They will tell you with quiet confidence that Stoke Park Club is one of the most special places in the world, writes George Frew.

Outside this 20-bedroom hotel, golf club and country house, the motoring opulence on display hurts the eyes. Mercedes are commonplace, Porsches plentiful. Range Rovers are ten-a-penny, Jaguars much in evidence. A sleek, solitary silver Ferrari glints in the morning sun, a gleaming bullet of a babe magnet. For a minute, I thought we'd turned into David Beckham's driveway.

Wisely, photographer Kevin Harvey parks our humble chariot further afield, less it is towed away for defiling the vehicular vista.

Wealthy urbanites from the metropolis think nothing of taking a one-way £60 taxi ride from London to this corner of south Buckinghamshire to 'Frolic' away the weekend - 'Frolic', you understand, is an acronym: it stands for 'Find Relaxation or Love in the Country'. But in truth, people come from Oxfordshire, Northamptonshire and all across the country to sample the seriously expensive delights of Stoke Park. There, they can toast crumpets before roaring fires and gaze appreciatively at the odd Turner or Canaletto hanging on the high-ceilinged walls.

The 350-acre estate has a recorded history of 900 years. Capabilty Brown designed the present landscape and the 27-hole golf course is said to be among the finest anywhere. Sir Sean Connery is a member. President Mubarak of Egypt came to stay the week before last, and on the day we arrived one Hugh Grant, formerly of New College, Oxford, and floppy-haired movie star, was out having a round of golf with his dad and his brother. Mr Grant plays off 14. I was looking forward to bumping into Hughie for two reasons - firstly to ask him how he felt about being described in some quarters of the public prints as 'Liz Hurley's handbag' - her constant accessory, and secondly, personally to experience his famous greeting to all members of Her Majesty's Press: "Hello, you scum." While we are waiting for Hughie to turn up, Stoke Park duty manager and housekeeper Sandra Young shows us around the place.

Amusingly, South Buckinghamshire County Council owns the place, which must make it the grandest council gaff in the world. The business is owned by Roger King, who is at present investing £9m in another complex in the grounds.

Now there are too many people working in the hotel industry in this country who behave like the idiot children of Basil Fawlty, but the staff at Stoke Park are warm and welcoming - and not simply to journalists whom they know will be writing about them. In the lushly appointed President's Bar, a sizeable painting above the optics depicts a rather louche-looking bunch of men and women. The three chaps in the foreground are playing snooker, and one wild-haired fellow appears to be clutching a large spliff. At the rear of the scene, some scantily attired ladies are engaged in shadowy activities.

But it is only when you look closely at the two femmes fatales in the foreground that you realise they have somehow acquired posh frocks.

In the original, the ladies were stark naked and an artist had to be hired to 'censor' their charms because the pose was felt too risqu for the mixed Stoke Park membership. The girls in the painting clearly knew a thing or two about 'Frolicking', though.

We pause for some refreshment in the Colt Bar, aka the James Bond bar, which is decorated with 007 memorabilia. The most famous golf scene in the movies - in Goldfinger - was filmed outside.

For a mere £8 it is possible to indulge oneself with a cheese sandwich and a pint of Guinness. Forget Bond's usual dry martini - the price would leave you shaken and stirred. But what the hell. We have not come to subsist on gruel and misery. Fed up with waiting for Hughie to show, I make my way to my room, though in these magnificent surroundings, perhaps I should say I repaired to my chamber. The marble staircase is almost wide enough to have accommodated the Charge of The Light Brigade.

Each of the bedrooms is individually named and I am staying in Lane Jackson, named after the founder of the golf club, one 'Pa' Lane Jackson. The room is a haven of taste and comfort.

A plate of peeled and cut fresh fruit has been placed on the occasional table, complete with shiny cutlery and a snowy linen napkin arranged in a geometric peak. As for the en-suite bathroom, well, I have stayed in flats that were smaller.

After a swift engagement in the marbled power shower, I take a stroll around the grounds where I chat with property developer Gerald Knight, who is loading his golf clubs into the boot of his large BMW. "Tell me," I say, "does it take long to become a member here?" Gerald thinks for a moment. "About as long as it takes you to write a cheque for five grand, plus another two grand for your green fees," he says.

Never mind. Golf is not high on my list of reasons for getting up in the morning. There's still no sign of Hughie, so I change for dinner and pause for a pre-prandial snifter in the converted chapel, where I meet Stuart and his girlfriend, Becky. Stuart used to work hanging aircraft hangar doors at Brize Norton and Becky is a financial consultant.

While she's out of the room, he tells me he intends to propose to her over dinner. At 28, they've known each other for a long time, but were each with different partners until they split up and got together. Now, tonight's the night.

In the dining room, I tuck into my goat's cheese starter and enjoy an excellent steak while Stuart plights his troth. Tears of joy appear in Becky's eyes. She's said yes. I offer them my congratulations and stroll off to bed, dreaming dreams of romance. Stoke Park Club has this kind of effect. I discover in the morning that Hughie had come and gone, but managed to upset a couple of the crustier members by apparently flaunting the 'no blue jeans in the club' rule. "I suppose they were Versace," sniffs one, "but that is hardly the point."

Standards are all in La Dolce Vita. As I open the door of the taxi that will take me to the rail station, I take one last look at Stoke Park.

They will tell you wwith quiet confidence that this is one of the most special places in the world.

They do not lie.

Ah well. Back to the old clothes and porridge...

Story date: Tuesday 29 February

Converted for the new archive on 30 June 2000. Some images and formatting may have been lost in the conversion.