STAPLEFORD: Renaissance of a Ruin :...

A century ago Edward, Prince of Wales, begged his mum to buy a stately hunting lodge set on 500 acres in the British Midlands.

“A humble little hideaway,” Edward said, beaming.

Mum was horrified. “Why,” gasped the good woman, “that gang could corrupt your morals!”

What Edward’s mum was referring to were members of the Leicestershire Hunting Society, which to this day still give chase to the fox across these very same grounds. And, of course, it’s entirely possible that Edward’s mum was correct. Precisely what the prince had in mind, she mused, was the idea of pursuing the handsome women pursuing the foxes through these lovely meadows.

At any rate, the queen was adamant. She told Edward to go chase his cricket bat. Or something to that effect. (Edward learned early on how cruel life can be.)

But back to the lodge: Since Edward’s unfortunate episode, the Victorian building has changed hands a number of times, most recently with its purchase by Chicagoan Bob Payton, Britain’s Pizza Prince.

Payton spotted it while riding one day through Leicestershire. To say that Stapleford, the name given to the lodge, was derelict is understating the fact. It was a downright disaster. A catastrophe. A bloody mess. It appeared haunted. Spooky. Winds moaned through cracks in its walls. Cobwebs hung like canopies from the chandeliers. The plaster was peeling. The roof leaked.

But Bob Payton is an optimist, an impulsive, gregarious, dynamic giant of a man (6 feet, 3 inches) who thrives on challenge. Otherwise, he’d have ridden off with the fox hounds to greener pastures.

Instead he replumbed, reroofed and rewired the entire structure while transforming one of England’s most talked-about properties into a stately hotel. He spent a cool $9 million. To begin with, in 500 years Stapleford had never known heat. Earlier, when the chill of winter got to the bones, one merely wrapped oneself in another layer of clothing.

Success--both as restaurateur and innkeeper--didn’t come to Payton because he conducts business in any ordinary manner. Instead of hiring a single decorator at Stapleford Park, he commissioned several. So each of the 30 guest rooms reflects its own peculiar personality. One room features a tub atop a pedestal from which the bather can focus on sheep grazing in meadows or on a telly beside the bath.

Lady Jane Churchill wrapped up one room, and a noted London shirtmaker created a gentleman’s chamber by hanging pictures by suspenders, upholstering a chair with tweed jacket fabric and swathing walls in candy-striped shirting materials. He turned out curtains with smoking jacket velvet, which he tied with men’s cravats.

Displayed in the Wedgwood Room are a Waterford chandelier, Wedgwood wallpaper, a Wedgwood phone, a Wilton carpet, a Regency-style four-poster and knobs with inlaid cameos showing Cupid stringing his bow in bas-relief. Another room boasts a “loo with a view.”

Others commissioned to do a room included Linda Kirach, who designed Fergie’s wedding gown. Chesterfield sofas are scattered here and there. Mahogany thunder boxes were placed by Payton in one of the cloakrooms.

Stapleford Park cannot be faulted, even though this is not your stereotyped picture of the typical British manor home. Not with such whimsical touches as the trompe l’oeil mural in the great hall featuring Gunther, the beloved schnauzer belonging to Payton’s lovely wife, Wendy, complete with a stars-and-stripes bandanna tied snugly around the pooch’s neck.

Still, with all the theatrics, Stapleford Park remains a luxury country house. Grinling Gibbons carvings and polished mahogany paneling add to its extravagance.

Elsewhere, staring down from the walls of a lavatory are trophies of animals who once roamed the forest at Stapleford Park. Still more of the whimsical is evident. Such as Wedgwood’s Peter Rabbit nursery plates on which breakfast is served.

Payton tells his guests they should have a good time. “We give them something idiosyncratic. This whole thing is living out our fantasies. I wanted to create the greatest pleasure palace in Britain. If no one comes, well. . . .” He smiles and shrugs his huge shoulders, “I enjoy it.”

Stapleford Park is like a feudal village with its own church and stables and magnificent gardens. Running helter-skelter through lilacs and roses is Gunther along with another schnauzer, Gus. They sniff the mulberry tree with the plaque that reads: “Planted in the reign of Queen Elizabeth II on 25 May 1984 to commemorate the 40th birthday of Bob Payton.”

With all its spoofs on tradition, Stapleford Park provides a warm and inviting hominess. A bowl of apples appears at the door next to a stand of umbrellas to use during inclement weather, and boots are available along with caps for one of those chilly British days.

Payton describes himself as a “reincarnated Victorian” whose sense of humor manifests itself in every corner of Stapleford Park. Beneath an inscription that reads, “William Lord Sherard, Baron of Letrym, repayred this building, AD 1633,” Payton added a tablet that declares, “And Bob Payton did his bit in AD 1988.”

With his wife, Payton lives alongside the old lodge in a refurbished 17th-Century stable. It was on these grounds that he and Wendy, who hails from Pittsburgh, Pa., were married on horseback attired in full hunting regalia. Even the horses were spiffed up with white bows gracing their manes and tails. After exchanging vows, the Paytons rode off for a wedding portrait with Wendy’s beloved Gunther who, appropriately, was specially scarfed for the occasion.

