Mr & Mrs Smith

Boy, were we glad to get to the Drawing Room. It was 11.30pm, and for much of the five-hour Friday-night drive from London, the car had been the unhappy recipient of a severe thrashing by a nasty horizontal rain. Just as Eskimos are said to have a hundred words to describe types of snow, we’d figured out at least ten for rain. The last hour’s drive was through a mix of number seven (heavy, ‘blatting’, wipers on full speed) and number two (roof-drumming fat droplets). So far, a romantic jaunt with my girlfriend to Wales’s stunning Wye Valley region had left us tired, grumpy and mean-spirited. But as co-proprietor Melanie Dawson appeared out of the darkness to guide us into the carpark, like an angelic patron saint of hospitality in her white chef’s outfit, I had a feeling that everything was going to be all right.

In fact, it was more than all right. It was something special. Chefs Colin and Melanie Dawson spent a year renovating this small 300-year-old Georgian country house before opening it as a top-end eating and sleeping establishment a year ago. It’s been awarded five stars from the Welsh Tourist Board, despite there being no bar, room service or swimming pool in this retreat. With a little sitting room, a restaurant and only four bedrooms, there’s not that much to it, really, but it’s in the details that the Drawing Room comes into its own. Absolutely everything about the Drawing Room has been lovingly created in a style that’s timeless, tasteful and indulgent.

I had one concern. In such a small hotel, no matter how luxurious, there is always the risk of ‘bed and breakfast syndrome’ – the awkwardness that comes from being in close proximity to the proprietors. We got ourselves into a bit of a tizzy over this at first, making our minds up to be out as much as possible. Happily, though, there was no stilted chitchat over the breakfast table or uneasy grins in the hallway. The Dawsons’ service was as discreet and unobtrusive as it was impeccable.

Obviously, we had missed dinner, but after we had checked in (which merely involved signing the guest book – no nasty, vulgar credit-card swiping round these parts), a freshly made plate of exquisite hors d’oeuvres, a splendid cheeseboard and some beer was sent straight to our room. The owners describe it as a restaurant with rooms, and while the Drawing Room is unashamedly foodcentric, attracting gourmets from all over the country to its restaurant, it would be a big mistake to think that the rooms are a mere afterthought.

With restful, pastoral views from the windows, simple, classic Laura Ashley furniture and a big leather armchair, the room – which, like the rest of the hotel, is fragrantly smoke-free – felt wholesome in a rustic kind of a way. But its red walls, chandelier and wrought-iron bed also imbued it with a slight air of saucy mischief. Or maybe that’s just me. No, I’m sure my girlfriend thought so too. What is for sure is that she loved the Penhaligon’s toiletries and the outrageously comfortable Mitre bathrobes. Fed, anointed and swaddled, we could soon feel the post-drive torpor lifting off us like a veil, helped hugely by a lazy soak in the freestanding Fired Earth bath.

Raised up off a lovely slate floor and heated from below, it was a handsome beast, and easily big enough for two. In fact, we could have invited a couple of other guests in there if we’d felt inclined (but before you get visions of any key-throwing-in, there were no other guests that night). The bath’s position next to the window, which looks out onto the country road, means that it’s advisable to shut the curtain in order avoid treating walkers or local livestock to a saucy Jilly Cooper moment. The last thing we needed was for an irate farmer to turn up claiming that we were ‘worrying the sheep’.

The next day, our quest for the countryside’s holy trinity of natural beauty, general meandering and a nice pub took us to the beautiful Elan reservoir, followed by the little market town of Rhyader. While some small, rural towns can occasionally display a creepy Wicker Man vibe, this place was a model of easygoing bonhomie. Whether we were eavesdropping on local gossip or taking the quiz machine far too seriously, the people of Rhyader were uniformly friendly to this pair of outsiders.

After a day spent wandering, we decided that it was time to take our holiday slothfulness more seriously. This is where the room’s flatscreen TV, which can be comfortably watched from bed, comes into its own. It also tripled as DVD and CD player, performing both functions extremely well with superb sound. Downstairs, there was a good selection of free-to-borrow DVDs, which we perused while sipping a brace of Kir Royales, brought to us as we waited for dinner in front of a log fire in the cosy sitting room.

The restaurant, whose six tables were all full when we were seated, is stylish and smart, a fact that was reflected in the dapper dress of the diners, all of whom were clearly enjoying a special occasion. But this was no awkward, hushed temple of gastronomy where punters are scared to talk above a low murmur. Rather, it’s a relaxed affair in a romantic yet low-key atmosphere, enhanced by the waitress’s discreet, friendly service. (Admirably, she even remained professional and affable when having ordered monkfish, my girlfriend made reference to The Fast Show's Inspector Monkfish, provoking several minutes of inane guffaws from me.)

The presentation of the food was also excellent, including little love-heart shapes in the lemon tart's coulis, picked out in precisely rendered custard. The Dawsons use only fresh local ingredients, and the Welsh black beef with potato galette was a lesson in well-sourced simplicity. Welsh steak is one of the finest cuts of beef you can buy and this was an exquisite example of its kind. Classic, unmucked-about-with meat, bursting with flavour and wonderfully tender.

Breakfast, too, was immaculately presented, as we sat at the chef’s table in a bay window alcove looking out onto the garden. Fresh grapes were flattened at the end so that they stood curiously to attention, the bacon was thick, juicy and moreish and the overall vibe kept us lingering at the table long after we’d wiped the last toast crumbs away. With the papers in front of us and feeling dozily full, the only dark spot on the horizon was deciding who was going to take the wheel for the return journey through the spirit-breaking Sunday night traffic. Hmm, let’s see if we can stay just one more night…

This boutique bed and breakfast in Wales was reviewed by Chris Elwell-Sutton