Ups and Downs: On the South Downs at Goodwood

The South Downs offer some of the most romantic countryside in England – truly green and pleasant land.

They stretch from Winchester to Beachy Head, and at the heart of this pastoral perfection, just north of Chichester, sits the 11,000-acre Goodwood estate, home to the Dukes of Richmond and Lennox for over 300 years (theirs is a history worthy of a romantic novel: the first Duke was the illegitimate son of Charles II and his adored French mistress Louise de Keroualle), and a more perfect patch of sporting English
countryside you couldn't wish for. In front of the house, an elegant pile designed in part by James Wyatt, sits a cricket pitch, complete with quaint pavilion. The driveway forms part of the circuit for the Goodwood Festival of Speed, which is taking place this weekend, when racing drivers and glamorous petrolheads from around the world gather for a little friendly(ish) competition, and to the north of the house lies a racecourse with spectacular views over the Downs, where Glorious Goodwood draws crowds at the end of the month. To the southwest is a motor circuit, laid out around the estate's grass airfield; the Goodwood Revival, a celebration of vintage fashion and cars, is held here every September. Add to that two golf courses, an organic farm, a farm shop and a hotel and you might well start to think what a good idea it would be to spend a summer weekend here.

It was the lure of the aerodrome that had me hopping on to a train from Victoria one Friday evening. I'd signed up for the hotel's Fly The Downs package: two nights staying in the hotel's recently and elegantly redesigned wing (the rest of the hotel is quite separate and, while functional and boasting a lovely swimming pool and a spa, is best suited to boys on a golfing jolly, rather than anyone intent on a spoiling weekend), with a flying lesson thrown in. I have always loved flying, in big planes and small – I'm endlessly fascinated by seeing the world from on high – and the opportunity to take the controls myself was too good to pass up. But of course, part of England's romance lies in its unpredictable weather and I was thwarted at my first attempt. A call came in from the flying school: low cloud meant poor visibility and so my lesson was moved from Saturday to Sunday morning.

Disappointed but philosophical, I crossed my fingers and set off to explore the estate. I began with a tour of the state apartments of the main house, taking in the grand entrance hall, the wonderfully bizarre Grand Tour-inspired Egyptian dining room (complete with snarling gold crocodiles on the chairs), the pretty ballroom with its minstrels' gallery, pictures by Van Dyck, Canaletto, Stubbs and Reynolds, Sèvres porcelain and Gobelins tapestries. After that I stocked up on local goodies including bread from Arundel, homemade pies from Brighton, organic Goodwood lager and chilli jam from Emsworth at the farm shop. The estate even produces its own milk and Goodwood cheeses are set to debut soon.

Before the clouds broke, I grabbed the chance to walk round the Cass Sculpture Foundation, an outdoor exhibition space in a pretty 26-acre wood on the estate featuring a collection of 20th- and 21st-century sculptures (everyone from Paolozzi to Marc Quinn and Richard Long). The brainchild of retired businessman Wilfred Cass, the exhibition changes constantly as pieces, commissioned by the foundation, are sold (prices start in five figures and go up to seven or so), but there are in the region of 70 on show at any one time and the peaceful setting makes it a lovely spot for a stroll, whether or not the art is to your taste. I made it just in the nick of time to The Kennels, once home to the estate's dogs, but now the club house for Goodwood golf members, with a fantastic restaurant open to hotel guests. The menu offered comfort food – just the thing to soothe my increasing concern for tomorrow's lesson as the rain began to drum down.

My Downs weekend finished, as all good romances do, with a happy ending. Sunday morning dawned clear and dry, and as I finished my breakfast of delicious local eggs, the call came in from the flying school: we were on. By ten o'clock I was airborne, at the controls of a shiny new Cessna 172S Skyhawk SP. That's a very, very small plane, about the size of a Mini, but it feels reassuringly sturdy. Beside me was my instructor Ian, a 28-year-old former RAF fighter pilot who first flew a plane at 14 and could legally fly before he could drive. The easy part of flying, it turns out, is the steering – the technical checks and making sense of the apparently incomprehensible computer screens and buttons is the clever bit. Fine by me, I thought, as I took the controls once we were safely up and away. Below us to one side rolled the Downs, their generous curves blanketed in early summer layers of lush green; to the other shone the grey-blue Channel. It's the sort of landscape that inspires romantic poetry (Kipling, an adopted son of Sussex, called them Our blunt, bow-headed, whale-backed Downs') and kindles in a nostalgic heart a sense of gentler times past. We quickly left the estate spread out behind us like a tiny working model and swept towards the sea, heading west along the coast, over Chichester Harbour and onwards. We flew as far as Portsmouth, over the battleships lying peacefully at anchor, before turning back – Chichester Cathedral's spire a handy point of reference for the homeward leg. I couldn't believe how quickly my 45 minutes were up; time quite literally flew. Ian pointed out that were it allowed, we could actually make it all the way to Spain without having to stop to refuel. It was an exhilarating idea, but why bother, I thought, when the view right here is so spectacular?