The Talbot Inn

The Velvet Underground’s ‘Who Loves the Sun?’ gently sounded in the centuries-old bar. ‘Not everyone,’ replied Lou Reed to his own question. You crazy cross-dressing fool, Lou, I thought as Mrs Smith and I took our drinks to one of the tables in the glorious sunshine. Outside, there was that foreign heat that can only be properly described as ‘scorchio’.

People have been staying at the Talbot Inn since the 15th century, when horses drew coaches through the entrance of the elegant façade. Fragrant, flowering lavender now lines the cobblestones that feed onto the quiet gardens, where Mrs Smith subdued an urge to dance like a flower fairy among the pink and violet poppies. Across half a millennia, the Talbot has evolved with all the logic of a duck-billed platypus. The cosy bedrooms are arranged around a higgledy-piggledy array of crooked passageways, behind random doors and over unaccountable steps. These curious corridors must have seen countless illicit assignations and perplexed stumbling through mistaken doors.

The builders had an eye to future generations. Sadly, these foresighted folk failed to predict we might grow taller, so we did have to duck and occasionally swear. To modern eyes accustomed to soulless business hotels, it seems impossibly romantic. Additionally and refreshingly, Talbot’s staff has not had their personalities polished off. The various buildings include the bar/pub, connected to the restaurant and below the majority of the few rooms. Step out to the comfort of the sitting room and the Coach House Grill Room has a bar with 21 English gins – yes – 21 gins! Despite its hefty heritage, the hotel has eschewed the dubious charms of olde-worlde tattery. Instead of chintz, there’s understated modern art on the muted walls. Our accommodation – the Abercrombie suite – had a topless four-poster bed, a tweed armchair and a window seat. One of the other rooms has a stand-alone bath with a glorious view onto the garden, for the joy of bathers and anyone in the right spot when it’s time for the towel.

The village of Mells is taken from the Latin word mellis meaning honey, and while we saw no hives, it is incredibly sweet. Think thatch, pheasants and fishermen; the air was heavy with rosemary, roses and honeysuckle. The one shop stocks all the local cheeses, meats and bucolic goodies you would hope for. I nearly bought a copy of The Field when I saw headlines for ‘Gunny Mummies’ and ‘Tweedy Guitar Heroes’. Beside Mells’ fine boozer – The Talbot – the village is blessed with a glorious church. Justin, waiter and historian, took us on an unforgettable trip up the stone stairwell into the bell tower. Inside, he showed us the delicate mechanism to play the bells and he let me trigger them to off – woohoo! I can exclusively report that, yes, they do have bats in the belfry.

From the top of the tower, we looked out to the famous white horse of Salisbury Plain, down on Siegfried Sassoon and Robert Knox buried in the cemetery, and onto the local manor. The entrance to the Asquith family’s 16th-century home is marked by the scent of wild garlic and two stone ‘talbot’ dogs. The Asquiths are accustomed to responsibility, they count a PM among their number and used to name all the kids in the village until the mid-1800s.

The architect Edwin Lutyens had a heavy Victorian hand in the village. While he is probably best known for his work in New Delhi, Mells remains undeniable Old England. We took one of the hotel’s recommended walks for a trip into Hardy’s Tess of the d’Urbervilles. Mrs Smith was in her element pointing out buttercups, wild strawberries, snapdragons, dog roses, sweet peas and moon daisies. Several of which I suspect she did not invent.

In the peak of summer and machete-less, we snaked through a jungle-like path of head-height cow parsley setting off explosions of seeds. Looking for a picnic spot, we startled a deer to reveal the perfect place amid clover, beside a hedgerow and billowing trees. By this time, Mrs Smith had sunk into a reverie and was singing what she could remember of ‘Jerusalem’. ‘This countryside is all encompassing,’ I said as I found a snail in my pocket. ‘Bumtittybum of burning gold,’ replied Mrs Smith, happily.

Thirsty and inquisitive, we walked past the geraniums on the piano at the Garden at Mells – a garden centre, school and café – for a drink. Like a lion on a gazelle, I set about a glass of elderflower fizz; ‘That’s my man,’ breathed Mrs Smith, clearly impressed. We ate dinner in the restaurant’s map room. A Monday night, all the tables were taken, which is testament to the local ingredients and cooking. I had a tomato salad with cannellini beans, duck with buttery cabbage and – joy! – cheese: Westcombe cheddar, blue Wensleydale, biscuits like crumble topping, and thick relish heavy with spices.

Mrs Smith chose tender pigeon breast, hake with black-eyed peas, and gooseberry and elderflower tart with ginger ice-cream. There was silence when her pudding arrived and then the gentlest ‘Oh’ when she found a tiny elderflower embedded in the crust. This is not the place to come to mash it up. We went for a night walk and the only sounds were church bells, owls and the breeze through the trees.

We were fashionably late for breakfast, which doesn’t count for a lot in rural Somerset. A jar of hangover remedies was laid out on the buffet table, next to the ingredients to blend our own Bloody Mary using horseradish grown in the Talbot’s garden. We picked up dismembered newspapers and read as we awaited the arrival of our perfect eggs royale; this is England.