Gidleigh Park

A windswept girl in ruby slippers once whispered, ‘There’s no place like home’. Well she was wrong: there’s Gidleigh Park – and it’s better. A heart-stoppingly impressive drive up a long country road reveals this boutique hotel in all its glory: a Tudor-style house in a Devon from a different era, one where women were ‘gels’ and men were ‘fellows’. Arriving just in time for lunch, we were ushered into the dining room as a summer breeze rushed through a huge window framing views of Dartmoor beyond.

Gidleigh Park may be no ordinary hotel, but its restaurant is a superhero and the man in the red cape is executive chef Michael Caines MBE. He won the restaurant its second Michelin star in 1999 when he was just 30. Not dining here was simply not an option; it’s no exaggeration to admit lunch was one of the finest of my life. Mr Smith, who is lucky enough to dine out at fancy-pants places regularly, agreed. Five courses of joy were followed by tea on the terrace – where we found ourselves gazing out over a Constable-worthy view. With the North Teign River flowing through the gardens as an ever-present soundtrack, we realised we’d settled in before even seeing our room.

Every bit the country house, Gidleigh Park of course boasts the prerequisite interiors of thick burgundy carpets, wood panelling and richly upholstered sofas. It’s upstairs that all the country-meets-sexy-boutique action happens. Our room was spacious, luxurious, sumptuous; with the odd antique sitting alongside bespoke contemporary pieces. The deep chocolate brown of a huge chest of drawers beside a mocha suede armchair lends the room a warm feel, while a delicious mix of velvet cushions, satin quilt and a leopard-linen covered wing chair just makes you want to bury yourself in Gidleighness and never re-surface.

Coming up for air, we soon began a game of gin-and-tonic sunset Scrabble on the terrace. But several hours later, the call back to our room was too great. And so the closely fought battle was resolved, toe to toe, in our huge bath, as L’Occitane bubbles tickled our noses. Our bathroom was definitely no place for pedestrian ablutions. Open-plan on the side of the room, you can luxuriate within cream hues and honeyed wood, and enjoy a shower big enough for two – plus your neighbours, if you’re that way inclined (I should add that ours were a couple who looked like three score and ten was a distant memory, so we weren’t tempted.) A few cocktails later, and imagining the wind howling on the Devonshire moors, I began to fancy myself as a West Country Cathy looking for her Heathcliffe (I found him, bottle of champagne in hand. Probably not what Ms Brontë imagined, but it did for me.)

Imagine sleeping on marshmallows: that’s how difficult it was to leave our bed the next morning. But determined to fill our London lungs with sweet Dartmoor air, we managed to rise (with the promise of a big breakfast, it’s impressive how easily Mr Smith can be persuaded to get up and out). After a feast of raisin toast, knock-your-head-off sour marmalade, kippers and eggs (we eschewed the porridge with whisky, fabulous as it sounded), it was time for a hotel-mapped five-hour walk. Our Gidleigh-prepared picnic safely on Mr Smith’s back, we set off with enthusiastic (and naïve) exuberance. All that was missing was a chocolate lab trotting happily beside us (Mr Smith suggested we hire one for the day).

Surrounded by Devon’s Dartmoor – endless acres of mature beech and oak forest – there was plenty of room for us city types to get lost, we joked.

We shouldn’t have.

Within two hours, the words ‘mire’ and ‘steep hill’ were branded into the ‘Beware’ compartment of my brain forever. Luckily, the fear-induced adrenalin of being eyeballed by a herd of glowering heifers got me up the worst fell. A little while later, picnic laid out before us, and sitting in the shade of the lyrically-named Wild Tor with not a soul for miles and miles, Dartmoor magnificent all around, it was all worth it.

On our return, we felt immensely proud when Gidleigh was (finally) once more in sight. Greeted by chilled-out couples – on the terrace soaking up the last of the day’s rays, buried in novels and newspapers, or ambling across the lawns holding hands – we collapsed happily into chairs, a Devonshire cream tea (with enough clotted cream and jam to induce a sugar coma) our reward.

Dressing for dinner, anticipation of the evening ahead crackling in the air, we enjoyed an aperitif and met the frock-coated and somehow Dickensian sommelier Leif Svendsen. Gidleigh Park has in the region of 600 wines – each has a story and Leif knows every one. Supper was a six-course party for our taste buds. Tartar of marinated tuna, scallop and lime topped with Oscietere cavier, roast Cornish duckling with Savoy cabbage, red mullet with Thai puree and tempura vegetables… Mr Smith was rendered speechless. A feat indeed. After tackling the complimentary decanter of port in our room, we passed out with sheer food exhaustion, our final day to look forward to.

Whether you wish your weekend away to be dirty or spotless, Gidleigh Park provides the goods. The atmosphere is relaxed and the staff get it just right. Not one for forlock-tugging service, everyone is friendly, helpful and unobtrusive.

Giddy from Gidleigh, I kept the house in sight for as long as possible as we reluctantly wound our way down the drive to leave. ‘More like coming home than going away’, the owners declare. If home were like this, we would never, ever go out.