Chatsworth

It must be 20 years since we went to Chatsworth last, and things have changed a lot. That was clear from the outset of yesterday's visit: many more people make for it nowadays, and no wonder. It's a most welcoming environment for all sorts, and yet retains the quality of a family home. As when we were at Burghley last year, you felt that everyone on duty was somehow part of the family - such a different impression (again) from what you receive from your average National Trust property!

We needed more than the few hours our busload spent there to do it justice: the nearest we got to seeing the gardens was this view through one of the windows in the house. But perhaps it was as well we didn't leave later than we did, as less than halfway home the engine of our coach sprang a diesel leak: kind bikers alerted the driver to it. So we crawled off the dual carriageway and spent the evening (more than three hours) experiencing the antidote to stately homes, a suburban pub garden in the Midlands. Good for group bonding at least.

Cycle 4

All through the night, we heard the rain drilling down against our windows, and so it has continued. Our most kind hosts took pity upon us, making light of throwing our bikes into their people carrier and driving us to Burghley this morning. So instead of 45 miles' exploration of some grand houses and village churches to the West of the A1, we contented ourselves with a good look at Burghley House and its amazing collections.

Not that I have anything particular against the National Trust, I can't help thinking that a house like Burghley benefits from being held within a family framework: certainly, a visit makes an exceptionally pleasant day out, and it would have been even better if the weather had allowed us to see the gardens. We spoke to many different people working there as we went round and without exception they seemed to confirm the same thing: it's a very tight and happy ship.

There was still a dozen or so miles to do at the end of the day, to reach our final B&B at Woodnewton - an enforced route along an awful lot of A roads. Our hostess looked justifiably horrified as we appeared, dripping on her doorstep.