The Painswick

As we drove up through Painswick, I was pleased to note these weren't the chocolate box Cotswolds of an American fantasy; the darling gift shops and immaculate lawns that come to mind when a wealthy relative speaks of a weekend away.

Though astoundingly beautiful, this area seemed to me beautiful in an altogether rougher way. Its roads untamed, its homes filled by people that actually live there, its pathways steep…or perhaps I was just distracted by the mud. Soon after dropping our bags at The Painswick – a Grade II-listed house built for a wealthy local rector in 1790 that sits grandly on a steep hill, its restaurant perched on the right, a highly wedding-able croquet lawn on the left – we set out for a walk.

There are a range of maps available, guiding guests on walks that range from those suitable for children right the way up to those aimed at people who like to suffer. We chose the second shortest, borrowing wellies from the hall, and still we exhausted ourselves.

At more than one point we found ourselves clambering over barbed wire, the spire of a church in the distance our only guide. We missed visiting Painswick Rococo Garden (the country's sole surviving complete rococo garden) and missed the grounds of St Mary's, the parish church where there are 99 yew trees – the devil, legend has it, will steal the 100th yew should it ever be planted. Whoops. But there were diversions across busy roads, through a private tennis club and, my favourite, over a stream in a stranger’s back garden. Be assured though, all this was simply due to my poor map reading rather than the fault of the hotel. At the hotel, detail is everything.

When we returned, coats caked in mud, new muscles developing in our thighs, I collapsed into a bath where a copy of Laurie Lee’s Cider with Rosie was propped up on the bath tray – the book is based on nearby Slad Valley. Detail.

Waiting in the room for us was a Nespresso machine and a jar of homemade cookies, which made us feel loved. And confident. Confident enough to pop down to the bar and ask for a refill, which we ate in bed.

There are 18 rooms in total, with those in the garden wing slightly more modest, but all have the same quaint little retro stylings. We watched the sun set over the Painswick valley from our window, before getting thirsty.

The bar takes itself very seriously. Situated beside a lounge with open fire, it is small with theatrical pretensions – it crouches under a coffered ceiling, dimly lit and glamorous. Ordering a Martini involved a pointed sort-of-quiz about vermouth which was fairly stressful.

We found ourselves back in the games room, where another family were lucky enough to witness me playing pool for the first time since 1994. But then it was time for dinner, and we trotted down to the restaurant, a dark and elegant wood-panelled room. The food here, overseen by award-winning chef Jamie McCallum, is excellent. Those classic British plates you’d expect in a Cotswolds hotel – something clever with lamb, hot little bread rolls, artichoke – but done with such care and precision that the couple on the table next to us finished their main courses, then appeared to order the same again.

Breakfast the next morning was similarly classy, with make-it-yourself bloody marys and home-made crumpets, alongside standard British menu options with little welcome twists – I had poached eggs, smashed avocado and dukkah: that nutty Egyptian spice mix beloved of Ottolenghi.

After breakfast I saw the valley for the first time in sunshine. Having felt as though I’d discovered this diamond in the rough, an exquisite hotel buried in mud, I looked down at the timbered post office, pretty lawns and stone cottages and realised, with disappointment, that Painswick is actually one of the most picturesque and idyllic valleys in Britain. Damn.