So I checked on Google, found something called “adventure” golf at World of Golf on the A20 in Sidcup and challenged her to a game of the real thing. “A freezing Tuesday? Crazy golf? Southeast London? A girl doesn’t get offers like that very often,” said Hilary, and off we went. “You’d better navigate,” she said. “I never go east of Sloane Square if I can help it.” The journey was wild. White-knuckle stuff. People had warned me not to get in a car with Hilary, but the truth is she’s a good driver, she’s also just… how shall I put this?… extremely aggressive. And she likes to conduct a running commentary on other road-users, as in, “Oh c’mon, mate, for God’s sake, you could get a f****** tank through there,” etc. Wapping to World of Golf passed in a blur of tyre-screech, blaring horns and profanities. It was like being in a car chase.

“I haven’t done this since I was six,” Hilary confided as she strode to the first tee, me lagging behind, still shaking. “1975, Happy Mount Park, Morecambe, against my grandpa.” Did you beat him? I asked. “Only you could ask that, Robert.” We sized up the first fairway, 20 feet of rucked-up Astroturf, no obstacles. “Where are the boulders?” she asked. Good question: on the website there had been pictures of all the rocks you had to negotiate. Now here we were and there weren’t any. All the way round, it was just one bumpy Astroturf strip after another. Which is neither crazy nor adventurous. The man at reception told us later they’d had to remove the rocks for health and safety reasons, in case someone tripped and sued. “We might be getting some windmills and castles and stuff soon,” he said forlornly.

I went round in a respectable 54. Hilary? Hilary’s short game let her down. Also, the wind blew her hair into her eyes a lot. From starting out all hyped-up, high on acceleration and being out of the office, we had our fried-egg sandwiches at the 19th in rather melancholy mood. Hilary likes to win and I, for the purposes of this column, prefer to lose. Our surroundings didn’t help. There was a footbridge at the 18th, presumably a homage to the Swilcan Bridge at St Andrews, but instead of a sparkling Scottish burn, this one spanned a brown puddle with lumps of polystyrene floating in it. I can’t in all conscience recommend adventure golf in Sidcup as an exciting leisure opportunity. Not in February anyway.

Burning rubber on the return leg, we found ourselves in Eltham. “Let’s go to the palace,” said Hilary, swerving abruptly across a couple of lanes. Seconds later we were there. Eltham Palace is weird, part 700-year-old royal residence, part 70-year-old Art Deco shrine. Things looked up straightaway. We had to put these blue plastic covers over our shoes, which was cool, like we were in ER, and then we met a guide I’ll call Geoff who seemed to know absolutely nothing about where he was. When was this hall built? “It’s a barn.” Excuse me, surely, it’s a hall? “No, it’s a barn.” (It’s a hall.) Is that a hammerbeam roof? “A hammerwhat?” Didn’t Henry VIII spend a lot of time here? “Henry the who?” and so on. Highly amusing. Then Geoff started getting personal. “I don’t want to suggest anything,” he said slyly, “but you two could get married here if you want.” We said steady on Geoff, it’s our first date.

And it got better. We found a dumb waiter, and I love a dumb waiter. And then a walk-in wardrobe, and I love a walk-in wardrobe. And then we bought a guidebook, always a treat, and it said that the wall, bird’s-eye maple veneer with walnut cross banding if I’m not mistaken, had been des­igned by someone called Jerk Werkmäster. Act­ually, I am mistaken, the maple’s in the dining room, while Jerk did the hall, but still, if bags on your feet and a bloke called Jerk Werkmäster don’t cheer you up, nothing will. And on the way back to Wapping, we saw a bumper sticker on a lorry that said “If it has tits or wheels, it’ll give you problems.” I didn’t know whether to laugh or cry, but I thought I’d better mention it anyway.

robert.crampton@thetimes.co.uk

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