On the drive to Bythorn, I felt there was no way I could follow the full route that Sir Gareth and Amanda had taken. They, of course, had gone via Whitethorn, arriving there at markedly different times and in different ways - and once they had left it, they were accompanied by the ginger kitten Joseph. I could have hunted for a farm called Whitethorn, but I was having so little luck with names that I thought it would be of little point. Instead I decided to deviate from the route and take a look at Molesworth - and discovered, as I said earlier, that it is now a thriving NATO base.

So it was a lovely late autumn afternoon when I reached the village of Bythorn. The village lies back from the main road ... a really horrible busy dual carriageway. There was only one inn ... and although the name was wrong, it was of suitable antiquity and size.

The White Hart, Bythorn

The inn is now a restaurant / brassiere, with a really impressive menu - as I saw from a look at the menu outside. It was closed, but I noticed someone sitting in the bay window on the right, who was taking great interest in my activities. I drove down to the pub to turn around, and the man I had seen came out and called to me.

He was the landlord, and was interested to know what I was doing, taking pictures of his pub. I explained, and although I think he thought I was - to put it kindly - a little eccentric - he invited me in for a cup of coffee and then we had a good chat about the pub, the area and Georgette Heyer.

In short, my reception was a good as that which both Amanda and Sir Gareth in turn received from that excellent couple who kept The Red Lion in Sprig Muslin - Mr. and Mrs. Sheet

The current landlord had never heard of Georgette Heyer or Sprig Muslin, but he was interested to learn that his inn had featured. This was clearly the place, he assured me, as it was the only inn in Bythorn and had been a coaching inn in Regency times (and long before and afterwards too). Inside was lovely, with the brasserie tucked away in a conservatory at the back, and the pub area broken down into a series of small sections, with dark oak tables and beams overhead and heavy, comfortable benches and seats. It was, in short, the archetypal English inn.

The White Hart, Bythorn

The landlord knew the whole area well, and was able to fill me in on some missing details. There had been another pub in Little Staughton, he told me, but some years ago it had reverted to being a private house, and I would have some difficulty identifying it - unless I noticed the unusually wide drive. This had indeed been a small coaching inn - but not a regular posting house.

In addition, when I expressed surprise that anyone travelling from Kimbolton to Bedford would have passed near Little Staughton, he shook his head.

"The road through Little Staughton was the old wool road," he said. "They used to drive the sheep down to Bedford Market that way. They only built the new road later."

So ... that was another mystery solved. It could well be that Georgette Heyer was familiar enough with the area to know that too.

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