Middleton Lodge Estate

I’m one of those irritating Londoners who travel far and wide… but haven’t explored beyond the M25 when it comes to the UK. At 36 years of age, it was time for a change; so when I had the opportunity to visit Middleton Lodge in Yorkshire, the time had come for me to explore my homeland, and shake off the shackles of London-centric ignorance. 

Middleton Lodge had a stately feel to it, with expansive grounds unfurling into the North Yorkshire Moors. Wide pathways lead in all different directions, and grandiose buildings are dotted across your eyeline. Incoming guests have three options: stay in the Main House (an authentic Georgian mansion), the Farmhouse, or the Coach House (a horseshoe-shaped building set around a considerably beautiful courtyard), where we were stationed throughout our stay. 

The Lodge has a long, tree-lined driveway, which made me feel as if I’d pulled up at the entrance to Forrest Gump’s house, or a great plantation in the Deep South (my only previous point of reference for Yorkshire a David Hockney exhibition at the Royal Academy in 2012). This was the quintessential northern-English version, with elms instead of oaks, sub-zero temperatures and even fewer comprehensible accents.  We alighted from our car and were struck by the welcome sound of silence, soon broken by as my other half laboriously dragged their suitcase through the gravel.

The formalities of check-in complete, we were assigned a Garden Room named Methera. For those unfamiliar with Yorkshire vernacular, Methera, along with Yan, Tan, Tethera and Pip, are not – as I had presumed – characters from The Lord of The Rings, but terms used by shepherds for counting sheep. Useful to know if you accidentally find yourself on University Challenge. We, on the other hand, had accidentally found ourselves in a British version of City Slickers; I feared a participatory sheep-shearing exercise come morning. 

Safely entrenched within our room, we took stock of our surroundings; a king-size bed, (large enough for a king and several mistresses); freestanding bath (who doesn’t love a freestanding bath?); under-floor heating, and the almost obligatory (for upmarket hotels) chaise-longue. Ms Smith dutifully informed me that the style was ‘farmhouse chic’. It was tasteful and well thought out, with exacting attention to detail. Rooms are Internet-friendly too, but you’re irritatingly logged out of the WiFi after a few minutes of inactivity; it’s as if the hotel’s deliberately steering guests offline during their stay, which I suppose is the point. However, as a Londoner, checking my phone every three-and-a-half minutes is a deeply ingrained habit. 

We whisked ourselves off to dinner at the Coach House restaurant. This dining room set in an old, converted carriage house, has retained many original features: exposed brick mingles with wooden beams, farmhouse cottons with cast iron… Head chef Gareth Rayner’s menu reads Modern British with European influences; rustic, seasonal, locally sourced: it ticks off all ‘farmhouse bistro’ buzzwords, but here it feels justified. I dined on terrine of pressed, corn-fed chicken, and duck and ham with scorched clementine and a slick of onion jam. Ms Smith skipped the starter to make room for her 8oz rib-eye steak, with a hearty helping of skinny fries, drenched in Béarnaise sauce. I believe the simplest dishes are the truest test of a kitchen’s technical skill (like ordering a Margherita pizza in Naples); the steak was perfectly medium-rare, the sauce glossy. My main – duck with salsify and cavolo nero in a herb emulsion – was beautifully presented and flavourful, if lacking wow-factor. For dessert, an apple-and-vanilla mille-feuille, topped with toffee and brown-butter ice-cream, was decadent and moreish. Well-fed and exhausted from the four-and-a-half-hour drive, we retired to our luxurious bedroom.  

We woke early the next day, intent on extracting as much from 24 hours in Yorkshire as possible. Middleton Lodge offers two activities: shooting and spa treatments.  I opted out of the former, Ms Smith had to be forcibly removed from the latter. Muscles soothed, we set off to explore. The picturesque town of Richmond is filled with cobblestones, fudge-stacked sweet shops and hobbit-size doorways; here we began our ramble into the surrounding foothills. After walking south for 15 minutes, we found ourselves in a land of burbling brooks, rugged greenery and farm animals – rural England at its most spectacular. Even more awe-inspiring was stumbling across the ruins of Easby Abbey, which was founded around 1152. Walking around its remains, I felt as if I’d been transported back to mediaeval Britain. Other notable attractions include the Michelin-starred Black Swan at Oldstead. It’s an hour’s drive from the lodge, but it was one of the most exemplary displays of cooking I’ve been fortunate enough to eat in a long time, with pitch-perfect hospitality. It’s worthy of its Michelin-afforded status. 

On the journey home, I reflected on cultural observations I’d made as a London-dwelling urbanite visiting Yorkshire for the first time. Middleton Lodge has been lovingly put together, straddling a well-plotted course that sidesteps stuffiness and makes guests feel special; it’s a family business and feels like it. Staff were genuinely warm and welcoming, as were the Yorkers we met during our stay; as a Londoner accustomed to more abrasive exchanges, it’s this that makes me eager to return.