ARE you ok, ladies?" came a voice from behind us as we trudged along the gravel path, luggage in hand.

Mortified, we turned round to see owner of said voice, a porter in a golf buggy. "Are you lost?"

As it happened, we were. How very embarassing.

We'd headed to Stapleford Park for the weekend, an impossibly smart country house hotel and sporting estate in Leicestershire.

It's not the kind of place you just stumble across, tucked away as it is down a country lane near Melton Mowbray.

"It really is very easy to find us," reads the brochure. "Just close your eyes, relax and you're almost here."

It's true. Getting there is relatively simple, even when you've forgotten the sat-nav, you don't have a map and you miss the turning because you're gassing to your sister.

The tricky bit comes when you turn in through the gates.

"Just go under the archway and you'll find reception," said the lady we met on the long and winding drive.

Did that mean walk under the archway? Drive? Stop under it? We ditched the Mini next to assorted cars in what looked like a woodland clearing and plumped for the former.

Ten minutes into the walk, and the house hadn't yet come into view. Luckily, the golf buggy did.

Giggling, we hopped on the back and the porter took us to the front door.

And then, without a word, popped back to fetch our car.

Stapleford is, as they say, very U.

In reception, two dozen pairs of wellies sit higgledy piggledy on a great wooden rack.

There are family photos perched on every surface – except they're not family photos, but more of that later.

You can hear the dull thud of guns over at the clay shoot, golfers troop by in formation and even the sheep in the parkland look as if they've been dyed to match the stonework.

It's a bit like walking on to the set of Gosford Park for a perfectly splendid house party – without the murder, naturally. The 55 bedrooms and suites, scattered along a labyrinth of corridors, are all sumptuously decorated.

Ours, Osborne & Little (pictured above), had been recently refurbished – part of a multi-million revamp of the hotel – by the famous design house. And it was truly, madly, deeply wonderful.

Wardrobes dressed in Indian silk with gilt pelmets; a bathroom overlooking 500 acres of parkland with a candle-lit marble tub big enough for six; a bed the size of Brazil and knoll sofas in the enormous sitting room.

A decanter of sloe gin whispered "drink me" on a silver tray while the strains of Bach drifted from the CD player. How very, very civilised.

We could have opened the double doors into the second bedroom and bathroom, by the way, but frankly, we felt one was enough.

Next stop was the library for a spot of lunch. Now Stapleford makes no bones about it – there is no credit crunch here. Two glasses of fizz, two small glasses of Sauvignon, a cheese sandwich and tomato and mozzarella salad came to a heart-stopping £65.

Still, we were about to head to the spa, so I figured a relaxing massage would bring the pulse rate down before dinner.

The spa is in the 1890s stable block – a 15-minute stroll or five-minute golf buggy ride from the house.

We'd become accustomed to our new form of transport, so happily accepted reception's offer of a ride.

Whether you're in need of an Elemis massage, Clarins facial or just a cup of Earl Grey tea and homemade biccies, they're all here, along with a heavenly pool, jacuzzi and a gym.

Even if you can't be bothered to exert yourself, check out the changing rooms: old horses' stalls have been transformed into quirky cubicles, complete with bath robes and fluffy slippers.

The great outdoors plays a huge part at Stapleford.

It's been a sporting estate since the 14th century, a tradition carried on by American Bob Payton who bought the property in the late 80s, and upheld by current MD, polo-playing Brunei oil magnate Shuif Hussain.

Here, you can play golf before retiring for a hot toddy in the thatched-roofed golf pavilion.

There's a red-brick falconry, glorious autumnal walks through manicured gardens and wild woodland, mountain bikes to borrow, fishing in the lakes, shooting and horse riding.

But all that aside, what Stapleford does best – has done best for almost 700 years – is entertaining.

And that's where the "family" photos come in. Look closely, and in place of Uncle Henry and cousin Richard chatting to mama on the lawn, you'll see the likes of David Cameron, Lionel Ritchie, Michael Jackson and Joan Collins having a high old time with their celebrity chums.

And you can quite see why they'd come here. Aside from the prices being enough to keep mere mortals out (two nights in a suite mid-week will set you back £1,460) you're guaranteed absolute privacy, unbridled luxury and exquisite food – not to mention the odd, very odd, ride on a golf buggy.