The Pig at Combe

The morning breaks bright and clear and we stroll across the gently sloping lawns, explore the fragrant herb garden (12 varieties of mint!) and carefully tended walled nursery patch next to the kitchens (think: Mr McGregor’s garden meets Le Manoir aux Quat Saisons) before elbowing children off the swing seat to settle down and gaze up into the sun dappled branches of the giant cedar tree overhead. A friendly ‘good morning’ from a passing gardener leads to an impromptu tour of the original Georgian kitchen, all copper pots and range stove, available to hire for pretty special private parties. The staff clearly love to work here and can’t wait to show it off, there’s a puppy-like enthusiasm about the place that is instantly infectious.

The coast, eight miles away, beckons. Because we’re townies, and despite the dire weather forecast, we didn’t even think to bring wellies, but never mind, there are some forty pairs of Hunters under the stairs for anyone to borrow. (Note to the Pig: I searched in vain for the staircase with assorted Manolo Blahniks underneath for wearing to dinner…)

We walk along the rain lashed cobb of Lyme Regis, pretending to be in the French Lieutenant’s Wife (excellent, overblown Meryl Streep romantic weepy, set here). Before sharing fish pie and fresh-off-the-boat lobster and chips at Hix Oyster and Fish, the floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the cobb and harbour. We take a stroll to walk it all off along the long winding the coastal path.

Back at the hotel before dinner, I dive under Bramley geranium bubbles in the roll top bath – gazing through the diamond-leaded glass at views of tumbling green hills scattered with grazing horses and their foals (from an Arab stud farm next door).

And now for our most important mission: namely, to discover, how much of a pig can one be at the Pig? The menu is a ‘25 mile’ menu – all ingredients come from within 25 miles, and a large proportion from the Pig’s own kitchen garden. The wine list is extensive and more ‘worldwide’ than the Eurovision song contest.

The soda bread is life-changing (enough to convert even this carb-phobic fashionista), with plenty of freshly-churned butter. To start; a dreamy stuffed courgette flower, crisp and creamy, fulfills all my Masterchef fantasies. I order lamb that falls off the bone and Mr Smith orders the infamous tomahawk chop, a joint that indeed resembles a small axe, and was perfectly cooked, with fresh-from-the-garden vegetables. Desserts are heavenly and sophisticated: for me, a raspberry mint sorbet with a dark chocolate tart and Mr Smith has a Middle Eastern pistachio mascarpone with strawberry and basil.

We wake to the last morning of our stay, still full from the night before, but feeling it would be rude to ignore the groaning tables set out for the generous buffet breakfast. There is a poach-your-own eggs station with pretty pale blue eggs from the Pig’s own hens, fresh yoghurts, pastries, garden fruits and homemade granola. Mr Smith, meanwhile, bravely endures a sumptuous, and appropriately named, Piggy breakfast, featuring not just sausages and bacon, but black and white pudding. He claims it’s one of the best he’d ever had.

We say farewell with one of the Pig’s recommended walks through the woods around the house – drinking in the greenery and seeing those magnificent horses up close.

I can’t believe our stay was only for two nights, it felt like a much longer break from the real world. The staff are incredibly lovely; genuinely friendly, and nothing is too much trouble. They clearly love working there, which in turn, makes you love being there.

The Pig at Combe is a truly magical place, and we didn’t want to leave. Relaxed and romantic, homely and luxurious – how do they do that?