The Beau Forte Lodge - (Situated on the B1108, also known as Earlham Road). By Tony Krüger

John Clare, owner of the Beau Forte Lodge, greeted me with a thin moustache, cluttered teeth and lots of enthusiasm. After clamping my hand in his large mitts, and pumping my arm like a beloved ratchet, he showed me to my room - a spacious en suite overlooking the grounds of the refurbished Victorian house. After discussing the merits of oil-based paints, he bowed in the doorway and with a final flourish produced a floral-patterned card from his shirtsleeve. The embossed promise read:

‘You are assured of a warm and friendly welcome.’

I immediately felt relief. John really had been everything his warm handshake had suggested. I sat down wearily on the chintz-quilted corner of the bed, removed my steel capped boots and wept tears of gratitude. The walk from the train station had left my nerves in tatters following an incident with an errant cyclist who had abused me for my taste in overcoats. Walking the dusty road through the fumes and noise, I had hoped the lodge would be all the brochure had promised: ‘Comfort amongst the refined’, and there I was breathing in pot pourri and the lace of antimacassars.

That night after a fish dinner, John’s wife Claire: a husky contralto and pearl earrings, sang by the piano to a tape recording of Jeanne Moreau singing ‘When Love Dies’. As she bowed to the pre-recorded applause, my fellow diners and I threw our floral table decorations at her feet, she bowed low and delicately gathered faux roses and hydrangeas, before distributing another card:

‘We regret that we will no longer be able to accommodate risk.’

Another round of applause. We drifted from our tables to our beds. I have never known a more peaceful sleep, than the night I spent at the Beau Forte Lodge, on the Earlham Road.