Fawlty Towers AKA The Plough, Clifton Hampden B&B ⭐⭐☆☆☆ (2 stars – one for the room being large, one for the unexpected entertainment) We booked this B&B because we were having dinner at The Barley Mow, which was conveniently within walking distance. Unfortunately, that was where the convenience ended and our participation in an unexpected live-action remake of Fawlty Towers began. Earlier in the evening we'd been to Oxford to see the Fawlty Towers stage show, which was absolutely brilliant. What we weren't expecting was to receive the fully immersive after-show experience when we got back to our accommodation. Finding the B&B was the first challenge. We drove past it no fewer than five times because any visible signage appears to be treated as an optional extra. By the time we eventually located it, we'd become intimately familiar with every road in the village. Upon arrival, reception was unmanned. We rang the bell. And rang it again. And again. Just as we were considering taking up permanent residence in the car park, a gentleman appeared as if summoned from another dimension. He had somehow perfected the impossible: the rudeness of Basil Fawlty combined with the competence of Manuel. Unlike Manuel, however, he moved with all the urgency of a sedated garden gnome. He pointed us towards a collection of key safes, handed us a key and disappeared again before we had the opportunity to ask such extravagant questions as "Which way is our room?" or indeed, "Are we actually guests here?" What followed was an adventure through a bewildering maze of corridors, staircases and doors. At one point I was fairly certain we were accidentally wandering through somebody else's house. The room itself was large enough, although it overlooked the main road, allowing us to fully appreciate the local traffic throughout the night. Breakfast the following morning was another memorable experience. Tea and coffee were of the "find it yourself and hope for the best" variety. There also appeared to be fewer tables than guests, resulting in some people being told to go away and come back later. Given that breakfast is only served for one hour on a Sunday morning, this felt a little like trying to secure Glastonbury tickets. My husband ordered the Full English. What arrived can only be described as an artistic interpretation of breakfast: One hash brown cremated to within an inch of its life. One piece of bacon possessing all the warmth and flexibility of Victorian brickwork. Something resembling scrambled egg, although it may equally have been some of that silly putty children throw at walls. A sausage so tough that even the knife appeared reluctant to engage with it. Toast that we suspect had been prepared sometime during the previous financial year. The décor is best described as "enthusiastically cluttered". Every available surface appears to have been covered with ornaments, curiosities and miscellaneous objects collected over several decades. Some might ca