Mr & Mrs Smith

Having grown up in Kent, I’m accustomed to the juxtaposition between travelling on a tranquil train through miles of beautiful, calm green meadows while, at the same time, conveying lager louts hunched in troglodyte huddles by the door, discussing what to do for the weekend. Mr Smith, unfortunately, is not from Kent and has concocted visions of leafy grandeur, Victorian walkways, tiny cobbled streets and smiley old ladies. As one of the group on our train – Baz – announces they are going to ‘get wasted’ in Tunbridge Wells, the struggle of reconciling his image of the Royal borough with the one occupied by these slack-jawed yokels, is making itself evident on Mr Smith’s face.

He needn’t have worried. The Brew House Hotel might occupy the same spot of landmass as Baz and his ilk, but it is worlds apart in every other respect. Set in the heart of the town centre on Warwick Park, the main building is a beauty – even when compared to the other stunners in the vicinity. Think warm pink stone interspersed with pale cream and a peaked arch top, and two round semi-circular windows on the ground floor that reveal flashes of pristine white and a soft spotlight glow.

Indoors, we are greeted by a circular white staircase and a smiling receptionist dressed in a sparkly fairy costume. Mr Smith and I resolutely avoid each other’s gaze lest we dissolve into giggles, but our friendly sylph tells us it’s for Comic Relief and that if we were to visit the bar later, to be prepared for all manner of elven folk and moustachioed men.

We are handed the key for room 205 and make the ascent up the staircase. Judging by the clean lines and white décor below, I’m steeling myself for something rather minimalist, but am pleasantly surprised, elated even, to see that in terms of décor, the Brew House has managed to pull off that trickiest of skills – contemporary design using stark colours, yet still managing to fuse the room with warmth. The black glass furniture might have made the room severe, but cleverly, they’ve added touches such as warm champagne, silver and white fabric blinds and a black silk bedspread with a gold underside. Mr Smith, however, is more impressed by the Bang & Olufsen flatscreen that sits on a polished black table.

Seeing as this is our first mini break together, I feel an instant rush of relief that he loves the room as much as I do, and I don’t anticipate any major hurdles – until I switch on the bathroom light, that is. The door is made of clear glass. A jumble of situations – most of them ghastly - present themselves in my head, made worse by the fact that I try to verbalise them in disjointed sentences such as: ‘I do love you, really, but well, ah, I’m not sure, um, we’re there at that stage yet…’ While my voice gets increasingly high-pitched, Mr Smith calmly flicks a switch next to the light and the door frosts into opaque. My hero.

The door really is an ingenious device that allows for greater continuity of space from the bedroom to the bathroom. The contrast of light and dark is seamless, with the bathroom featuring brand-new white fixtures, a large cauliflower-head of a shower with the water running into an unseen drain beneath the tiles, a square Duravit toilet and sink, and floods of sunshine painting the bathroom into a brilliant copse of light.

It’s the kind of room you’d like to spend a lot of time in, and although a day in bed reading the papers seems like an irresistible option, the famed parks of Tunbridge Wells and a stroll down the historic Pantiles beckon us. After gathering lots of local info from the extremely helpful Brew House staff, we meander through a few parks – Dunorlan, Calverly Grounds and the Grove – which are all handily placed within walking distance of each other, and make our way back towards the hotel area to explore the Pantiles. On our way, we ooh and aah at some of the prettiest houses we’ve ever seen, which range from art deco to Victorian in style.

Before dinner, we hit the hotel bar, which has the same décor as the restaurant, barring a striking blue, light-filled panel of glass that lifts the starkness of the white walls, strange octopus neon chandeliers, plump white chairs and dark wood floors. One Chablis and a Grey Goose vodka later, we’re seated. The Number One restaurant is almost at full capacity; Mr Smith pontificates: ‘Impressive in these credit-crunch times.’ I believe it’s because the Brew House offers good food – I love my tender lamb and basil mash while Mr Smith immensely enjoys his steak – minus stratospheric prices. Champagne, Chablis, Pinot Noir, two starters and mains all came in at less than £100. At one point on my way to the ladies’, I catch a peep of Sam’s Diner, the American eaterie in the basement, but in truth I’m not a fan. Its star-spangled banner colours strike a discordant chord when compared to the rest of the hotel’s plushness – it’s a good thing it is relegated to the basement.

Back in the room, the distilled silence filtering though the sea of trees and quiet that surrounds Tunbridge Wells awaits us. Egyptian cotton sheets soothe our food-heavy bodies with a soft touch, and this spotlit bubble, high above the madding crowds, is the place that Mr Smith and I love best. Baz and company are welcome to the rest of it.