Hyll Hotel

I firmly believe that a holiday needs to ruin at least one aspect of your life. If you are lucky enough to be upgraded on a flight, as wonderful as that immediate smugness is, it will make every future economy flight that bit worse. If you occasionally treat yourself to a suite, perhaps complete with its own pool, access to a beach, or even just an ocean-facing balcony, it will ruin every sensible booking you probably — financially — need to make afterwards. If a holiday doesn’t make you furious about your real life, then what’s the point?

Which is why Hyll Hotel has made the reality that I don’t own a manor house in the Cotswolds countryside really quite upsetting. And more specifically, like Hyll, I’d like a manor house with interiors that don’t suggest they are in the Cotswolds at all.

It had been raining for 40 days and 40 nights (at the very, very least) when Mr Smith and I set off from London in yet another heavy downpour that didn’t relent for the two-and-a-half-hour drive. But there is something different about biblical rain in London, compared with biblical rain in the countryside. Somewhere beyond Chipping Norton it transformed from desolate to dreamy, though perhaps that’s because I wasn’t driving, and was instead staring down every long driveway, and peering over every dry-stone wall, to catch a glimpse of passing country piles. My hunt for the dream house started early.

But you don’t need to hunt out Hyll down drives or behind stones, for the 14th-century manor rises above the north Cotswolds’ countryside, set high on a hill (clue is in the name), handsomely flirting with the land below. And with me.

On entering through a robust yet discreet side door, there is no choreographed welcoming committee, no grand reception, nothing that gives the impression of a well-oiled cookie-cutter hotel. Instead, you feel like you have just stepped into the home of a rich great-aunt, who is happy you are there, but treats you like family immediately, and you can have the run of the place, while she prepares the drinks. Thankfully it is a great-aunt who loves you the most, as she has reserved one of the best rooms for you. I say that confidently having not seen any of the other rooms, but Room 1 can surely only be the best.

For firstly, there is the scent. Now, I don’t want to show off here, but I’ve been to many a hotel — the life-ruiners and the not-so-much — but Hyll is the first to introduce me to EcoScent. Quietly filling the air intermittently with the most delicious scent, while looking like a speaker. Clearly, I have no idea how it works, but I am a sucker for a fancy diffuser. As is Mr Smith, as on the way home he suggested buying one. We haven’t committed as yet. Following my nose around the room, opening every door, drawer and cupboard (I have zero chill in a hotel room, I must know everything), I discovered something else missing from my reality; stairs down to an ensuite. What is chicer than a duplex room? Very little I have concluded. 

If you are expecting stories of adventure and exploration, I must admit that Mr Smith and I had very little planned for our short getaway. However, in our defence, doing nothing is very much encouraged at Hyll. There is a booklet dedicated to ‘Do Nothing’, in which it suggests ‘Touch something natural’, ‘Find a chair and sit in it’, and ‘Appreciate the bed’. I had done all of that within the first 15 minutes, so we decided to do nothing in the bar over perfect French 75s that went down far too easily, and roast-beef sandwiches and cheeseboards. In fact, our plan to Do Nothing quickly transformed into Inhale Everything. Which continued in the listening room, where over wine and a Pulp record, as Mr Smith stoked the fire, we agreed that we needed a room just like that one in our manor house but argued about the shade of paint on the walls. Aubergine, a hard no from me, or grey-green, a yes from us both. Who knows, it was too dark to tell — a benefit of small, 14th-century windows is the shortfall of light makes everyone — and everything — look glorious.

After ‘Appreciating the bed’ — afternoon napping, thanks very much — it was time to inhale again. The restaurant is where a well-oiled machine does operate, but quietly. The interiors don’t allow for the loud and rushed, as everything has been stripped of excess, relying on stone, timber and linen, ‘An invitation to disconnect from noise'. Indeed, even the three children at the next table were practically mute. Divine. The margaritas were as perfect as the French 75s, while the Devon scallops, roast cod, winter salad and deconstructed cheesecake vanished at an alarming rate. Which explains why both of us could only face a delicate pot of overnight chia seeds for breakfast the next morning.

For those who want a little more oomph on their weekends away, there is also a ‘Do Something’ booklet. Which suggests walks ‘beyond the gate’. We didn’t walk. ‘Bring wellies,’ Mr Smith had said. ‘I won’t need them, these Italian designer leather ankle boots with a decent tread will suffice.’ Reader, they did not suffice. Especially as England had been transformed into a bog and Hyll was also something of a work in progress, as it builds a new space for weddings and events. Not that that should put anyone off, as while the sight of a digger on a building site upon arrival at a hotel is quite disconcerting, we didn’t hear a peep from the workers while we were doing very little indoors.

Instead, we decided to drive to the local villages of Broadway and Chipping Campden to check out the locals and the estate agents. Now these are pretty little towns, full of the pretty little Cotswolds chintz we know and love, but after dipping into galleries and interiors stores galore, we were delighted to return to the warm minimalist interiors at Hyll, without a frill or floral in sight. I’ve never appreciated taupe, or a wee dram in front of an open fire, more.

Staying in bed at Hyll is celebrated, and who was I to argue with that? So, on our final morning we ordered breakfast in bed and watched Beetlejuice from under the Egyptian-cotton covers, oblivious to the torrents continuing outside, but knowing we didn’t want to get up.

Then, as we were readying to leave, we flicked through the magnificent Albert Watson’s Kaos photography book in the drawing room, only to find a shot of a youthful Mr Smith captured in the Hamptons during his modelling days.

So, tell me, as it turns out that Mr Smith was already ensconced at Hyll before our arrival, and a little bit of him remains there, does that mean we can claim squatters’ rights in future and take Hyll as our own? My reality depends on it.