Spring has come to the Hall - fawns are running in the park and Meadowcroft is pricking out behind his potting shed - but I can take no pleasure in the scene. I belong to a generation who returned from Douglas Jardine's tour of Australia determined to see that nothing of the sort ever happened again, and now we are at war in the Persian Gulf. I am too much of an Englishman to show my emotions easily, but I have to say that it breaks my heart.
It is the hypocrisy of it all that angers me most. Why was there no outcry when Leicestershire annexed Rutland? Why did the United Nations remain silent when our nymphs and shepherds were haled off to work in Leicester's dark, satanic hosiery factories? One labours to avoid cynicism, but I cannot banish the thought that events would have taken a very different turn in 1973 had the existence of the Great Rutland Oilfield then been suspected.
Yesterday's melancholy has abated and I am now determined to do something to end this dreadful war. Miss Fearn, with her warm heart, is knitting cosies "for the poor camels", but I feel that I am yet capable of playing a larger part. However, one must take care not to tread on others' toes - I recall the distinctly frosty reception I was given when I turned up at Greenham Common with my bell tent to lend my support to the ladies camping there. This is an injustice that still rankles, for I was always a staunch supporter of women's suffrage. Was I not the first to salute the courage of Miss Emily Davison in throwing herself under the King's horse at Epsom - even though I had managed to back the beast at distinctly favourable odds?
I awake, a man inspired: I shall travel to Arabia and put a stop to this nonsense myself. I hasten to the library to peruse the globe, and find that my route lies through such interesting lands as Dalmatia (where the diet must be very poor, if the complexion of their dogs is any guide), Macedonia (home of Alexander the Great - whom one imagines to have been rather like the young David Gower, although without the latter's distressing weakness outside the off-stump) and Turkey. I am naturally led to ponder the future of the Ottoman Empire, and dictate a brief newspaper article on the subject.
After a hearty breakfast I leave the Hall and am gratified to find all my staff and tenants lined up to wish me bon voyage. Newton has turned out my Sinclair's Gentleman's Electric Tricycle in its very best racing trim and I make good progress, arriving at Dover in time for high tea. By a happy chance I discover the entrance to the Channel Tunnel and set off for the Continent. An absurd little man in a yellow helmet attempts to arrest my progress, but I beat him off with my sturdy ashplant. (The tunnel, incidentally, is surprisingly little-used and I can thoroughly recommend it to my readers.) On emerging from the Gallic portal I don a beret and garland myself with onions in order to fit in with the local inhabitants. Nevertheless, I am unable to resist the temptation to give out French translations of the Laws of Cricket and the Collected Works of L. T. Hobhouse in an attempt to sow, even here, the seeds of civilisation.
I set off early from my modest pension in Calais and, eschewing the opportunity of another visit to my beloved Paris, head for the Swiss border. The French, incidentally, all drive on the wrong side of the road, but they are a friendly people: many of them wave and sounds their horns as I pass. I am flattered that my fame should have spread so far and that my mission enjoys such widespread support.
Listening to the BBC's World Service on my short-wave wireless is a less encouraging experience; I am particularly worried by the performance of our own "Liberal Democrats". Ashdown is not a bad sort - show him a flaxen-haired orphan and he would waste no time in patting it on the head - and if a party chooses as its leader someone whose chief recommendation is his ability to kill Malaysian bandits with his bare teeth, one must assume that it knows what to expect, but I am concerned at this extraordinary fellow named after a chain of retail newsagents. His interpretation of the defence portfolio does appear a singularly aggressive one.
To Basle zoo to negotiate the hire an elephant for my crossing of the Alps. I soon acquire a delightful animal who combines the strength of a Claire Brookes with the sweet temperament of a Geraint Howells and has the rare accomplishment of being able to trumpet Parry's Jerusalem while scratching my back with her trunk. Fond old man that I am, I have christened her Nancy.
Nancy and I waste the better part of the morning in Berne attempting to find a set of snow shoes for an elephant. I am offered perforated cheese and chocolate figurines of David Alton aplenty, and acquire a penknife with an ingenious attachment for removing stones from an elephant's hoof, but nowhere can I purchase this useful household item. Eventually we tire of the fruitless search and I fashion them myself from a job lot of army-surplus fondue sets.
At twilight we descend to a charming Italian village and stay as the guests of the Mayor. I fear that my Italian has become a trifle rusty as I almost thought I heard him say that the war finished three weeks ago.
Lord Bonkers was Liberal MP for Rutland South-West 1906-10