Thursday, 14 August 2008
Tuesday, 12 August 2008
MEET THE STAFF
LUNCH AT GIDLEIGH
FROM LEFT TO RIGHT-
ADELE BARTON(OWNER)
GEMMA PETERS(ASSISTANT MANAGER)
ALLY WILLIAMS(PASTRY CHEF)
JAMES BARTON(MANAGER)
LEE EVANS(HEAD CHEF)
CHRIS GREGORY(SOUS CHEF)
mr and mrs smith review
The Wheatsheaf
Northeast Somerset, United Kingdom [view map]
Anonymously reviewed by Nick Dutton.
We were feeling long overdue for a soothing weekend away; high-octane city life was taking its toll and we felt a concrete need to restock and relax. We craved those ever‑evaporating ingredients that, when mingled, make up the high life: peace and space – and some spankingly delicious eating and drinking. Mrs Smith envisaged marble floors, high ceilings, a world‑famous spa and seven‑course meals served up by an army of attentive black‑tied waiters. When I announced we were off to a cowshed behind a Somerset pub, the look on her face could not best be described as elated. ‘How does scrumpy, pasties and sleeping on hay count as special?’ she pouted. I tried (well, lied) to mollify her: ‘I’ve had it from three different people that the Wheatsheaf is very, erm, special. A real treat!’ She wasn’t convinced. (I think she also suspected that those three close pals were newfound strangers on our dear friend, the Internet.)
Friday morning arrived, and off we set on our road trip to the village of our longed‑for hideaway. ‘Combe Hay’ – the name alone conjures up images of Merrie Olde England. And luckily for us, the place is as delightful as it sounds. Comfortably nestled in a pea‑green valley in the beauteous Somerset countryside, Combe Hay (and its centrepiece, the Wheatsheaf) is a handy 15 minutes from the splendid Georgian city of Bath – that favoured haven for cultured weekend‑awayers.
A carpark is always a good indicator of what lies in store and, thankfully, rather than an ominous posse of rusting pick‑ups or tractors, a jazzy scattering of Beamers and Mercs nuzzled bumpers with the requisite couple of muddied Range Rovers. As I crossed the inn’s charming, straight‑out‑of‑a‑watercolour threshold, my every sense was acutely tuned for the slightest evidence of items from Mrs Smith’s list of public-house no‑nos. Phew: no pasties, no darts, no pork scratchings and no cider in unlabelled plastic bottles. Indeed, we appeared to have wandered our weary way into a cover feature from World of Interiors, one extolling an excellently eclectic blend of traditional surroundings and modern but classic furniture. Things were looking up, and Mrs Smith wasn’t getting twitchy.
As it turned out, not only did things look very rosy indeed, it was also becoming increasingly clear to me that the Wheatsheaf was run by the kind of people who liked the good things in life, and who like those things to be very good. Within those solid 16th‑century stone walls, the mood was reassuringly welcoming: meaning, it had a large bar and we were quickly offered drinks. I couldn’t have planned a better start to our stay.
Having smoothed any post‑drive ruffles with a sprightly white wine for Mrs Smith, and a pint of the king of drinks (shandy) for me, the moment of truth arrived: it was time to be taken to our cowshed. I lined up my pre‑prepared retorts should it all go wrong: ‘Well, if it was good enough for the birth of Jesus…’ or, ‘I thought they meant as in the super-stylish Babington House spa?’ And, more desperately, ‘It’s the latest trend, apparently.’
Interestingly, the rooms are not hidden behind the pub but proudly out in front. The former Friesian occupants are long gone, their hay‑filled stalls replaced by king-size duck‑down duvets, DVD players and LCD screens. As we were shown around, I noticed Mrs Smith calculating whether any of the furniture would fit into our house, and whether our pad could handle the cowshed cream‑and‑brown colour palette. If there ever was a design movement called ‘modern rural urban chic’, then this is it. In homage to the previous residents, each bedroom has a well‑crafted painting of a sturdy‑looking cow (or even an entire herd of the friendly four-legged beasts), and each key is attached to a tinkling bell. The bathrooms, modishly tiled in riven stone, are loaded with fresh-as-a-daisy White Company goodies. Mrs Smith was looking even happier now. The weekend was definitely on track.
With only three rooms across which to spread the Wheatsheaf’s love of all things fine,
the really big draw here is the phenomenal cooking. Chef Lee Evans may have a name that evokes a sweaty comedian doing silly walks, but not a single thing that passed our lips elicited so much as a smirk, let alone a giggle. In a delirium of pastoral astonishment, we lurched from meal to meal – keenly aware that the man’s genuine love of food pervaded everything we ate. Lee’s cuisine is deceptively simple. It is also British, modern and creative: scallops and black pudding; fillet of brill and blade of beef – which, incidentally, is locally reared and hung especially for the Wheatsheaf. And big drinkers, ahem, oenologists, will appreciate the superb wine list, which features a good quantity of quality wines, and isn’t shy of dipping into Wheatsheaf patriarch Ian Barton’s enviable cellar of vintage European rarities. What made the whole grazing experience so great wasn’t just the quality of the ingredients in the dishes, or the showboating flair of their execution: all those oh‑so‑important little extras were top‑class, too. The people from Kingsmill could certainly learn a thing or two about breads in Combe Hay; the mint tea was made with fresh leaves; and Mr Evans’ breakfast was the best I’ve ever had – the sausage looked like it had been made by hand, and the mushrooms tasted as though they’d been plucked straight from the garden.
Between meals, guests can stride about in the Somerset Hills or pop into nearby neo‑classical Bath. We did neither. It was a weekend to relax and restock: a time to chill out, chew the cud and get bovine, boutique‑hotel style. A world away from chain‑hotel impersonality, the Wheatsheaf is a family affair run by the Bartons (mother, father, daughter, son and dog), who have lived in the village for 15 years and who have given the hotel an atmospheric home‑from‑homeliness. They originally took over the place in order to indulge their passions for Epicureanism, art and design; they’ve certainly done that. Wonderfully – with cow bells on.
This boutique hotel in Northeast Somerset was reviewed by Nick Dutton.
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