R E C E N T L Y Lions and tigers are PC, oh my! By Sally Eckhoff Disney goes PC at its new theme park (07/28/98) Sex, drugs and Armenian vodka By Drew Fellman What goes on behind closed doors in Iran (07/27/98) Mondo Weirdo No place like Oz In Japan, a bar with no alcohol or music, only coffee (07/24/98) Mondo Weirdo Nude beaches of the week Favorite places to bare all (07/24/98) Safety strategies By Dawn MacKeen Savvy safety tips for business travelers (07/23/98) Browse the Wanderlust Feature archives		england's decadent delights Our freelance freeloader samples the good life with Mariah Carey, clay pigeons and single malt scotches at a luxurious castle hotel called Stapleford Park. BY DOUGLAS CRUICKSHANK | One of the most satisfying things about the English countryside is how much it looks like the English countryside. Consider the view here at Stapleford Park, a spectacular old estate near the village of Melton Mowbray in Leicestershire. An hour north of London by train, Leicestershire is the heart of England's impossibly pastoral hunt country, Stilton cheese country and "hand raised" pork pie country. Out the bedroom window, just visible through my hangover, a morning mist cloaks the sheep meadows, liberally sprinkled with the pea-witted beasts, and oozes down to the lake, where a single swan, white as sugar, glides along with such measured grace that it must be one of those animatronic track-mounted kind they have at Disneyland. As if that weren't enough, a rainbow arcs over the nearby woodland. Indeed, the scene is so excruciatingly exquisite that I've got a good mind to call Mr. Merchant and Mr. Ivory and tell them to get their softly lit Panavision asses up here and bring along Helena Bonham Carter and Jeremy Irons, or some other members of the Supremely Sensitive Pallid Performers Academy, and knock off another of those precious extravaganzas that they've been pumping into cineplexes for the last decade or so. Instead, I walk to the mirror -- starkers -- to see if I look as ravaged as I feel. I look worse. One glance and it's frighteningly apparent: Some kind of untamed, passion-crazed, hydrophobic Catpeople-type creature has indulged in most unwholesome sport at my expense. I have been clawed, gnawed or pawed by a love-hungry humanoid of unnatural inclinations and insatiable appetite. My right shoulder is a mass of lacy crimson stripes. They'd be beautiful, if it weren't for the pain. That's the good news. The bad news is that I can't remember any of last night's gymnastics. Stapleford has been described to me as the "one-time home of the Naughty Earl," but that doesn't explain my wounds because the randy old scamp vacated long ago. My room, my lovely, splendid room -- which was personally decorated by Lady Jane Churchill (a specialist in rose hues that exacerbate hangovers) -- is wobbling lazily, first in one direction, then another. My clothes are neatly folded on the chesterfield; nothing seems to be out of place. It's all quite mysterious. Suddenly, I hear the cry of a great blue heron in the distance, or maybe it's Mariah Carey warming up down the hall. Did I mention that Mariah Carey is also staying in this mansion, that she arrived late last night in a black Saab stretch limousine (yes, Saab) accompanied by two cell phone-addicted bodyguards and two personal assistants? No, of course not, I've barely got started telling about the house. Lordy, where is my brain? Let's back up a bit. This entire junket -- I'm here with a small group of assorted media types -- has been conceived as a luxurious blitzkrieg tour. These excursions are particularly seductive to freelance freeloaders such as me who are never likely to travel in such exalted style unless we somehow secure a middle management position with the Medellín Cartel (but then when would there be time to write, what with all the money-laundering and gun-running?). The odyssey began with a British Airways first-class "sleeper service" flight from San Francisco to London. At more than $10,500 round trip it is one of the best reasons I've come across for getting rich. The flight is more than 10 hours long, but who cares? At the touch of a button, the motor-operated recliner seat will bend you any which way you desire -- including stretched out flat (and I'm 6-foot-1). What's more, you get your own "sleeping suit," plus what I call a sleeping bag and the airline calls a duvet ("No camping references please, we're British"). Flying in such rarefied fashion is nearly as good as not flying at all. Luxuriating in one's own private wood-grain lounging pod in the first-class cabin all but obliterates the fact that you may be rocketing toward eternity in a giant tube of machinery. Instead, and especially after a glass of claret or three and a bit of liquid velvet watercress soup, you find yourself serenely suspended above the clouds and sea over the Lost Planet of the Barbarians, snug in a Jules Verne airship while being coddled by the last representatives of civilization. Remember the times when you were a child, a late night drive home, dozing in your mama's lap? It's like that, but with free movies and cognac. Which brings us back to Stapleford Park. The main residence at Stapleford is what the English call "somewhat old." That is to say it's mentioned in the Doomsday Book, the record of the Norman survey carried out by order of William the Conqueror in 1085-86 -- though the present structure has been around only since the 14th century. Of course, it's had some improvements since then. (A high relief inscription on one exterior wall reads, "William Lord Sherard Baron of Letrym Repayred This Building Anno Domini 1633.") Stapleford comprises 500 parklike acres (down from the original 4,500), the Gothic 18th century Church of St. Mary Magdalene, a graveyard, thatched cottages, gatehouses, a lavish stable, a school of falconry and a folly in the woods built, the story goes, as headquarters for the naughtiness of the Naughty Earl and his mistress. Some say there is a tunnel from the main house to the folly. Others say they're not so sure. I say if you're an earl, why bother with a tunnel -- don't you get to do whatever the flock you want? Stapleford now caters to those who are different from you and me in that they think little of dropping as much as $900 (double occupancy, canines welcome for $8 extra) on a night's lodging, breakfast included (kibble extra). The house and grounds fulfill even the most idealized imagining of English country splendor and privilege. The cuisine is good to excellent: The venison was the richest and most tender I've ever eaten -- so aromatic, so succulent, I wanted to get up on the table and roll in it like my dog does with dead cormorants at the beach. The wines, brandies and single malt scotches are superb and free-flowing. And the service is impeccable, which is why people like Margaret Thatcher, Henry Kissinger, Tom Jones, Tom Cruise, Nicole Kidman and others of their ilk come here to chill. Stapleford is also imbued with that unmistakable air of cool discretion that naturally seeps from the pores of the celebrated and wealthy. Mariah Carey and her two assistants hung out in the small library/bar during the evenings and nobody even glanced in their direction (except for me, who stared shamelessly and leaned my chair back so far I almost fell over trying to hear what they were saying). Still, the atmosphere is friendly and in at least one case it bubbles over with a certain, outsize rural mirth -- namely Malcolm. N E X T+P A G E | The clay pigeons are in no danger ILLUSTRATION BY GLYNIS SWEENY