Denbies Wine Estate is a photogenic swathe of countryside combed with tangled vines and succulent berries with alchemical names. Cast your eyes to the horizon and you’ll see the kind of distant, enticing woodland that makes a man want to tear up his tax return and go live in a bivouac, eating honey-glazed squirrel.

Coming from Leicester, where the streets are paved with chicken bones and chewing gum, and the eye never roams further than the fifty yards to the next half-empty block of executive apartments, Denbies and the Surrey countryside in general, are beautiful. It’s just a shame about some of the people.

“Hello,” we say, friendly and respectful as always. “We’re here to help with the Lego house.”

“What?!” snaps an egregious staff member through the twin barrels of his up-turned nose. “Where?!”

“The, er… house. The Lego House,” I pronounce, politely but slightly bemused. After all, it’s a full-sized building built out of tiny, brightly-coloured plastic blocks, it’s been in all the papers, and it’s on his land. Surely he’s heard of it?

Our new friend adjusts his starched cuffs, straightens his waistcoat, and ratchets his proboscis skyward. 

‘How can he see us?’ I think to myself. ‘He must be looking through his nostrils.’

Employing a tone of voice more commonly used by High Court judges when addressing sex criminals, our smartly-attired associate informs us that the construction site is up the path, on top of the hill, and on the left. He neglects to mention that the path is not only extremely long but also branches off in several directions and, if you take the wrong route, you’ll end on top of the hill, sure enough, but it’ll be the wrong hill and you’ll have to walk back down it before you can find the track up to the right one. There’s many a false turn taken before we spy our destination, a low, stratified structure sat squat on a scaffolding platform, nestled into the slopes like a kitten in an armpit. After creatively negotiating the wire fence that separates us from our target, I sight figures and approach the Alpha Male, bald-headed, fluorescent-jacketed and swearing at his colleagues in a serrated London snarl. He’s mean eyed and malevolent and fixes on me with a malicious glare.

“Whaddaya want?” he growls.

To be continued...

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