Eleven rooms above a walled garden, an hour from the city and a world away from it. Fires lit by four, breakfast until noon, and nowhere you have to be.
Check availability →We kept the creaking stairs and the deep baths on purpose. Some things are worth the slower pace — you feel it the moment the gravel changes under your tyres.
Each is named for the tree you can see from its window. Linen sheets, a decanter of sloe gin, and no televisions unless you ask.
A snug double under the eaves, with a window seat made for rain and a proper reading lamp.
Our garden room — French doors onto the walled beds, a roll-top bath, and morning light until eleven.
Two rooms and a fireplace, at the quiet end of the landing. The one guests come back for.
Breakfast is the whole reason, and we take it seriously.
Wander before dinner or not at all. There are wellingtons by the door in every size, a spaniel named Pip who is not technically staff, and a bench that catches the last of the sun.
We hold a few rooms back for people who ring rather than click. Either works — we'll have the fire going.
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