West Stoke House

This hotel review of West Stoke House in West Sussex is taken from our latest guidebook, Mr & Mrs Smith: Hotel Collection – UK/Ireland Volume 2.

Mr Smith was looking twitchy. ‘I’d still rather have a key,’ he said. ‘Just to have the option not to be walked in on naked.’ The thing was, we did have a key, which, not unconventionally, had been entrusted to us on arrival. I just hadn’t told him. Perhaps the shock of exchanging the motorway for the stylish luxury and rural views of our top‑floor room was affecting my intellect: I embraced a fantasy of West Stoke House as a keyless idyll, with guests treated like friends, the better to emphasise the hotel's origins as a smart country house on the Goodwood Estate. ‘Well I think it’s lovely – I feel really trusted and relaxed,’ I baited, pushing the door shut (and now locked) behind us, key safely where I’d dropped it on the dressing table 10 minutes earlier. And down to dinner we went.

West Stoke House is billed as a restaurant with rooms: dining takes place in the light‑filled former ballroom, hung with contemporary art; non‑residents are welcome, and the food – English produce, French flourish – is one of Sussex’s gastronomic trump cards. But owners Rowland and Mary have accomplished something equally lovely with the accommodation and the atmosphere. I can imagine retreating here as a newlywed, comfortable with the unforced romance of the rooms and the unobtrusive staff. It feels private and friendly, and has that calming, spoiling quality that Mr and Mrs Smiths are partial to.

Among our fellow diners, we could tell roughly how many times each couple or group had been to the house before by noting their positions on our patented ‘delighted/blasé’ scale. As second‑timers, we were still firmly in the initial stages of infatuation, looking around a lot to appreciate the architectural detail, and praising and exchanging forkfuls of each dish as we tucked in. The restaurant is the most formal element of West Stoke House – white tablecloths, assured service, serious food and wine – but the relaxed clientele and the maître d’s sense of humour meant that our evenings weren’t in the least starchy.

We declined a nightcap in the red‑painted entrance hall, bar and sitting room where our evening had begun, deciding instead to watch Blackadder in bed. Oh, the joys of not being on honeymoon… Cavorting is not a healthy thing to do after pithivier of Burgundy snails, roast venison and baked chocolate moelleux. Our relaxed post‑prandial state was tested for a moment when we returned to our locked door, then swiftly restored when a kind staff member showed us up the old servants’ stairs and through an alternative entrance to our room. The luxe bedlinen, walls and floor are expensively neutral; character is provided by a handful of delicate French antiques and a bold modern painting above the fireplace. It’s the sort of taste that corresponds comfortably with our own, albeit cranked up significantly where grown-up elegance is concerned. ‘Find something bad‑taste,’ ordered Mr Smith. I swivelled my head and had to admit defeat.

In the morning, I stick to my dour‑sounding but lunch‑enhancing rule of not pigging out before noon on holiday, and order a croissant and some prunes. Mr Smith takes on the traditional full English, but that is fine because, after some car‑based exploring of the leafy roads around Goodwood, we head east towards Bignor Hill and hike up to an astonishing point where the South Downs Way crosses the Roman Road of Stane Street. We bound along a rising path until we can see for miles, delighted to be so high up, imagining the ghosts of cursing centurions among the nettles, and astonished that we are all alone up here on this glorious spring day.

We searched in vain for the sort of old‑men‑and‑snoring‑dog boozer we love, but it would have been churlish to be disappointed: there are dozens of superb dining pubs in this part of the country, and our Sunday roast in the George & Dragon at Burpham far exceeded what we would have been satisfied with – it was even better than home‑made.

That’s all we ask, honestly – for our leisure time to beat being chez nous. We are certainly happier kids than the day before yesterday. And our status has improved significantly: the Bridge Room is far bigger than our own bedroom, and the broad bed perfection; the flatscreen TV knocks spots off our telly. The views are 100 per cent green, and there is deep, impenetrable quiet that makes you sleep like an infant. The bathroom is properly modern, with nothing at all 18th century about the supple black‑rubber floor, XL freestanding bath and power shower.

The reason West Stoke House works is because it’s not a conversion, or the result of a face-lift, but a real house. There isn’t the remotest sense of hotel anonymity; rather, Rowland and Mary have created a home for their guests. We’d noticed earlier on that the area below the stairs, where the staff mix G&Ts and whatever else you fancy, reminded us of a real country house; somewhere we might see wellies, dog leads and gymkhana rosettes. But we didn’t bother indulging in lord‑of‑the‑manor fantasies or delusions of grandeur; we were far too busy enjoying ourselves.