Thyme

The Cotswolds may be a notorious honeytrap for A-listers – or at least for those who find the idea of having Jeremy Clarkson over for dinner attractive – but after 15 minutes of driving in circles trying to find our bed for the night at luxury hotel Thyme at Southrop, I decide the celebrity I’m most expecting to spot is Mr Tumnus. This place feels distinctly like Narnia for grown-ups, except the back of the wardrobe is bloody hard to find.

Indeed, the velvety darkness that has settled over Southrop – pronounced ‘Suth-er-up’ if you want to blend in with the locals (Kate Moss, Gary Barlow and the like…) – is so profound we end up reversing along the length of the main street and pulling a very dodgy seven-point turn by the pub, before we finally hear the welcome crunch of expensive gravel beneath our tyres. Thank God there’s nothing so vulgar as street lighting here… The place is so perfectly still once we switch the engine off, I can’t help worrying that the White Witch might appear to eject us from paradise for a breach of the peace.

In reality, a lovely lady in a floral dress appears to escort us to our tiny, honeyed-stone home-from-home – complete with a log burner, glossy magazines and a jar of homemade biscuits worthy of Tumnus himself. I’m all for going into hibernation (a couple of furry throws complete the hygge experience), but the chauffeur desires something stronger than a Nespresso; so, rather reluctantly, I allow my shoes to be jammed back on for the short trip across the yard to the Baa.

Yes, the Baa – I rolled my eyes too, until I experienced the pleasure of drinking strong spirits while sitting on a life-size fleecy sheep. The drinkery has pools of lamplight and plump sofas; it’s so quietly tasteful that it’s tempting to order a Sex on the Beach just to see if the Farrow & Ball-painted panelling cracks in protest. But, in obedience to the homegrown, authentic country-pub ambience, I request a Myrtle Martini instead.

As a martini snob, I do not approve of anything bearing the name which contains ingredients other than gin and vermouth, and perhaps an olive if I’m feeling peckish. Yet, while I’d like this version to be a little larger (or perhaps a little cheaper), the slightly juniper-like flavour of the myrtle is a revelatory pairing with Cotswolds-distilled gin. The only thing that prevents me from ordering another is a gentle reminder that we have a table waiting for us at the Swan, Thyme’s sister pub down the road. (‘Oh yes,’ we say, ‘the one we nearly demolished en route’).

The Swan’s barely a five-minute walk, albeit in inky darkness. When Thyme’s on-site restaurant opens in early 2018, it’ll be heartily welcomed by those looking to go full hermit for the weekend. For now, the Swan’s enormous open fireplace makes an excellent dining companion, and we’re both charmed by the homegrown nature of the menu – the pickled damsons accompanying the game terrine move me to put a reminder in my phone calendar, so I can make some when they come into season in September. The chocolate fondant and malt ice-cream only one of us orders causes a small tiff relating to the joys of sharing.

When we stumble back to our room, reunited by a close shave with a speeding tractor, we find a nightcap of vodka infused with apple and mint next to a single, delicate glass. ‘Romantic isn’t it,’ I say, ‘sharing?’ Romantic or not, the enormous bed proves so absurdly comfortable we both fall asleep immediately (though I do wake in the night in a panic thinking I’ve squashed the absent dog, only to realise there’s a luxuriantly furry hot-water bottle between us. Cotswolds problems, eh?)

More used to sirens than silence, we almost miss breakfast, and find ourselves sharing the communal table in the vaulted tithe barn with a crowd of fresh-faced yogis on a detox retreat. An envious sigh escapes my glowing neighbour when we order fried eggs and home-cured bacon (I’d advise visiting the farm after breakfast) – her beetroot juice looks good too, I comment, smugly.

Karma’s not slow on the uptake: dense icy fog soon puts pay to our bike-hiring plans, but striding across the fields in fancy borrowed wellies proves a pleasant alternative. Indeed, the countryside around Thyme is ridiculously beautiful, and we earmark some idyllic-looking swimming spots for a repeat visit in warmer weather, before heading for the warmth of the Victoria Inn in neighbouring Eastleach – I can confirm it does a fine line in local ales and cheese-and-chutney sandwiches.

Back in the Baa, our nine-mile hike in sub-zero temperatures merits a wodge of gloriously squidgy almond and polenta cake; over coffee we lazily toy with the idea of booking a late massage in the room before dinner. But somehow it’s already apéritif time again, and – we sleepily agree – if we relax any further we might never make it back to the Swan for that second helping of fondant…