Mr & Mrs Smith

Someone warn the Earl of Shaftesbury I’m stalking him. One minute I was reading about the bucolic environs of the Bull Inn in Wimborne St Giles, the next I am caught in a Wikipedia spiral of aristocratic intrigue, a nail-biting tale of Alpine murder, DJing noblemen, mysterious heart attacks, horse-riding mishaps, and a veterinary countess who specialises in small-animal surgery. Ripping stuff.

My obsession has developed for three reasons: a) The Earl is barely 30 and he’s richer and more successful than I’ll ever be. b) He lives in the most beautiful stretch of Dorset; I live in Hackney. c) He has the Bull Inn pretty much in his garden (my back yard boasts scaffolding poles and a spider infestation).

This trip to the Bull is my chance to live it up in the Earl’s own countryside. Wimborne St Giles, where this remote watering hole with rooms is located, is the Shaftesbury Estate’s pet village, a place where I imagine the kitchenmaids to play cribbage and gossip about footmen on their day off. There’s a church, a post office, a couple of criss-crossing lanes lined with biscuit-box cottages, and now, a charming boutique inn that’s more than worth swerving off the A354 for.

Mrs Smith, me, six-month-old Master Smith and his assorted baby freight have indeed veered off the A354, and into a narrow, hedgy corridor of country road that runs through Wimborne St Giles (which no one but me has taken to calling ‘WSG’) and to the Bull Inn. As we pull up, I deliver one of the occasional facts that will keep Mrs Smith in my erotic thrall forever. ‘Did you know that the statue of Eros in Piccadilly Circus was designed to aim its bow directly towards WSG, in tribute to the Earl of Shaftesbury’s philanthropic projects?’ I enquire, in a voice pitched to sound like I make a habit of casually acquiring sculptural trivia and not something I’ve just read online. I can tell she’s impressed by the look of withering blankness – it’s her customary means of expressing admiration.

Speaking of admiration, the Bull is a handsome beast: hand-drawn pub sign (all lowercase text, naturally), mismatched wooden furniture, scenes from yesteryear on the walls, sunlight-dappled conservatory – just the place to squirrel yourself away with the Sunday papers and a pint of improbably named ale. I bet His Earliness is here all the time.

We’ve arrived just after the Bull is reopening for the evening; it closes between 3pm and 6pm like city pubs did in the olden days. By the time we’ve lugged Master Smith’s kit and caboodle upstairs to our room – a dinky double decked out in Farrow & Ball, with furniture and rustic-chic statement pieces from chichi interiors emporium India Jane (run by the owner’s wife, handily) – we’re ready to put the kitchen through its paces and test out the Bull as the gastropub heavyweight it has been declared.

The bar, empty when we arrived, is now bustling; locals supping golden ales, respectable chaps in cricket whites enjoying a post-match pint on the lawn, and smartly dressed 30–40-something couples who’ve pitched up for dinner. We’re seated in the conservatory, but – disaster strikes – the Bull’s highchair has gone awol. We end up plonking Master Smith under the table, occasionally reaching beneath to feed him chunks of bread – it’s a Dickensian scene. He doesn’t seem to mind, and the food soon smoothes over the mishap – the small but well-crafted menu changes with whichever veg are in season and whatever's currently being shot on neighbouring Cranborne Chase, or hauled from the nearby sea. Highlights are a shellfish broth and slow-cooked lamb that melts so quickly in the mouth you could be forgiven for forgetting you put it in there. This is exactly what country-pub cooking should be – no wonder the Bull was cropping up in Michelin guides within 18 months of opening. Sated, we head upstairs to bed, returning only to retrieve a sleeping Master Smith from under the table.

Breakfast can be hotels’ culinary weak point, but it is a fact universally acknowledged that a country pub in southwest England is never in want of a good sausage. And the sourdough toast! Baked on site and lightly grilled in olive oil, it’s so tasty that throwing it under the table for the baby feels a shameless waste.

Our plan for the day – drive around for a bit and see what happens – may not sound like a recipe for the perfect weekend, but in our experience of motoring around Dorset (see the review of Hotel Grosvenor down the road for the rules of Brown Sign Bingo), something fascinating always turns up. Today, it’s Knowlton earthworks, 15 minutes away, where a ruined Norman church stands in a megalithic henge, and a twinset of ribbon-hung yew trees is a point of pilgrimage for pagan supplicants. It’s hands-down the creepiest place we’ve ever been (and we’ve been to Newport). Anxious about the possibility of running into a flaming Edward Woodward or Derek Acorah (full respect if that reference goes over your head), we scarper off to a garden-centre tearoom in Cranborne, which is much more genteel.

Back at the Bull, we’re met by the owner, Mark who really is living the dream. Ah yes, make your fortune in the city, then run off to the countryside to do something that doesn’t make you want stave in your skull with your BlackBerry. This village watering hole was nothing to write home about when Mark bought it in 2009, now it could fill postcards several times over. He tells us about plans to convert the outbuildings into a microbrewery (guaranteeing a return visit from this Mr Smith), and he directs us to the most eccentric, untrendy-in-the-best-way, haunted, indescribably brilliant dining venue ever: the Castelman Hotel in Chettle. Go with an open mind and an empty stomach and take a trip back in time.

Next morning, we bundle our small overnight case and travelling branch of Mothercare into the car, and wave our goodbyes to the Bull. It may not be a grand country residence or a design-steeped B&B, but if you want a hearty dinner, a perfect pint and a good sleep and you’d prefer to stay smack in the heart of some of England’s greenest and pleasantest bits within stalking distance of a minor aristocrat, you’ve hit the bullseye.