlehampton meandered through bungalowland, Bailifscourt seemed more and more unlikely. MM

This is the first in an occasional series of travel articles about reach-by-train-able destinations.