Twin Farms

My Valentine’s Day tradition with Mr Smith for six years running has involved treating myself to buffalo wings at a sports bar. It is just our flavour of romance: drenched in blue cheese. This year, we decided there was no harm in mixing it up with something slightly more, well, refined. So we booked a long weekend at the notoriously romantic boutique hotel Twin Farms in Barnard, Vermont. Shortly after arrival, our host told me that he lived down the road with his wife and their twin boys, and winkingly suggested we ought to be careful during our stay. I’ll admit to being slow on the uptake — my husband had to explain the joke to me. (Twins. Twin farms. Romance. Right, right…)

But, I’m getting ahead of myself here, as there was more to our welcome than slightly cheesy humour. Behold, the team at this tucked-away woodland fantasy of a resort has managed to eliminate what I believe to be one of the most under-recognised but overly-awful aspects of hotel stays: checking in and out. After driving along winding roads, under a lush canopy of alpine greenery, well beyond cellphone service — thank God for our old-fashioned paper map — we pulled up to the sprawling property where a friendly member of staff (who, yes, would later reveal himself to be an amateur comedian) greeted us. He instructed us to leave our luggage and keys in the car, and whisked us off through the main house, a lodge-like building where fireplaces were roaring, the art was very expensive, and the dining room was appealingly high-ceilinged. Comedian concierge left our side for a moment to pull a car around front; moments later we were settling into the heated back seats of a BMW cruising across the grounds, while getting a rundown of how the hotel works. It’s a simple concept really: Guests dial 125 from any phone on the property, tell the person on the other end of the line what they’re in the market for — a snack, a ski, more wood for the fire — and it will be made so.

These brief instructions were followed by a narrated tour of the hotel’s highlights: a zillion miles of trails, 10 uniquely-themed and individually-decorated cottages, one spa, one pub, and, naturally, one Japanese soaking tub. Finally, the ride ended at our cottage, where both our car and luggage (which we’d forgotten about) had been tucked into their respective places. This process repeated itself in reverse on our departure: we trotted off to lunch, our bags and car left behind, and both magically resurfaced outside the main house when we were ready to go. It may seem simple, but the worst part of any good hotel stay is, unequivocally, check-in, where after hours of travel, you drag your heavy suitcases out of a vehicle, hand over your credit card, and deal with paperwork. Same goes for the reverse process, which is an insult added to the injury of your vacation ending. That Twin Farms does away with this experience entirely is a subtle but mighty stroke of genius.

While we were hard-pressed to leave our cottage at all during our stay — heck, we were hard-pressed to leave the tub — we found ourselves inspired to do so for two reasons: food and exercise. (Though clearly, the vibes of this place are meant to encourage you to do much of the latter without ever leaving bed.) Among the many (outdoor!) wintertime activities on offer is sledding, which is a bit of a misnomer in this instance. Surely, there must be a more apt term for being escorted up a massive hill (or tiny mountain, depending on how you look at it) via snowmobile, then careening down on your stomach, boogie-board style, at such frighteningly fast speeds that you’re required to wear a helmet in order to participate? It’s terrifying, it’s addictive, it has very little resemblance to anything I did as a child. And don’t worry: not being forced to climb back up the hill after every run does not, as it turns out, take the charm out of it. To regain our bearings at a more geriatric pace we opted for snowshoeing, a sport which is very similar to walking, but because it requires equipment, it imparts a unique, if unwarranted, sense of pride. Cross-country or downhill skiing are other options for exploring the lands in a less adrenaline-filled manner.

And, finally, the food. (Also, for the record, available without leaving your cottage.) Much was made of the various delightful snacks available to us if only we’d dial 125 and say so, though finding an appetite in between three gargantuan meals a day was a laughable thought. Twin Farms is not big on menus. With the exception of breakfast, where things called soufflé pancakes upstage even the freshest farm eggs and recently-churned Vermont butter, everything is chef’s choice. And the chef chose to feed us many complex and intricately-plated courses at each seating, all accompanied by recommended wine pairings from the house sommelier.

We did get a taste of the much-hyped snack programme during the pre-dinner cocktail hour at the main house, where we experienced what was, to be honest, really remarkable home-made popcorn, and had the opportunity to socialise with fellow guests, many of whom have been returning to the resort annually for upwards of 20 years. (None of whom mentioned twin children, for the record.) We returned home hoping to grow up to be just like our new friends — wise enough to return to Twin Farms year after year, and blessed enough to have one child at a time.