What do Paris, the Maldives and Hadleigh have in common?

The answer is titillatingly obvious: passion and romance, of course.

Surely, you don't disagree, do you?

I recall reading, well over a decade ago, a magazine interview with Maggi Hambling, Hadleigh's very own superstar paint-splasher, as she reminisced about her earlier life in the town.

In addition to recollections of her tutelage at the feet of the artistic masters then occupying Benton End, Ms Hambling mentioned another significant feature of her salad days in the town.

She recalled that the best sex she'd ever had in her entire life were to be found in and around Hadleigh.

Occasionally, I've mused on that comment: not least as I'm sure all readers of this column will agree that our own scorecard of satisfying conquests hasn't been that different to that of La Hambling. Has it?

Now before I'm accused of being just another fallen Anglican clergyman with a kink or two hidden high up in his pulpit, even one whose incorporeal state means that such experiences are now limited to the mind or rather the spirit, I'd like to put the record straight.

Christianity is too often associated with having a very negative attitude to sex. That's a shame, because many of the great teachers of the Church were far more liberal than they've subsequently been given credit for.

After all, wasn't it St Augustine who rather gave us all the theological thumbs-up with the words "love, and do what thou wilt"? (I think 'wilt' in this context is slightly unfortunate, though, if you get my drift?)

With that out of the way, I can now turn to wondering what makes Hadleigh such a hotspot for reaching the, er, sweet spot?

I'm sure that geomorphology plays a part. Hadleigh is surrounded by hills: challenging enough for stout and vigorous walks that gets the blood really pumping, but not so steep or arduous that all walkers want to do at the end is snooze and not snuggle.

As Maggi H pointed out, land use patterns also allow the wannabe Lotharios and Lotharias plenty of discreet places for their liaisons. Whether it be the area's network of hedgerows, copses and extended woodlands – not just those named after wolves, by the way – and various agricultural outbuildings, there are hundreds of nooks for nookey.

And finally, without the usual later-night distractions that so tempt inhabitants of somewhat larger towns, such as nightclubs, theatres and riots, there is quite frankly not much else to do in the town after 11pm.

So Hadleigh deserves to be billed as one of the sex capitals of the world.

But through an extraordinary failure of various councils, Government agencies and other time-servers, this is just not the case.

If you, dear reader, would care to check out references to Hadleigh on, say, Tripadvisor, are the words romance, passion, sex or even flirt mentioned even once. No they are not!

So this is a call-to-action: we need to rebrand Hadleigh as the rumpy repository to the world.

Forgive the double-entendres, but we must stop trying to market the town as a shorter version of Long Melford or the 'kiss me quick' alternative to pompous Lavenham or even a more butch, muscle Mary version of Clare.

Post pandemic, we must entice tourists to us with a concerted, collective flutter of our eyelids. Our tourism experts need to put their backs out in putting the effort in to selling Hadleigh to those seeking wholesome sensual pleasures.

How could we do this? Well, here are a few initial ideas:

• All Hadleigh Town Councillors to be pictured in gymslips and/or mancinis, so as to set the right tone

• The barriers to be reintroduced to the High Street and draped in the most fetching underwear the town can muster (but cleaned on rotation every month or so, as normal)

• The pillbox near to Holbecks to be renovated as a reinforced love nest (with arresting post-coital views of the town)

Come on, Hadleigh, we have nothing to lose but other people's inhibitions!

Rowland Taylor's Ghost

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