The Miller of Mansfield

The following review is taken from our latest guidebook, Mr & Mrs Smith: Hotel Collection – UK/Ireland Volume 2.

It was that typical start to a Mr & Mrs Smith escape (visualise Hugh Grant at the start of Four Weddings… and you get the idea); we’re late, effing and blinding, and bickering about whether to take the M40 or M4 to our boutique hotel in the Thames Valley. In Italy, courtship banter probably involves serenading through the medium of Puccini; in Persian lands, lovers no doubt quote Rumi; in Blighty, we love a good tussle over driving directions.

Having heard the Miller of Mansfield does a mean Sunday roast, we’re determined to get there by 3pm in time to kickstart our stay with a hearty lunch and all the trimmings. In spite of such a juicy carrot being dangled, as soon as we hit the country lanes of the Thames Valley, all our frantic will‑we‑get‑there woes dissolve, and bucolic bluebell‑dotted fields eclipse our greed. Arriving at Goring, it’s clear that this is a village where even the post office is worthy of a watercolour. Heck, even the riverside dental surgery is quaint. Perhaps if all dentists were like this our nation might never have earned such notoriety for ‘British teeth’. Though, admittedly ‘Goring grin’ doesn’t have the same ring to it as ‘Hollywood smile’.

Red‑brick, tile‑roofed and originating in the 18th century, the Miller of Mansfield stands proud, sidled up to a flint cottage and opposite a Tudor‑topped corner chapel, a stone parish church and lovingly tended green. We fall in through the diminutive door, expecting a scrum for a decent table and a surly jobsworth tapping their watchface. Instead, it’s just us – and the cheery bar staff reveal that we’re still fine for roast beef and Yorkshires, either on the decking out back, or in the pub. We settle into two armchairs in a cosy black‑walled room, snug with the papers as a Buddha Bar compilation tinkles through the speakers. After savouring every morsel (sauce‑slathered cauliflower, crisp‑yet‑fluffy potatoes, great gravy‑filled puds and slabs of tender meat), followed by a tasty latte, we poke our noses into our loft bedroom. It’s big enough for a family, and we ditch our luggage on the extra single bed: our digestive systems need a stroll by the Thames.

Jerome K Jerome definitely had it right when he wrote, ‘The river becomes very lovely from a little above Reading.’ Following the towpath east, we pass one waterfront pile and boathouse after another, fantasising about how the other half live. The Swan stands proud on the riverbank in Streatley, and while Jerome’s characters in Three Men in a Boat may have fancied pubs for more stimulating tipples, we’re enticed by a sign for cream tea, and parasols on the terrace. A whizz through the hotel (which feels a bit more old people’s home than sexy weekend stay) takes us to Cignetures. In spite of the restaurant’s painfully puntastic name, it does us proud for another feed. Then, an amble back to the Miller at post‑scone‑and‑cream’s pace gives us a chance to admire the wisteria adorning the stone cottages. ’It’s the long variety,’ puffs a silver‑haired gardener. ‘Every year, I invite all my friends round for drinks and we have a measuring party,’ she beams. ‘It’s only just over three foot at the moment, but we’ve had flowers reach four eleven!’ The Japanese may have their momijigari cherry‑blossom celebrations, but clearly England’s own springtime blooms can inspire some heady sherry‑fuelled shindigs.

Having eaten at our inn already today, we pencil in its chic eatery for dinner tomorrow instead. After a freshen‑up in our penthouse perch, we head off in search of a suppertime adventure. The person at the hotel’s front desk has recommended the Crooked Billet, but sadly their ‘turn right, then left’ is a little too vague, and we end up wending our way through field after yellow field. Still, if the pub was good enough for Kate Winslet’s bangers‑and‑mash wedding reception, we reckon it’s worth seeking out. We’re still at the wheel 50 minutes later. Our time is filled with numerous phone calls to pinpoint the pub’s whereabouts, and a lengthy in-car debate about the new farming obsession with oilseed rape (move over, Romeo and Juliet). Eventually, we get there, and we are wowed by a rambling menu of local produce. As for getting back, the manager scribbles us a map and we make it in record time – and make a pact to never leave home without an atlas again.

After a heavenly sleep, we wake to the sound of the parish church bells, donging rhythmically in that peculiarly wistful minor key. Impure thoughts laid temporarily aside, we make an attempt to wash away our sins and cleanse our souls with a lazy soak in the huge freestanding bath, setting us up nicely for our planned visit to a petting zoo. The more grown‑up option would have been Basildon Park, a National Trust Palladian mansion featured in the film of Pride & Prejudice, but as it’s shut, we opt for Beale Park across the road (and, frankly, meerkats are more fun than furniture and tapestries anyway). Mr Smith is amused by a creature resembling a giant rabbit‑cum‑kangaroo (a mara), and is tickled by its diet of guinea pig mix, plus fruit and vegetables. ‘Must be a fan of Heston Blumenthal,’ he remarks. (Fitting, since the chef’s clutch of eateries are only a short drive from here.) After this nature‑watching, Mr Smith suggests we follow it up with some star‑spotting: our options are the Cherry Tree, owned by Eighties’ popster Carol Decker, and Antony Worrall Thompson’s pubs – the Lamb in Satwell or the Greyhound at Rotherfield Peppard. But, we plump for the celeb‑free King William in Hailey, for steak and Brakspear ale pies.

Back at the Miller, we contemplate a late‑afternoon laze in our loft, but the pub is so wonderfully quiet that, armed with the leftover weekend papers, we make a beeline for those two beloved brown‑leather armchairs, which remain our backdrop for the segue into supper. After hibernating in the cosy confines of the dark tavern, the restaurant provides a refreshing bright and airy contrast. All white, except for hot‑pink gerberas in jewel‑coloured vases, yolk‑coloured blinds and a look‑at‑me wall of stylish silver wallpaper, it’s a suitably contemporary backdrop to the Modern British cuisine. The Miller of Mansfield has clearly hung up his flour‑grinding tools and these days is a dab hand with a whole arsenal of kitchen equipment. So don’t be surprised if a time comes when the Miller is due for renaming… the Masterchef of Mansfield gets our vote.