Mr & Mrs Smith

Peppering a review of a lodging house in Stratford-upon-Avon with Shakespearean lines may be mawkish. But when observing reverence to the town and its most famous son, I remind myself that an honest tale speeds best, being plainly told… Ahem.

Even with Mrs Smith heavily pregnant, Church Street is a mere 10-minute stroll from the station (possibly less if I'd offered to help with our bags). It’s a pleasant surprise to see such satisfyingly atmospheric Tudor dwellings existing outside Elizabethan dramas and the architectural plans of Premiership footballers. Behind decorative ogee windows of a grade II-listed townhouse overlooking half-timbered Church Street awaits a modern medley of duck-egg blue Farrow & Ball paintwork, plush cushions and scrubbed wooden tables. Imagine an abridged Soho House for Stratford (complete with super-kingsize beds, pewter-topped bar and flatscreen TVs, of course) and that should set the scene.

Given the general civic Ye-Olde-ification, the Church Street Townhouse is refreshingly contemporary; our room's original features (pendulous beams for the most part) are complemented by a muted grey and aubergine scheme with fittings and fabrics in vibrant scarlet and silver. I had already determined to self-medicate a heavy cold with fortifying liquor, so the mini port decanter on the sideboard is an especially well-received touch. What is truly inspired? A bath rack across the freestanding Victorian tub, which ingeniously is fitted with glass-holders. Imbibing while soaking: surely the ultimate in luxury? ‘I look forward to a most dissolute convalescence,’ I slur to Mrs Smith through the soap suds.

An early-week visit in spring treats us to sunshine and a soft breeze that propels the ducks chirpily along the Avon. A meander down Henley Street takes us to the birthplace of the Bard (not Rabbie Burns, for any obdurate Scots), where we even get to enjoy two local thesps making an admirable stab at scenes from various of the plays on request. (It also proves a good opportunity to enlighten Texan tour groups of an important fact their official guides had failed to mention: Ben Affleck is directly descended from Richard Burbage.) A two-mile circular walking tour takes in a number of historical buildings, from the 14th to the 19th centuries (many of which have not become a Bella Pasta), and at the Swan Theatre, an abridged version of ‘The Tempest’ using puppetry is a great success. ‘Similar to the Townhouse,’ Mrs Smith muses, ‘It re-imagines the original spirit through the lens of modernity.’

Co-owned and run by Rachel Hawkins and her aunt Sue (the dynamic duo behind the first incarnation of the fabulous George in Shipston on Stour), Church Street Townhouse displays passion and an attention to detail at every turn, from the etched-glass port decanters to the monogrammed cotton tote bags; an antique-dealing family elder was even drafted in to source the pewter coffee pots and modishly mismatched silver candlesticks dressing the dining room. They first opened the hotel in the summer of 2010, but before that it had housed accountants upstairs and a dental surgery beneath, so had we visited a few summers ago, it might have been slightly less geared at pleasure-seekers. (Over a third decanter of port, I am left ruminating in the bath whether I'd have preferred having my cavities drilled before or after being admonished for another late tax return?)

We eat dinner at Church Street Townhouse both nights, once in the restaurant and the next, well, in bed. (We beg them to break their usual no-room-service policy on our second night due simply to sloth – or as Mrs Smith observes, ‘The exhaustion incurred by carrying your child for eight months – and the hotel’s impressive DVD library).

The menu provides hearty and wholesome country classics, and mustard, so I discover, of sufficient potency to unblock the most stubbornly congested sinuses. Prices are commendable and my amontillado only half a degree too warm. (Captious, moi? It is the nature of my job as a wine connoisseur.) Reassuringly busy, the atmosphere in the main bar shows it is a popular rendezvous with locals, while residents can enjoy after-hours digestifying in the library. After an unsparingly sturdy dinner and yet more port, sleep comes easy here. Thanks to Tudor walls thicker than Henry VIII's calves, the revels from the bars beneath are deadened entirely and the beds are very much the stuff as dreams are made on.

Rachel and her delightful team are obliging throughout our stay. Friendly, vivacious and helpful with itineraries, restaurant and bar recommendations, they even rise to the seemingly Sisyphean task of refuelling our room’s decanter. And of course parting is such sweet sorrow (‘Oh, you’re not going to put that in there,’ groans Mrs Smith as I mutter it on check-out), and Mrs Smith and I make a pact to return for an RSC-filled weekend. And prithee, one last challenge. Did you spot every Shakespeare reference slipped into this text? Now remind me: is levity, gravity or brevity the soul of wit?

Reviewed by Tom Harrow