Fowlescombe Farm

'Is he a humper?' Fowlescombe Farm’s owner Caitlin asks doubtfully, as my companion pushes past her into our whitewashed suite. I tell her Wilf is more likely to make a move on the charcuterie set out on the table, but we both breathe a sigh of relief when he swerves the fluffy sheepskin cube she’s standing guard over — her mother, she explains, loves a good doorstop, a passion apparently shared by several previous canine guests. (Wilf is, for the avoidance of doubt, my cairn terrier, rather than my Mr Smith — this is a girls' getaway.)

After giving us a quick tour of our double-height, oak-beamed space and checking what time we’d like dinner, she leaves us to decompress. Though I wouldn’t advise driving from London to Devon on the first Friday of half-term, I can think of worse places to recuperate than Fowlescombe, a place so thoroughly tucked away that, standing at the upstairs bedroom window (small pal pressing his nose against the glass at my side), everything I can see is theirs, right up to the horizon.

There’s a comfort to that — it feels like we’ve escaped the world for the weekend, and it’s tempting to take the isolation a step further and spend the entire evening sprawled on the generous sofa, drinking wine and eating cured beef as the West Country wind howls outside. But, I remind Ms Smith, we said 7.30pm, which means wrenching ourselves off the soft furnishings and heading into the rain, clad in the bottle-green waterproof capes provided (designed, Caitlin informed us, by her mother-in-law. This is clearly a family affair).

Indeed, though it makes an ideal retreat from city life, Fowlescombe wouldn’t be my first choice for a romantic weekend à deux, because it’s less a conventional hotel, with all the discreet division between staff and guest — and guest and fellow guest — that that suggests, and more a very upmarket farmstay, where you become, for all too brief a time, part of the community. Not only is there no formal reception area, but the refectory dining room is dominated by a large shared table in front of an open kitchen (though there are a few individual spots at the back as well, should neither high stools, nor socialising, be on your agenda).

Though Wilf is encouraged to join us for dinner, we decide to leave him snoozing on a piece of sheepskin actually designed for him, which has been left out thoughtfully, along with a bowl and a paper bag of treats. As he eats the bag as well, it seems fair to conclude the four-course menu (so relaxing, to be told what to eat!) would be wasted on him (so relaxing, to have a break from the dog!).

Bags aside, the food is, like the place itself, elegantly simple; charcuterie, bread and homemade pickles with a seasonal velouté, then a small plate (homemade pasta one night, roasted scallop the next), a main (local venison, then halibut), and a small dessert, which on Friday is one of the best rice puddings I’ve had in my life, sweet and rich with clotted cream and seasonal fruit, topped with crispy brioche crumbs. In keeping with the agriturismo vibe, much of the produce comes from the farm, whose rare and native breeds (Manx Loaghtan sheep, English Long- and Shorthorn Cattle, Tamworth pigs) can be visited as part of the activity programme, though we decide to restrict Wilf to a tour of the greenhouse, where he can do less damage.

Everything feels very collaborative: the chefs are close enough to answer annoying questions as they work (What’s in the runner-bean chutney? Where do you get your black pudding? Do you have any bones for the dog?); and Taylor, king of the cocktail shaker, and Caitlin, who designed the off-beam wine list — with its focus on whites from Austria and the Italian Tyrol, and Douro Valley reds — are always on hand to advise on drinks. As the dining room empties, we find ourselves sharing a nightcap with a family celebrating a birthday — and their extremely well-behaved Labrador, who looks like he’s never eaten a piece of packaging in his life.

Needless to say, after all this excitement (including the discovery of a hedgehog in the orchard on a late-night canine constitutional), I sleep extremely well on the organic mattress stuffed with their own wool. The light-filled Home Barn is cleverly designed so that, though the mezzanine bedroom overlooks the king-size sofa-bed where Ms Smith is battling Wilf for space, neither of us can actually see each other when we’re ensconced, and I could have lazed up there all day if someone hadn’t arrived officiously at 7.30am to wake me up for a walk (clue: it’s not Ms Smith). Our morning stroll takes us part an imposing, ivy-clad ruin and then, in the woods, a second, more modest one… later Caitlin tells me that Fowlescombe House is thought to have been Conan Doyle’s inspiration for Baskerville Hall… the other building was the kennels. No wonder Wilf (9.1kg soaking wet) won’t go near the place. 

I bitterly regret making plans to visit the Dartmouth Food Festival after breakfast, because I would have been a lot happier spending the day in the fluffy, fleece-lined cocoon of Fowlescombe — morning yoga in the greenhouse, smoked mackerel on buttered sourdough, wine-tasting and cooking classes in the refectory, playing board games and eating cake by the fire in the farmhouse, and reading a book in our vast bath. (Ms Smith, meanwhile, falls hard for chef Jon’s retriever puppy when he brings her a windfall apple from the orchard.)

The whole place feels like a dream, written by Enid Blyton, designed by Architectural Digest — all I need is to replace Wilf with a sleeker, more stylish model (a whippet?) and we’d blend in so well that perhaps they’d never ask us to leave. If someone could send the rest of my things, c/o Fowlescombe Farm, I’d be very grateful.