By Murray Hedgcock

Gasps of delight and a round of enthused applause in the media room of Wolverhampton's Quality Hotel around 10.10 p.m. on Friday, July 21, marked yet another advance in the distinguished career of the President of The Wodehouse Society (international variety).

Elin Woodger, after some minutes wrestling (with the ineffectual aid of colleagues) at the video recorder, had hit the right buttons and given the kiss of life to a late-night screening of PGW TV films. It was the perfect end to a day that had begun so long ago (or so it seemed, when you considered the packed program), back in London Town, as in the distant Black Country we settled to enjoy Ian Carmichael and Dennis Price as Bertie and Jeeves, in the old b/w BBC series.

Better still were two from the Wodehouse Playhouse series, which began with The Master himself (we really should have stood in his honour) pecking away at his famous Royal typewriter, before John Alderton and Pauline Collins set out on their varying portrayals of Mulliner characters.

The cognoscenti can be a bit sniffy about this one, on the matter of class - something that does not much concern American buffs. Here in Britain, there is a feeling that the couple are simply not upmarket enough - Alderton with his still evident Yorkshire vowels, and Collins, who made her name as a maidservant-turned-music-hall-star in the well-loved series, "Upstairs Downstairs".

No matter: Ms Collins was cast not as an upper-crust PGW gel, but much more suitably as a second company romantic lead, and then a bird-imitator-turned-Hollywood stenographer, so that a Saturday night in Wolverhampton improved the couple's appeal vastly, not least as there was a fiendishly loud disco distressingly near our bedrooms, making sleep near-impossible.

The day had begun of course not with discos, but with the rapid-fire instructions, information and dissertations of tour leader Norman Murphy. He laid down the law about our forthcoming activities with his usual amiability, quite failing to cloak the air of authoritarian menace needed to control such a junket.

As we had already been briefed on coach etiquette - in milder but just as convincing tones - by driver and new friend Graham Restell, even so rowdy and irreverent a bunch as a crowd of Plum buffs was relatively quiet as we eyed our neighbours, and wondered if we would get on happily, or need to seek a quick seat change at the first stopover.

No worries indeed: the buzz of amiable conversation was soon rising in intensity, only to be stilled by the announcement that the first and somewhat improbable item on the day's program would be a chat by your correspondent, under the title "PGW and MBH", in which I would be so bold as to draw parallels between my life and times, and those of The Master.

Logistics dictated it was easiest to sit in a front seat, firmly holding the hand-microphone and working from the script while looking straight ahead, rather than face the audience.

I had never realised how difficult this might be: I had no idea if the travellers were also listeners, or if they had gone into Gussie Fink-Nottle mode, leaning back with mouth agape and eyes glazed. The first mild attempts at humour appeared to be too mild, as I strained my ears for welcome chuckles, which proved slow in coming. But everyone was in kindly mood, and soon murmurs suggesting they were at least listening, began to seep through the ether. They appeared to like the risqué bit - hearing of my early years as a bank clerk, when one of the perks was to share the bed of the manager's nubile daughter (the punchline being that she was away on family holiday at the time, and I had to "mind the shop"). So there was kind applause, and then John Fletcher moved into the chair to give the first of his readings from Wodehouse - something of a sighter, in fact, as he began coolly:

"This is a story about an excursion tour, which is also one of my favourites. It comes from Young Men in Spats. I had thought of changing the names of the characters and fitting in the names of our visitors: the heroine Angelica Briscoe, AB, would obviously be Anne Bianchi; the grocers where our two young heroes in spats met her, Thorpe & Widgery, T&W, obviously Tillson & Woodger, and so on. But there were too many people on the tour, so I gave that idea up. The story, for those who haven't already guessed it, is ‘Tried in the Furnace’."

A comfort stop broke the sequence but not the flow, so to speak, and John completed the story of how Pongo and Barmy's friendship emerged strangely strengthened by their ordeal involving old school ties, vicar's daughters, and school treats.

It went well, there was obvious relish and demand for more, and from that point, the John Fletcher career as an audio-tape reader must surely develop, as underlined by his later performances, on Saturday and Sunday, in powerful masterpieces of comedy.

The journey was enlivened also at various stages by Tony Ring's playing of the Hal Cazalet and Sylvia McNair CD - yet to be released - of songs featuring lyrics by The Master: witty, wistful, melodic, and always sheer delight.