Payton describes Wendy as “the hospitality person of the century.” She is beautiful, gracious and unspoiled, a rare hostess who makes the caller feel at ease immediately.

Payton met Wendy while she was dining with friends in one of his London restaurants. Two years later she accepted a date. By now she was winding up a career as head of the construction company she headed with her late husband in Chicago. It was time to move on. Besides, she adored Britain.

As for Payton, he got to London by way of an assignment with the J. Walter Thompson ad agency. In the end he proved Thomas Wolfe correct. When J. Walter Thompson begged him to return to Chicago, Payton declined. Instead he elected to remain in London with the eccentric idea of introducing deep-dish Chicago-style pizza to Britishers. Payton opened his first restaurant. Then another. And another. And another. At last count he was up to 14 restaurants. Not only in London but Aberdeen, Glasgow, Manchester, Paris, Barcelona and Madrid.

Payton introduced the Chicago Pizza Pie Factory in London in 1977 (ladies-in-waiting for the Queen Mother call frequently). The British went bonkers. He was their Pizza Prince. To date he has hosted more than 3 million diners. His mission: “To serve the entire world with great pizza.”

Chicago visitors in particular crowd the Chicago Pizza Pie Factory. Payton has been host to the Chicago Symphony Orchestra and the Chicago Bears. He plays video broadcasts of the Chicago Bears, Cubs and Bulls.

But there’s more.

Besides dishing up his Chicago-style deep-dish pizza, Payton has launched other restaurants in London: the Chicago Rib Shack, the Chicago Meatpackers, the Windy City Bar & Grill, and Henry J. Bean’s (But His Friends Call Him Hank) Bar & Grill on Abingdon Road.

This dude could sell hamburgers to McDonald’s, beans to Taco Bell.

Payton calls his company My Kinda Town Ltd. His vast food chain turns out spit-roasted chicken, burgers, chili dogs, nachos, apple pie, mud pie, chocolate cheesecake and dozens of drinks, among them the Chicago Blizzard (gin, lemon and lime) and one called Between the Sheets (a concoction of rum, brandy, Cointreau and lemon juice). He even brews his own beer.

Before the 10th anniversary of the Chicago Pizza Pie Factory, Payton was welcomed into that band of British gentry that decks itself out in red jackets, boots and riding britches to give chase to the fox. While considered a decadent sport in some circles, nonetheless it afforded Payton the opportunity to face up to a challenge.

There in the peaceful, rolling hills of Leicestershire, hot on the trail of a fox, his attention was diverted by the sight of stately Stapleford Park. Were he aware of the lodge’s leaking roof, its mildewed walls, its plugged-up plumbing, ad infinitum, one guesses he’d have continued in pursuit of the fox. Instead, Payton reined in, the fox eluded the group and Payton, for better or for worse, found himself hooked by a new and exciting challenge . . . innkeeping.

After gutting the old building he knocked out walls and turned bedrooms into baths, corralled the retinue of decorators, mixed antiques with contemporary furniture and, finally, welcomed his first guest just last May.

Without argument, Stapleford Park is a monument to the savoir-faire of Britain’s Pizza Prince. It sparkles. Payton tells friends: “I have never worked so hard, made so little and been happier doing what I am doing.”

Payton keeps mumbling about “sunny Leicestershire,” but the fact of the matter is that it was gray the day we arrived, which made this marvelous old house all the more inviting. While centrally heated, logs snapped in the fireplace and a group was taking high tea in an alcove with leaded windows that framed a scene that Payton insists hasn’t changed in the century since Prince Edward implored Queen Victoria to buy the property.

Says Payton: “The place is a time warp.”

Roughly 110 miles northeast of London, Stapleford Park is as silent as a falling mist. It is this that draws the traveler who’s grown weary of crowds. On the other hand, actives can join trips to the Duke and Duchess of Devonshire, to Haddon Hall, Belvoir and Oakham castles and Belton House, with links to the Duke of Windsor. Others ride, fish and play tennis and miniature golf.

Inside, Stapleford Park guests study a carrousel horse, a portrait by Charles Dickens’ daughter, Kate Perugini. A handsome Steinway grand piano owned by Wendy stands just off the main hall, and there’s a Blue Room that’s actually rose, save for the ceiling.

Guests arriving by train are met by a Land Rover containing a cooler of beer. Later they lounge in deep sofas, bathe in huge baths and sip cocktails before the fireplace.

Beyond the windows they view cattle and sheep, hedgerows, bluebells, beech trees and elms. The old hunting lodge is laid-back, with guests dressing as they wish. Just as the hall porter does--in cords rather than tails.

Life is peachy in the Pizza Prince’s palace, which Payton calls “the Cotswolds without the tourists.”

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Stapleford Park, Melton Morbray, Leicestershire LE14 2 EF. Rates: $130/$500. Distance: 110 miles northeast of London. About two hours from Heathrow Airport. By rail, high-speed trains travel to Stapleford Park from Kings Cross Station in London.