Babington House came into my life in a moment of serendipity. When the chance to stay arose, the mere thought of a midweek escape to the Somerset hills, with nowhere to be and nothing to do, seemed heaven-sent. Why this hankering after a life of languor? Because this has been my Summer of Weddings.
You hear of it on the grapevine before it happens to you. There’s that aunt who had 12 on the trot. The colleague who nearly defaulted on their mortgage flying between Mykonos, Menorca and some tiny island in Sweden. One friend of mine was invited to no fewer than 17 celebrations in a single year — an exceptionally long tour in the matrimonial trenches. This summer, it has been my turn to step up to the parapet.
Now, the weddings have been joyous, every one. But reader, I confess I am dog tired. After the starts at sunrise, the long drives, the late nights and one very long odyssey down pitch-black country lanes to get home, I am ready to enter into union with a comfy bed until death do us part (figuratively speaking). Babington House will surely oblige.
Part of the Soho House group since 1998, this Grade II-listed Georgian manor stands amid the rolling greenery of rural north-east Somerset, positioned between Bath and Frome. Wrapped by 18 acres of lawns, woodland and walled gardens, it is the spiritual home of downtime, with two pools, a croquet lawn, tennis and padel courts, a cricket pitch, a cinema and the original Cowshed spa. In other words, rejuvenation on tap.
In Bath, I’m met by the affable Henry, one of the house’s drivers, who takes me up to the manor. After eight weeks of sun and not a drop of rain, the landscape has taken on a strange beauty, more akin to Sicily than Somerset. The parched fields have been blanched the colour of pale straw — I sympathise, now a veteran of many weekends of open bars. So Mediterranean is this vision that I half expect to see an ancient Fiat Trattori appear from a passing gate, laden with fresh pomodori and casks of Nero d’Avola wine.
When we reach Babington, the Italian reverie evaporates, replaced by a scene as English as they come: country-house loafing. All around, fellow indulgents are perfecting the art of doing little. They lie sprawled on the sun-kissed lawns, they sip rosé beneath striped parasols, they’re supine by the pool with champagne on ice. Before checking in, I peek inside St Margaret’s, the beautiful, weatherworn church just opposite the manor. Truly, it would make a lovely spot for a wedding; but today, there’s not a soul inside. I have come to the right place.
I’m booked into a room in the Coach House, adjacent to the main house. It’s a split-level space with a mezzanine bedroom and a double-height ceiling in the living area, crossed by wooden beams. The windows overlook the pool and gardens, which slope towards a pond and the woods beyond. A bottle of red has been set out on the coffee table; Classic FM issues from a Roberts radio. So far, so very restful. But there is one missing piece of the puzzle, so I climb the stairs to the bedroom with the nervous hope of a man who is about to propose.
And she says yes! This is a bed worth getting down on one knee for: emperor-sized, kingly in comfort and, crucially, in a room that is deliciously cool. In my own garret bedroom in London, I have found myself locked in a Promethean cycle of nights intent on proving that it is possible to be broiled in your own bed. Here, post-wedding rest is assured. Resisting the urge to drift off immediately, I turn instead to a pick-me-up.
Soho House has partnered with supplement brand Zooki on a set of smartly packaged in-room wellness kits, part of their burgeoning Health Club offering. I dig into mine with the fervour of a zealot, ready to believe that this dose of electrolytes, vitamins and sleep-hastening gels will undo the damage wrought by whisky toasts and lumpy bed-and-breakfast mattresses. Fortified, I head out to explore the grounds.
Taking a meandering route past the spa and bloom-filled walled gardens, I spot a set of Scandi-looking cabins visible through the trees at the foot of the estate. This, it turns out, is the Lazy Forest, yet another feather in Babington’s cosseting cap. Each timber cabin can be booked for 90 minutes — solo, as a couple or with a group of friends — giving you free rein over a sauna, cold plunge pool, alfresco fireside lounge and a minibar stocked with tea, herbal tinctures and house-favourite drinks. Just what the doctor ordered. Alas, those better informed than I have beaten me to it, so I opt for a sunset swim instead.
I’ve had my vitamins and got my laps in; time for an elixir of another sort. In the manor, I discover a string of inviting apéritif spots, including a wood-panelled library and intimate snug, both filled with tactile Soho Home furnishings that nail the country-house brief. In the end, I set up at the pewter-topped bar in a grand, oval-shaped room overlooking the now-dusky lawns. I’m quite happy to nurse my Negroni and play the fly on the wall. One of the advantages of Babington being a members’ club is that people come and go all the time; they pop by for a spa session, to meet in the study or kick back in the bar. Flying solo here makes sense, and you can be as gregarious or incognito as you want to be.
Time for dinner. I make my way into the Orangery, a lofty, window-walled dining room with a gabled glass roof. On the far wall is the room’s sole artwork, an abstract canvas by painter and Somerset local Daisy Parris, known for her unflinching meditations on the mind and its machinations — the good, the bad and the ugly. To me, this is Babington in a nutshell, balancing the formality of Georgian grandeur with a softer, human touch.
Channelling my hopes for my own weary state, I opt for lightness. To start, I plump for the tender, wood-smoked scallops, which pair perfectly with a glass of crisp Burgundian Meursault. For my main, sea bass with basil and panzanella, made with juicy, garden-fresh tomatoes in vibrant reds and yellows — it seems my Italian reverie has come true after all. It is all delicious and perfectly pitched; I slip back to the Coach House and fall sound asleep.
The next morning comes and goes all too quickly. I fit in a second swim, a last stroll around the grounds and a hearty full English at the Orangery, now glowing in the morning sun. I’ll need all the strength I can get — it’s back to London and then, yes, on to another wedding. Next time the nuptials stack up, I know just where to come. And I will make my own processional down to the Lazy Forest, where the attire will be informal and the champagne reception strictly for one.
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