I have not died, but I have gone to heaven.

This morning I left the scummy diving backpacker outfit behind and piled aboard an Executive Coach cross country from Semporna to Sandakan. Sandakan, and it's smaller nearby sister village of Sepilok, are famous for one thing: orang utans. Once a day, the world's most loved red heads knuckle out of the jungle to be fed to be fed by humankind, and every backpacker for hundreds of miles around is there to capture it on a memory stick.

That is for tomorrow.

Today, I am here to see Agnes Keith's House. Perched high on the hill over looking Sandakan Harbour is a beautifully restored colonial timber house from the turn of the last century.

Getting there is most commonly done by taxi. I learned why the hard way. There is a staircase set in the side of the hill that takes you straight there. It is called, I kid you not, The Stair of a Hundred Steps. A hundred didn't sound too bad, and I set off with the childish project of counting them on the way up.

I was very, very relieved when the steps only got to 91. I was gasping. Then I went around a corner. Sometimes a hundred is uses in the sense of being a Large Number. I nearly died, but it was worth if to see the House.

Agnes' husband, George, held the deeply important post of Conservator of the Forests of North Borneo before the war. This was when Agnes wrote Land below the Wind, a charming book of the life they lived then (or so I am told).

Agnes could not have known then the subject matter of her second book, Three Came Home. This records the less charming story of how the family was captured and held for the length of the war. There were then three further books recording how, against her strong desire never to return to Borneo, they all did, to help the rebuilding.

The house is simple but extremely elegant; I was particularly struck by the rich ruby colour of the wooden floors. But if you aren't impassioned by a beautiful tale, and some delicious floorings, there is a further reason to get up those bloody steps.

The English Tea House.

It is a caricature of a place, but a divine one. As I type, I have to pause to quaff Earl Grey, chomp on cucumber sarnies (no crusts), graze on fondant fancies (very fresh), and stuff myself with scones, strawberry jam and clotted cream, all served on the kind of crockery our grandparents might have received as wedding presents. During a 'comfort stop' in my bus ride this morning, I asked for coffee with milk, and watched condensed milk tipped into fresh ground coffee. It was the closest I'll ever get to rationing. But this clotted cream is perfect, despite the heat.

Were that not enough, in the background my fellow would-be colonials are playing croquet on the lawn. I see a healthy degree of fervour in their game, and a comforting lack of skill, but that might be a con. Is there such a thing as a croquet shark?