Our first visit was to one of the most significant of the Murphy-researched sites. This was Weston Park (pictured, left), a mite puzzling at first: the gateway signs included a reproduction of the Jaguar car symbol, and outside the great house was a sleek line of the marque's newest models, facing a similar string of Mercedes, BMWs and Audis. What could it mean? What did it have to do with PGW? Simple answer: Weston Park, like most stately homes, stages all sorts of commercial events, and this was a dealer's "ride-and-drive day", in which district dealers for the sporty British car could test-drive new models, while comparing their performance with that of major rivals.

Your correspondent's efforts to negotiate a hefty discount for Jaguars for all society members was coolly received - and it was noticeable that not one but two Jaguar PR staff took up their position at the dealers' dining rooms, presumably to keep this dodgy lot of literary loonies out of the favoured spot.

But no matter: sheepdog Murphy had rounded up his flock, explained that the grounds of Weston Park, to his mind, were the grounds of Blandings, pointed us in various directions, and ordered us to go ahead. Even for we who had benefited from the Murphy method in the past, it was a refreshing reminder of the range and depth of his Wodehousean knowledge: to the many newcomers who had never before met a Murphy in full flow, it was overwhelming.

And it was all magic: it helped to half-close the eyes, think hard about Blandings stories and scenes, and suddenly you would realise that you were looking at exactly the right spot.

Most suited to your correspondent's approach to life, the universe and everything was the spreading tree under which Galahad Threepwood would rest, think, snooze and sometimes hold court, in his hammock. Norman Murphy could help with that one, too: he pointed out marks where hammock ropes had cut into the bark.

Weston is a delight - although one commercially-minded American husband was heard to mutter that it would make an ideal golf course, several holes around the lake making best use of both the water supply and a water hazard with the cows and sheep left in situ, just to make it interesting. It's a thought that golf enthusiast Plum might have entertained, too.

A mini-expedition headed into the woods to examine the gamekeeper's cottage which in its time concealed Lady Constance's necklace, and the Empress of Blandings. "Please Sir, Neil Midkiff is Having Doubts," said a teacher's pet, the sharp-eyed N. Midkiff having questioned the provenance of the cottage: it was just too modern and too clean.

Your correspondent became of the Midkiff school of scepticism on being told there were no bullet holes in the ceiling (from the stray shots loosed in the direction of Freddie Threepwood when the necklace was providing the climax to Leave it to Psmith). An explanation offered by John Fletcher who had been there a few years ago, was that the house and surrounding trees had been sold, the old Swiss Cottage with dangerous floors and suffocating with ivy had been pulled down, and this dark red brick det. des. res. built on the site. "Sic transit" about sums it up. But the terraces, the drive, the pond by the kitchen garden, the pigsties, the stable yard, the Greek temple, the lake and boathouse, all tied in perfectly satisfactorily.

Lunch in The Old Stables was a pleasant, relaxed affair: by now we were getting to know the handful of newcomers who had joined the tour, after being unable to attend the London events opening the week. We were all clearly like-minded about Plum.

We took a quick look at Shifnal, the pleasing market town which Norman believes with obvious reason to be the original of Market Blandings - again a reminder of how close to the England of his day was Plum in his research and his writings. But the look was not too quick for the keen to dart into second-hand bookshops and come back loaded with Wodehouse gems.

On to Stableford in Shropshire, where The Old House was the Wodehouse family home from 1896 (when Plum was 15) until 1902, the year he left the Hongkong and Shanghai Bank to tackle full-time journalism and writing. A gaggle of appreciative dogs greeted the coach party, and we were as much enthused by the astonishing new-built gardens, as by the modest-sized 350-year-old house. Villages and small towns which Plum had known in younger days, long since used as settings for his writing, usually with minor amendments to the true names, were flashed past, or visited, or read about from the series of maps and briefing notes handed out regularly.

Most notable was Bridgnorth, which as Norman explains, appeared under its own name in Mike, in 1909, and in Do Butlers Burgle Banks?, nearly 60 years later. This was the local town for Stableford, centre for Wodehouse family shopping, and where various local events must have added to Plum's store of knowledge of the life and times of the regions.

And there was time for a quick look at Rudge Hall, which is its real name, seat of the Carmody family (i.e. Hugo Carmody of The Drones), the Big House which appears in Money for Nothing as John Carroll eventually wins his worshipped Pat Wyvern - the saga also featuring the unspeakable Chimp Twist and the little more appealing Soapy and Dolly Molloy.

It was back to earth with a bump as we trekked through the more salubrious areas of Wolverhampton for our first night's stop - which threatened at first to be wrecked by that disco, but was saved by the video-reorder that did in the finish work. Atta boy, Elin.