Temple to the pink goddess

BURIED deep among the Highland hills is a village with a shrine to one

of England's national treasures -- the most prolific pedlar of plush

pink prose in existence, Barbara Cartland. For the inhabitants of

Helmsdale, BC does not connote a period of history, but the walking

(well, teetering) 94-year-old legend who comes to stay in the village

for a few weeks each summer.

Cartland's connection with Helmsdale goes back to 1927 when she first

married into the local McCorquodale family. (She divorced her first

husband, Alexander, in 1933 and married his cousin, Hugh, three years

later.) That link has always been Helmsdale's main claim to fame, and by

way of a tribute to the Dame who has lent them her celebrity, a room

dedicated to her was set up in the village museum, the Timespan centre,

in 1988.

The ''BC room'' has to be seen to be believed. The last stop on the

guided tour of the tardis-like museum, it takes even the least

unsuspecting visitor by surprise. Flanked by chintz curtains, and

cordoned off so that over-enthusiastic fans won't make off with Miss

Cartland's very own bottle of Norfolk Punch (she swears by it,

apparently) or the first salmon she caught in the Helmsdale river, the

room has been decorated to correspond with the great dame's own

guidelines.

Indeed, all the ''exhibits'' have been donated by her: from the

gilt-framed pictures of her grannie, Flora Faulkner, and her

great-grandmother, Mary Anne Hamilton -- both of which look like 1970s

Hallmark greetings cards, rather than nineteenth-century portraits --

through to the floral wallpaper and the framed family tree.

What's most striking as one approaches the Cartland corner (discreetly

housed at the back of the museum shop, behind rows of jars of preserves

and bath oils), is the life-sized figure of Dame Barbara in her youth.

At least, I think it's meant to be in her youth: there are certainly no

wrinkles on the face.

Concessions to reality -- and there aren't many in this rather spooky

(as another more antipodean dame would say) spot -- have been made with

the pancake-like make-up and the white, upswirling, candy-floss hair.

Dummy Barbara is dressed, of course, in her finest pinkery -- a

sequined evening gown, which looks like a Norman Hartnell creation. Her

diamante jewellery includes rings, a necklace, and a pair of heavy

earrings -- one clipped on to her ear, and the other, when I visited

her, nestling in the padding of her alleged cleavage.

As the visitor absorbs all the attention to detail that's gone into

this lovingly recreated boudoir, it's easy to be oblivious to the aural

authenticity of the room. It's only when you stop and pay attention to

what appears to be muzak, that you realise that what you're listening to

is actually Barbara Cartland warbling her way through A Nightingale Sang

In Berkeley Square, accompanied by strings and voices.

This Hilda Ogden-like abuse of melody plays continuously, introduced

each time by the twittery announcement that Miss Cartland did, indeed,

fall in love at that famous address. The whole experience is quite

overwhelming (and rather worrying).

Barbara Cartland: The Nightmare, continues across the road at the La

Mirage restaurant. Run by Nancy Sinclair, who -- from a distance --

bears an uncanny resemblance to Dame Barbara, this is Cartland's other

favourite haunt when she's up staying at Kilphedir Lodge (the

McCorquodale family home).

La Mirage isn't quite as posh as it sounds. For a start, its fare

isn't French -- it's fish and chips. The decor -- pink down to the sugar

-- consists of garden furniture and huge, framed photos of Barbara,

Nancy, and various celebrity visitors to the village.

They're all there: Sally from Coronation Street, Sydney Devine, and

Alan Douglas from Reporting Scotland. The week before my visit, Jimmy

Tarbuck's daughter, Lisa, had been filming a portion of The Weekend Show

from the pink premises. Barbara Cartland is big business for this wee

village.

Over the years, Nancy Sinclair has got to know Barbara Cartland well.

For a start, the painted fingernails on the Cartland effigy were her

work (the chipped bits being the work of over-familiar tourists), and it

was she who inherited the first dress that the model wore.

Nowadays, she and Cartland are such friends that Cartland phones her

regularly and takes afternoon tea at La Mirage every day when she's up

at Kilphedir. The resemblance between Cartland and Sinclair becomes less

apparent the nearer you get to Nancy, and she herself claims that it's a

coincidence that they do their make-up in a similar way.

She is quick to point out the differences between herself and

Cartland: ''Barbara dresses for dinner every night whether she has to or

not''. Furthermore, Cartland, who only ever dresses in pink or ''Nile

blue'', will not even be caught dead in black or in trousers (Nancy

wears both), and she certainly would not approve of Nancy's smoking.

''Barbara blew up the lookalike thing so that she could get me to

deputise for her.''

A typical Cartland visit to Kilphedir involves a few jaunts in her

Mercedes to the Timespan, where she delights tourists (many of whom come

specially to catch a glimpse of her) by signing autographs beside her

dummy. Then she totters across to La Mirage.

Nancy Sinclair is aware that the rest of the country might find her

village's apparent Cartland obsession a little peculiar, but says:

''Anything that brings in people is good. There's a great deal of extra

trade in the restaurant in August when she's here''.

Indeed, for someone who's mostly famous for being old, Cartland has

rejuvenated and revivified this Twin Peaks-like village. What next, one

wonders: a Barbara Cartland theme park? Maybe my nightmare of seeing

pink elephants is about to come true.