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It was one of those magical moments of travel - a sudden, unexpected and entirely irrational feeling of elation, an unfeasible optimism. It came upon me the moment I arrived in Charleston, South Carolina. It wasn't spring, but perhaps the near-tropical light was turning my thoughts to love. Or maybe it was a mild form of sunstroke. Either way I spent three whole days wandering around in an expectant daze, feeling that something wonderful was about to happen to me around the next corner.

Charleston is an impressive town. The ante-bellum plantation houses of the American South are well enough known: in Charleston you find the planters' town-houses (they would come for the summer season, to escape from upcountry malaria) and they are equally gracious. They are clustered together on a promontary on the Atlantic coast, more than a square mile of unique houses, many of them apparently of English inspiration and design, but clearly adapted to the climate of the American South. They are all the more impressive when you discover that many of them have been restored since they were so handsomely trashed by Hurricane Hugo in 1989.

I was assured that the best introduction to the town was a tour in a horse-drawn buggy.... Normally I'd feel a little self-conscious in a pony-trap which in Britain would have been dismantled and scattered around a pub-wall, but in my new-found optimism it seemed just a part of the panoply of untried experiences.

"Howdie, my name's Jody, and these here's my two mules, Sandy and Molly. Is this y'all's first visit to Charleston?" I scanned quickly behind to see who the y'all might be; but no, there was just one of me. "Well we're gonna have a great time," she said breathlessly. Sandy and Molly seemed a little unconvinced at first, but soon enough we lurched off, clippety-clop, through the cobbled streets of famous Charleston homes.

The 'Charleston single house' was first built in the late 1600s, when in England people paid taxes on streetfront space, so they are unnaturally thin; just a single room wide and running into deep gardens. With the extra height of the buggy I could see over the walls and onto the south-facing verandas called piazzas, which, like the ships of the town's prosperity, were specially designed to catch the best of the breeze. Many have louvred wooden shutters painted in 'Charleston green' (so dark as to be indistinguishable from black) and their gates are embellished with intricate wrought-iron work - a commotion of lozenges, cresting waves and trefoil spikes. The gardens are magnificent, overflowing with tropical blooms and huge flowering trees.

Jody told stories about the homes on the Battery, Charleston's most exclusive address, which overlooks the sea from the point. The only mishap of the tour was when Sandy (obviously in a similar, distracted state to my own) decided he was more interested in a bay mare across the street and to Molly and Jody's disgust headed off after her.

There is slightly precious air about Charleston - so many antique shops, galleries and general self-conscious quaintness must teeter on the edge of twee - and this was rather pointedly pricked when I was hustled between antique shops on King Street. He picked me out a mile off and he knew he had caught my eye: "Excuse me sir." I walked studiedly and determinedly on, eyes on the middle distance: "Can you help me with a downpayment on my condominium...?"

"?!"

I'd scuttled off before I realized what he actually said, so I couldn't give him the requisite $10,000. I had to laugh.

But there is also a genuinely attractive feeling of historical authenticity about the town. It is a good place to wander and of course I walked the streets looking forward illogically to the next corner. Slowly Charleston's consistent prettiness revealed considerable architectural variety - Georgian, Italianate and Queen Anne styles jostle among Federal buildings. Many of the homes have been turned into excellent guest houses, where you can experience gracious Southern hospitality in elegant antique surroundings. I stayed at the Carriage House Inn, which is situated on the Battery overlooking the harbour. There was a cool, shaded garden and an excellent veranda from which to watch the street go by.

On the roofs of many of these houses on the Battery, built by prosperous shipping kings, are small gazebos and balustraded walkways. They were built partly for coolness during the summer months (they provide passive air-conditioning) and partly as lookouts, where people would come to watch for shipping. They are known both as Captain's walks and as widows' walks.

There are a number of family houses that can be visited in Charleston and they give a good idea of the luxury in which the planters lived before the Civil War. We were guided through them by a legion of slightly dowdy but chillingly well-informed Charleston ladies. They saw me coming too. The moment I opened my mouth there was a volley of quick asides about the British not owning the place any more, and about how I must feel at home in such antique surroundings (as though all Britons live in museums). But they betrayed the fact that half of Charleston looks to its English heritage with pride.

The cumbersomely named Heyward-Washington House is supremely elegant. It is a 'double house' (ie two rooms onto the street) and has some extremely fine furniture, produced by early cabinet makers specially brought to Charleston from Europe. Most interesting were the bookcase, thought to be the finest surviving piece of American-made furniture, and interlocking chests which would be dismantled for the journey to the plantations.

Too soon it was time to leave and so I took a last, longing walk through the downtown streets with their iron gas-lamps and handsome wooden houses, half waiting for the love of my life to trip around the corner and filling my time peering nosily over people hedges for a glimpse of the piazzas, the swinging seats and hammocks. Suddenly a door slammed and a cascade of bougainvillea quivered. A woman walked past me, leading a miniature poodle with a tartan coat.

We fell into conversation about the relative merits of conservation and restoration. Should you adapt buildings to meet modern requirements, or preserve buildings as they originally were? And if the latter, to what date? Increasingly Charleston's houses are left looking slightly raw and undeveloped - unplastered and unpainted bricks - the way that they would have been when they were originally built. Eventually I asked about her dog.

“Come come Primevert, greet the Gennleman,” she said, “offer him your hand”. Primevert, an obedient little fellow, sat back on his haunches, cocked his head and held out a dainty little paw to me. It's the first time I have ever shaken hands with a poodle. But what the hell. I was in Charleston.

I suppose it's the job of a travel journalist to write in such a way that the right people recognise the right places for them, but with Charleston I must confess a certain dereliction of duty. I think the place is brilliant. Who knows if Charleston would ever have the same effect on anyone else? It's just that a starry-eyed gaze and irrepressible smile comes to my face whenever I think of it.

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