I’m 47, so by my calculations, 31 years ago I would never have believed I might consider a Sunday stroll around a National Trust property as a recipe for a perfect day out (and in case you’re wondering; the above photgraph IS current...).

But, dammit, heritage trails are the business. And no, I don’t think it’s got anything to do with the fact my hair is all but gone (actually, it’s deliberately shaved, so it’s more a fashion statement) and my teeth are yellowing.

Yet, when I was sweet 16, the thought of having to visit anything that required me to speak in hushed tones and ‘take tea’ in an orangery afterwards would have sent me spiralling into depression.

“Come on Jeremy,” my parents would implore. “It’s a lovely sunny day, we’ll go out for a drive to Dullsville Abbey. They’ve got some rooks there.”

Now maybe it was because I was always sat in the back of their car, and maybe it was because I dreaded my school friends seeing me with a bottle of coke (and straw) and cherry flapjack in Ye Olde Medieval Tuck Shop. But whatever the reason, I would have rather boiled in oil than suffer one of these weekend excursions.

Of course, it wasn’t so easy on my parents either, but then they didn’t have to have kids...

Still, what’s worrying (or reassuring, depending on your point of view) is that 31 years on, I’m fast becoming a National Trust junkie. Not that I’m unusual or anything.

A lot of my younger friends, especially those that are now settled in their early thirties, cheerfully admit to having started visiting stately homes a year or two after their weddings.

Some even sport National Trust life membership stickers on their car windscreens, and boast a cat or donkey tea towel in their kitchens.

And although I daren’t tell them this, I’ve also noticed that they’ve begun to ‘put on a few pounds’.

After all, who can resist a jam and cream scone and a nice pot of sweet tea after a gentle stroll around a 15th Century mill? Me neither.

Anyway, what does this say about my future prospects? Am I too to become one of the terrible ‘beiges’ – you know, those creepy Ringwraith-type creatures that haunt the aisles of M&S and always buy The Big Issue (young people if you notice, rarely do the charitable thing).

Well, I think with the love and support of my friends (okay, friend) I can pull through. I still like to go to the clubs, the movies, the theatre, and give me a bright sunny day and I’ll skim a frisbee in Port Meadow with the best of them.

On the other hand, there’s no denying the march of time; I am, I have to admit, fast becoming more and more affected by the sweet seductiveness of anything cobbled, especially if it comes complete with fruit preserves and table coasters.

True, Blenheim Palace is not a National Trust property, but it FEELS like one. And more and more, I’m being drawn to it, like a moth to a flame.

If it really is a sign of age, then at least I can comfort myself with the thought I’ve held out longer than most of my friends (friend).

But I still harbour a deep sense of unease about it all.

And every time I visit my kitchen I’m reminded why.

You see, I couldn’t help myself. I bought a scented candle...

manabouttown@oxfordmail.co.uk