The Pig in the Wall

‘Southampton, you say? How divine – a weekend on Long Island living the high falutin’ life of the Great Gatsby. Wait: Southampton, England? For a weekend break? But we don’t have a cruise ship to catch.’
‘Ah, but did you know that a stretch of defensive wall dating back to mediaeval times survived here, the longest in fact in the UK?
‘Well, no.’
‘Or that there are perfectly preserved Tudor buildings right in its centre, and it was on these streets that they filmed Foyle’s War?’

So went my conversation with Mr Smith.

‘Um. This is Southampton, home of Jesters nightclub, and until recently, the Ford Transit van, that we’re talking about?’
‘Yes, yes. We’re going to an outpost of the Pig right in the ancient stone wall by Westgate through which Henry V’s troops marched on their way to Agincourt. It’s from here that the Pilgrim Fathers sailed from in 1620, and HMS Titanic was launched.’

‘What’s that about a pig?’ piped up our five-year-old. 

We both blanched. Was she suggesting another visit to Peppa Pig World? (Which would have been astute since it is indeed nearby.) Dad quickly explained that we were off to stay somewhere called the Pig in the Wall.

This diminutive addition to Robin Hutson’s Lime Wood-boasting portfolio is right by the ferry terminals. We’ve passed it many times as we swerve in to catch the Red Funnel en route to visit the in-laws on the Isle of Wight. But this boutique hotel’s charm has previously been upstaged by the blue box that is Ikea a few hundred metres before and eclipsed by the neighbouring De Vere behemoth. How did we miss this Georgian cutie?

Once a private home, this 12-room Pig is spliced with what was the city’s first pub, the Royal Standard. Step foot into its cosy wooden-floored reception room and it may surprise you that this is the sum of its public space. But with a bar piled with delicious home-baked snacks in bell jars and worn leather chairs and tables with terracotta pots of herbs beckoning you to relax by the open fire, who would want to hang anywhere else? Judy Hutson could teach lessons in this brand of shabby chic in all its stuffed animals, stacked crates, crockery-filled cabinets and mishmashed furniture glory.

Our bedroom wasn’t any less delightful. We’d opted for a Spacious Room and we got a four-poster bed (but not the naff chintzy canopied kind) and a sunken ensuite with a rolltop bath as well as a walk-in shower – ensuring about as much wow as an inn can provide. Bathroom prudes might mutter ‘wow’ with a furrowed brow when they see that standalone tub but for this pair and their little piglet this sage-tiled Bramley-stocked enclave was perfectly dreamy.

Retro alarm clock and Roberts radio, Nespresso machine, goosedown bedding – it’s got all the attention to detail that won its bigger sibling in the New Forest hideaway such acclaim. The flavours at this boutique oinker are a big part of the appeal the snack-packed in-room larders mean you can happily sequester yourself away with that huge TV. Having heard that there’s a free transfer to the Brockenhurst bolthole for dinner we’d booked ahead and took them up on the offer. Southampton city centre itself may not be the most picturesque destination on the South Coast, you’re so close to glorious grounds and knock-out views you don’t mind having to stray to get them and we hopped into the house Jeep for the half-an-hour drive into Hampshire’s celebrated countryside.

Pulling up at the country manor house, we had just enough time for a whirl around the kitchen garden, a doff of our caps to the smokehouse and fruit cages and a quick look at a few of their real-life pigs in their field before supper. ‘Will we be eating him?’ trilled our five-year-old pointing to the plump Gloucester Old Spot. The food is fresh, local and seasonal but not quite that brutal. Our farm-to-fork dinner was a porcine celebration (although perhaps not from the porkers’ perspectives) that kicked off with hammy Brock eggs, and saddleback scratchings with apple sauce finale’d by a porkless pistachio-topped green tea sponge and white chocolate sandwich. I could sit in that conservatory with its pretty multi-coloured floor tiles for ages surrounded by food-loving locavores muttering appreciatively about the ingredients, the presentation and how impressed they are that the chef, gardener and forager are all in cahoots.

Fast forward to the next scene and you’ll find these protagonists troughing again – this time back at our guesthouse for breakfast. We boiled our own eggs, drank too much coffee and then hit Southampton for an explore. Now, I don’t know if you know Southampton – but navigating our way straight from the hotel to the pedestrianised enclave of Oxford Street took through the Old Town was a world away from the city I remembered visiting friends who were at university here. The 800-year-old Tudor House and its garden gives Stratford a run for its culture. The service and fresh pasta we then enjoyed at Olive Tree rivalled the friendliness and flavours of bygone Italian holidays. I’d like to see Gatsby’s old stamping ground try and rustle up all that on his New York turf. And even this Scott Fitzgerald reference is trumped when we learned Jane Austen was a Sotonian.

So it turns out Southampton, a whiz down on the train from Waterloo, has a rustic inn as sweet looking as a bolt hole can be, with a story to tell. And The Pig – in the Wall is only a trot from the bustling waterfront, poised perfectly for cruise-goers before or after a luxury-liner escape or anyone planning on taking a ferry to the Isle of Wight. And that’s nothing to turn your snout up at.