Mr & Mrs Smith

We push the button at the electric gates of Hawksmoor House in South Africa’s Garden Route & Winelands. There’s a long silence. Straight from a red-eye flight, we fear no one’s expecting us. We buzz again, hear a click and the doors glide open with a purr. Having driven down the long dusty drive through acres of vineyards dripping with plump red grapes, our excitement is by now rocketing. We cruise past a farm building flanked by two large bulls (trust us, there’s no mistaking their gender) and the original white-with-dark-green-edging 18th-century homestead finally reveals itself in full Cape Dutch splendour. Still not a soul to be seen, though.

A lush green lawn shaded by an enormous oak and billowing willow trees is a soul-stirring scene – indelibly colonial and breathtakingly picturesque. Still, it’s hard to imagine this is a stylish Mr & Mrs Smith hotel. Suddenly Maike appears, introduces herself as the manager, helps us with our bags and guides us through a flowerbed of perfectly round pink hydrangea. We trot into the house via a vine-shrouded terrace. So far it’s more Provence than Africa. Dark wood armoire, powder-blue walls and a handwoven Oriental rug on terracotta tiles comprise the first reception room – it’s starting to make sense as a Smith stay. Check-in is a casual ‘sign this’ and we’re soon padding off to our bedroom. We head through the kitchen which resembles a cover shot from Country Living magazine: Aga, butler’s sink, a huge bouquet of hanging copper pans and a freshly baked pie in a net cloche. It’s too good to be true; then we spot the jar of home-made cookies, too. This is now ‘pinch me’ stuff.

The dining hall is impressive but homely, with huge heavy glass chandeliers, and Victorian and Georgian antiques. Maike explains the built-in wardrobe is the only one of its kind hailing from the Cape Dutch era. But the centuries-old memento most Mr & Mrs Smith relevant? Initials engraved on the window by a young couple from their generations-ago wedding.

The abundance of dark oil paintings and dramatic arrangements of fresh flowers steals our breath and we haven’t yet seen our own quarters. Wooden floors, ancient beamed ceilings and tiny original window panes continue the hit of history. Our bedroom, the green suite, is enormous and it feels like our own empire thanks to a nearby sitting room. Here the lounge’s charm doesn’t just emanate from a décor steeped in olden-day glories. Winking its eye at us is an enormous drinks cabinet with home-grown white, rosé and red wines begging our attention in return for a scribble of our name on the honesty chit, and a humble payment of 75 rand.

Having chosen to stay put for lunch, and in the absence of a formal eatery, one of the hotel’s celebrated cheese platters is rustled up. One of the kind souls here, Esmarelda, then leads us Pied Piper-style to the sun-kissed stoep, where we start to plot our few special days here in the Winelands. (An aside on the sweet staff at Hawksmoor – they’re local girls who train here as part of a hospitality-industry apprenticeship. One of the highlights of this boutique hotel near Stellenbosch is knowing it does good for the local community; especially welcome in a country where there’s an undeniable gulf between luxury tourism and the wider population’s own standard of living.)

Hawksmoor House’s location just north of the Winelands is incredibly peaceful; it’s the perfect antidote to busy lives at home and an overnight long-hauler. A snoop beyond the eye-catching ornamental pond reveals a few steps down to the pool and the revelation that the legendary breeze in these parts keeps you cool, even with that African sun searing down – as does that bracing water. Toes dipped and a further stroll around the sprawling gardens introduces us to three more of our hosts – Max, Cosmo and Alice. Especially affable, and endearingly wet nosed, Hawksmoor’s resident German pointers come to make friends with us before we retire to our room for a freshen up.

Sunday is the only night when the hosts rustle up a three-course supper, and since it’s a communal affair I opt to make a little effort with my appearance. Besides, a long soak in that fabulous bathroom beckons. Suitably spruced and ready for a glass of fizz at sunset’s golden hour, we toast the enchanting yellowy light reflecting off the pond and seeping in through the tiny windows. Its Midas touch illuminates a bloom-laden orchid and stretches to the oversized oriental pots making them look dipped in butter. Oh how the likes of Vermeer might have appreciated such a scene.

For dinner we’re joined by three German chaps and a Polish guy whose English isn’t as fluent. It sure makes you realise how lame your small talk can be when having to pause and hear it translated. The wine flows further and conversation ceases to be quite as excruciating. After a starter of delicious cheese- and fruit-enhanced salad, we devour huge meatballs wrapped in cabbage leaves. The Afrikaans dish is dubbed ‘old lady in a blanket’; the Polish fellow reveals it’s also a favourite back home and translates roughly as 'little pigeons' – cue a conversation about how poetic a language Polish is. Certainly an improvement on the obligatory Garden Route itinerary comparisons. And for dessert? A take on sticky toffee pudding. Consider our love affair with Hawksmoor by now well and truly consummated.

So intense is our romance with Hawksmoor House, in describing our visit I have run out of space to reveal details of what else we do – but, be assured, the time at the hotel is just one chapter in an epic adventure that included a daytrip to the marvellous Spier in Stellenbosch. Sure the vineyard is touristy, but it’s all tastefully done. And where else do you get to stroke cheetah cubs, cuddle baby owls, oh, and drink three award-winning wines for about £2? Another lunchtime escapade sees us revel in another Winelands must-do – a boozy four-course banquet at La Petite Ferme in Franschhoek. Actually, I’m not sure our couple of days at Hawksmoor House could have been more starry-eyed. And we’ll let you into another secret: amazingly, we even thought that with our 18-month old in tow. But let’s not spoil the magic…