Higher Westcott Farm

November has its charms – principally cashmere knitwear and flagship TV drama – but it isn’t the most tempting time to relinquish central heating and hit the countryside. But so popular is Higher Westcott Farm, Mr Smith and I couldn’t get a reservation earlier in the year. So, with an avalanche shovel in the boot (somewhat de trop, perhaps) we head for the wild west – Devon.

Some hours of driving later, we pass a church hall positively incandescent with welcome and a board outside saying ‘Country Fair’. Inside, the massed elder ladies of this village have set out their stalls to challenge London as the ultimate Christmas shopping destination. We collapse at a table and demolish a saucer of free digestives with our instant coffees. We depart laden with home-made flapjacks, a jar of mincemeat, and a knitted nativity scene. Beat that, Westfield!

A few miles on, a steep lane leads us to the tiny hamlet of Westcott, tucked away in the Dartmoor National Park. A discreet sign on a stone wall identifies Higher Westcott Farm, and inside a walled garden we find a handsome and unpretentious 300-year-old thatched Devon longhouse. We are greeted at the door by Jo and Sam, who moved here from Hackney in 2007, leaving behind their respective careers as Conran restaurant manager and graphic designer. They brought those skill-sets with them, though, and they have brilliantly combined the urban aesthetic of a chic boutique hotel with the cosy charm of a country home.

Inside, they’ve kept some gorgeous old timber features – a rustic door in the hallway, an original oak muntin screen (which would have kept the animals out of the humans’ living quarters) in the dining room – and exposed granite slabs in the fireplaces, but the effect is brought bang up-to-date with modern leather furnishings and neutral tones. This scheme extends to the classic-contemporary bedrooms. We are the only guests when we visit, so Jo gives us the nicest room – an immaculate and bright retreat in the eaves, under the original roof timbers. Colour is kept to a calming minimum – the odd splash of red on a cushion – otherwise it is black and white photographs on the walls, crisp white bed linen, dove-grey throws. The view from the cosy window seat, however, is pure Technicolor: wild yet tranquil, with emerald fields (mottled with bracken as russet as orang-utan fur) carpeting the hills surrounding Westcott’s few buildings.

Before our visit, Jo e-mailed us a bespoke supper menu for our approval, so we know we’re in for a three-course treat, but the pre-dinner glass of fizz and canapés in the lounge are an unexpected bonus. Said lounge is a gloriously relaxing space, with logs crackling in the wood-burning stove, yards of chocolate brown leather sofa to sprawl on, a proper, honest-to-goodness little bar stocked with spirits, a hand-picked selection of biodynamic wines and an iPod shuffling Sam’s eclectic playlist – Gang Starr one minute, a gentle accordion waltz the next.

We take our seats at the communal table in the dining room, eager to taste Jo’s cooking and confirm our hunch that Conran’s loss is our gain. And so it proves. Jo’s philosophy is to follow the seasons and minimize food miles. As much produce as possible is sourced locally and tastes the better for it. We start with some startlingly fresh and flavoursome mushrooms on toasted home-made bread, followed by partridges stuffed with chorizo and sage, and a memorable apple pie to finish. After supper, while I snaffle all the home-made chocolate truffles, Mr Smith browses through the DVD library and selects The Departed for our evening’s viewing. We take it up to the flatscreen TV/DVD in our room and watch from under the covers.

Next morning, up to my ears in bubbles (courtesy of knockout Jason bath products) in the colossal freestanding en-suite bath, I remember Jo’s advice not to feel any pressure to do or see anything; that Higher Westcott Farm is a good place to do nothing. Could I get away with just taking hot meals and hot baths for two days? As if in answer, the smell of pork sausages calls me downstairs to join Mr Smith for breakfast, with which again Jo does us proud.

Much as Mr Smith likes to think of himself as a rugged outdoorsman, truth is he is far from heartbroken that the November weather isn’t conducive to epic yomps across the moors. Instead we go in search of sights to see, but get the distinct impression that the locals have battened down the hatches until next season. Castle Drogo is closed for restoration, the Miniature Pony Centre is shut (presumably for reminiaturisation of the ponies), but we hit paydirt with Becky Falls. This woodland park has a pretty waterfall that won’t be giving Niagara any sleepless nights, a tangle of nature trails, a café and a petting zoo staffed by the most wonderful people on earth. When the keeper brings Mrs Merlin (an enormous European Eagle Owl) out of her cage just for us to stroke her, it is a truly unforgettable experience.

By now we’re getting peckish, so it’s time for a legendary Devon Cream Tea. We luck out at The Gateway Tearooms in Moretonhampstead where a garrulous ex-marine serves up army-surplus portions of clotted cream and jam – not the usual micro-ramekins you get at tourist clip joints. ‘The Wife’s’ delectable scones are mountainous, but heroically we scoff the lot.

For our last night, on Jo and Sam’s recommendation, we eat at The White Horse Inn in Moretonhampstead. This is a pub-restaurant with genuine culinary ambition, and really impresses with dishes such as pan-fried scallops with cauliflower pannacotta and tomato confit, and Lancashire Hotpot Revisited, which reimagines the old favourite into several separate, fabulously tasty components.

Leaving Devon for home, we wish we could take some of the countryside’s simple pleasures and decency back to our crime-addled borough. We pass a local newspaper billboard: ‘Sheep Rustlers Fleece Local Farms’. Aw, even the crime round here has a certain charm.