Hotel du Vin Bristol

My last trip to the West Country involved copious amounts of a hallucinogenic cider called Mendip Magic; it wasn’t pretty. As we headed to Hotel du Vin in Bristol, on my return, I was happy to shun the apple in favour of the grape.

Slap bang in the city centre, the hotel is a shining beacon among some concrete monstrosities. Having ditched the car, we enter the cobbled courtyard of the beautifully converted sugar warehouse. I muse how apt it is that the house of my sweet-toothed childhood vice has morphed into a hotel for my adult one. Serenely far from the hectic traffic of a city that we left moments before, we are warmly greeted by a charming Frenchman, who shows us to our room, via a sweeping modern staircase. This former hub of sugary industry was thoughtfully renovated into a stylish sleepover spot just before the new millennium began, and as we glide along the landing I catch a glimpse of an unexpected decadent purple billiards table peeping out of a recreational room. I make a mental note to revisit later.

We arrive at our room, Larouche (all du Vin boudoirs are named after vineyards) and Mr Smith laments not being in Blue Nun, at which point I shove him into the room for fear of being ejected from the premises for blaspheming in the language of wine. Three of the loft suites have split levels, but our room is on one level, spacious and minimalist, with the bathroom hidden beyond a frosted double door.

We’ve been in the hotel for at least 15 minutes, and having not yet encountered a drop of the hallowed vino, I’m beginning to feel incongruous – not in an alcoholic way, you understand – but surely wine is a prime reason for this trip? I open the mini-bar and, as well as drinkable delights, I discover a tube of Smarties. I’m happy to discover that my sugar addiction will also be fed this weekend. Filling the free-standing bath, chilled glass of wine in one hand and chocolates in the other, I feel our escape couldn’t have gotten off to a more ideal start.

Mr Smith and I dress for dinner, but in an understated way, reflective of our relaxed mood. As we enter the bar, it is obvious our fellow drinkers have all made a smidgen more effort with their appearance – but who cares? This is clearly anything-goes territory. There has been a bit of a bundle for the few sofas and comfy seats, so we prop ourselves up at the bar, pouncing on the nuts and succulent olives before our bums even touch the seats.

I’m handed this month’s recommended wine list from their in-house sommelier, Etienne; he has chosen Australia. When quizzed on how he selects which country or region to celebrate, he replies with trademark French insouciance: ‘It’s whatever takes my fancy’. Too right. I sample a delicious sauvignon and we are led through to the table we have booked in the restaurant. (Which is advisable: it’s very popular with guests and locals alike.) Softly lit with a golden hue, the place is full, but you never feel too close to another table. Empty prestige wine bottles adorn every inch of windowsill and mantelpiece and the walls are festooned with wine-related art. The service is attentive and swift, but never obtrusive: très Français.

Both thrilled with our choices (my lamb was especially succulent), washed down with a Chablis from Larouche, of course, but too full for dessert – damn those Smarties – and feeling enjoyably light-headed, we decide not to venture from our cosy haven into the Bristolian night, apart from a quick stroll across the bridge. (You can't visit Bristol without crossing, or at least gazing, at the stunning Clifton suspension bridge, especially romantic and twinkly at night.) We have been recommended the Square bar, but I fancy a game of purple billiards back at the hotel. I am gently reminded by Mr Smith that games of pool, snooker or, indeed, billiards are far from my forte. Not wanting to embarrass myself, I heed his advice and we wend our way back to Larouche.

It always astounds me how, mornings after an enormous delicious meal, I am more ravenous than ever. So we waste no time in heading down to the restaurant, which, with the bright morning sunlight filtering through the windows, feels like an entirely different room from the night before. We opt for the Continental buffet before offers of full English can tempt us. With tummies full again, we walk the two minutes down to the waterside and embark upon an exploration of Bristol: a city with much to satisfy sightseers and shoppers alike.

It’s a great town to wander around with no particular destination; we discovered that any turn can lead you down enchanting little streets where, like us, you might stumble upon an old-fashioned sweet shop, wall-to-wall with jars, begging for their contents to be bought by the quarter. We also found Nicholas Market, where a whole street of delicious foodie stalls provide the temptation to eat yet again. Then I remember something unique about this West Country trip: a drop of cider hasn’t passed my lips all weekend – and, boy, do I feel good. Vive l’Hotel du Vin!