Charlton House

This review of Charlton House in Shepton Mallet by Roland Mouret is taken from our latest guidebook, Mr & Mrs Smith: Hotel Collection – UK/Ireland Volume 2.

Heading out of town on a Friday night isn’t easy at the best of times. But when you know you’re retreating to the serene parkland of Charlton House in Somerset, with the prospect of relaxation and a good pampering, it only makes your desire to escape the big smoke even more pressing. After an hour and a half on a train from Paddington, Mrs Smith with a book, and me with my Grazia, we arrive at Castle Cary station where a taxi’s waiting to whisk us off to the inviting embrace of Roger and Monty Saul’s magnificent country retreat.

Straight away we love the feeling of an informal attitude; the splendour of the house is unique, the sense of English culture combined with commedia dell’arte – the opposite of boutique hotel trends in big cities. While the site may have been mentioned in the Domesday Book, Charlton House, tucked away in the Mendips, has none of that look‑but‑don’t‑touch stuffiness that country manors are so prone to. Instead, with leather riding boots in the porch, Barbours on the coat rack, an all‑day roaring log fire and a signature Mulberry‑plaid sofa that just begs you to take up residence, it’s as if His Lordship’s popped out, leaving strict instructions for everyone to just make themselves at home. 

Room 23, or Chesterblade as it’s known, has been allocated as our very own castle for the weekend, complete with antique wood panelling and an open Venetian‑inspired bathroom. Centre stage is a kingsized bed of fine linen, feather and goose down. This whole setting is framed by a private patio with a view sur le parc. One of the reasons we have come to Charlton House though, is the award‑winning food, and so it’s to the Sharpham Park restaurant that we head next. With his use of organic spelt and rare‑breed meats, and a wine list fit for any grape connoisseur, chef Elisha Carter creates a festival of flavours for the mouth – a feat he repeats at every meal.

After a lengthy slumber, we throw open the patio doors to views of the misty West Country landscape, and following breakfast on the terrace, we’re fuelled up for a walk around the cathedral in Wells, idyllically set in the Somerset countryside. We choose to explore by taxi rather than the headache of negotiating a hire car on a French passport. And it is perfect – the local taxi man is the ideal chauffeur. ‘Wells is the smallest city in Europe!’ he reveals. Amazing then that there are still so many antiques shops to browse, charity stores to rummage through and even a local craft fair. Mrs Smith picks up a bathroom mirror for a steal, and we celebrate at the Old Spot, with a light lunch of honest, wholesome fare.

Back at the manor, we’re overrun with activity options for the afternoon: tennis, croquet, or a pot of Earl Grey and handmade spelt biscuits on the terrace. But the call of Monty’s Spa is just too great and we surrender to an afternoon’s indoor indulgence where the treatments prove to be the (organic) cherry on an already pretty substantial cake. Using their own home‑made range of spelt‑oil and herb‑infused products, the Monty’s team work magic to de‑stress, rejuvenate and revitalise their guests. Holistic treatments or body pamperings – you name them, they’re all here. I opt for their signature specialist wheat‑based therapy. While I’m warming up in the steam room, Natasha blends together a bespoke mix of potions, before summoning me for my body brushing, full body scrub and shower; a back, neck and shoulder massage; a full body moisturising treatment; a hair mask, a scalp massage and, finally, a facial massage using Ayurvedic pressure points for lymphatic drainage of the facial muscles! After that well-spent two hours, Mrs Smith declares I look radiant.

So, thank you, Roger and Monty: your beloved hotel delivers everything you promised us on the brochure and more. Charlton House caters to our every need in a luxurious yet understated way. It leaves us comfortable and unbothered by anyone, with the opportunity for occasion and formality in the restaurant and in a cosy bar strewn with Sotheby’s catalogues and gracious waiting staff. When combined with that spa and our very own in‑suite cinema (did I tell you I discovered a screen behind the panelling in our room?), as well as room service – oh, if only we could stay on to enjoy more.

While it hardly seems like two days since we were performing the great Friday‑night exodus, we’ve got the week ahead to worry about and we’re soon in a taxi again, about to join the great Monday‑morning influx. Someone over the loudspeaker mutters something about points failures and staff shortages. Sitting in first class, I close my eyes and let my mind float back to the full body wrap and Natasha’s soothing hands. We may be stuck in a tunnel, but I have to say, I’m feeling better already.