I swear my breaths are longer here. As I inhale another theatrically large gulp of fine Sussex air, heavy in pollen and scented by log fires, it dawns on me that I’m trying to breathe it all in, literally – the nature, the peace, the bloody glory of it all.
Once again I’ve found myself drawn to Gravetye Manor, like a shameless Champagne quaffing moth to a Michelin-starred flame. It may well be the crème de la crème of country house hotels, not to mention the pinnacle of field-to-fork fine dining, but for all the pomp and ceremony which lurks within its burly Elizabethan walls, this prestigious hotel somehow manages to feel strangely like home.
No, it’s not because I’m landed gentry (more’s the pity), somehow the stars just align here. It seems burying a spectacular mansion in the depths of Sussex’s misty High Weald (AONB), adding a glassy jewel box of a Michelin-starred restaurant and surrounding it with one of England’s most sumptuous gardens, just works – well, fancy that!
But when you can step into a hotel of this calibre and feel utterly at home, you know you’ve struck gold. The secret? Roaring log fires and jovial doormen aside, Gravetye offers faultless service whilst maintaining a refreshingly unstuffy, laissez-faire undercurrent. Lucky really, as it’s this laidback ‘do what the heck you like here’ vibe which means the troupe of divinely fragrant, perfectly-coiffed, Birkin-clutching ladies enjoying an aperitif before their Michelin-starred lunch, are utterly unphased by me; the mud-splattered, wind-battered, welly wearing lass perched fireside, picking crispy leaves out of her dishevelled barnet and attempting to exorcise muddy clumps from her eyebrows, like a tic-ridden orangutang.
I only intended to take a short pootle around the garden, but boundaries are blurry here – particularly as the hotel’s flower beds; head high and still bloom-laden despite the pending frost, bleed into 1,000 acres of flower-speckled meadows, orchards and forests, where bird song is broken only by the nostalgic hollaing of the steam-powered Bluebell Railway.
They have Charles Darwin’s fiercely outspoken, green-fingered friend William Robinson to thank for this sprawling estate. His illustrious horticultural career centred around the belief that gardeners should work with nature, rather than against it – a no brainer now, but in an era of pernickety parterres and tight topiary, his strongly worded views ruffled some seriously fancy feathers.
Nevertheless, his controversial books flew off the shelves, providing him with enough loot to buy Gravetye Manor, plus all of the land surrounding it, as far as the eye can see. The Gravetye Estate was to Robinson, what a blank canvas was to Picasso. And with that, he put his money where his mouth was and set to work, creating the ultimate ‘wild’ garden…bulb by bulb. Today, the hotel, its gardens and the land it seeps into, is s thriving homage to Robinson.
Inspired by the storied vistas I headed off for a spot of pre-check-in ‘leaf peeping’. Having exhausted the network of flower-flanked stone paths, pranced across the boggy croquet lawn and discovered vegetables I never even knew existed in the magnificent kitchen garden, I found myself venturing beyond the fields which halo the manor, into the far-flung forests, for a panoramic view of the manor, puffing chimneys and all. In the distance, the Bluebell Railway’s calls echoed through the trees – a train which Robinson himself travelled upon, brazenly catapulting bulbs out of the window as he went.
Upon entering an avenue of beeches, a sign caught my eye. Agog with curiosity I scanned the ominous looking QR code, pinned to the tree, like a badge of honour, half wondering if I’d stumbled upon a forest-dwelling cult. I had in fact found myself on a heritage trail, created by the William Robinson Gravetye Charity. Within moments of scanning, I knew all about the handsome avenue, which Robinson has himself planted, over a century ago. Thirsty for more, I pottered on, scanning along the way, learning about everything from the estate’s resident deer species to their troublesome squirrels.
Curiosity piqued, I found myself heading off-piste, following a trail of smoke in the distance. I’m not sure what I expected to find amid this wilderness; a bonfire, a cottage perhaps. Instead, down a dusty track, hiding in an old farm building, stood a pocket-size gallery; a riot of colour. At the door, as surprised to see me as I was her, was artist Sally Oasis, beckoning me in from the cold, ushering me towards the crackling wood burner. Her colourful paintings depicting idyllic floral scenes are like arty odes to Robinson; wild, flower-filled, framed, yet untamed.
Back home, throwing the doorman an apologetic glance I attempted to remove a skintight Le Chameau. “No need, if there’s one thing we can handle around here, it’s muddy wellies!’. The hotel is a luxurious labyrinth of wood-panelled lounges and fire-warmed snugs, with guests coming and going all day; some in Wang, some in wellies, each blissfully unaware of the other, blinkered by the beauty. Guestrooms are a light, airier affair; quintessentially British, with botanical nods at every turn and spectacular views of the gardens. The perfect place to kickback after an arty adventure.
That evening, I found myself back beside my favourite fire, this time in a silky number, a Nyetimber in-hand, not a stray leaf in sight. On my first visit, many moons ago, Gravetye’s restaurant was a cloistered affair; all woody walls and squintingly low lighting. Today, in stark contrast, the magic happens in a gleaming glass-fronted extension. Had I read about these plans on paper, I’d probably have pulled that face mothers pull when they judge you’re making colossal error, but they pretend to bite their tongue, knowing full well their face shows nothing but disappointment in your utter and bewildering stupidity.
Luckily, I read nothing, I just found myself sat there, my jaw on the floor, taking in this unexpected, yet utterly exquisite zen-filled space. With vast panels by French botanical artist Claire Basler at every turn, it’s like dining in an art gallery. But this is no solo exhibition, for the star of the show can be seen through the enormous glass wall; Gravetye’s famous gardens – apt, given that almost every ingredient that ends up on diner’s plates here hails from them.
Our feast, courtesy of acclaimed chef George Blogg, had been quietly masquerading as a ‘three course seasonal dinner menu’. In reality, it was a gastronomic cavalcade, with complimentary dishes popping up like Whack-A-Mole. As the sun set on the gardens, dissolving the fabulous views and replacing them with total darkness, our spotlit table shone like the stage it was about to become. Dish after dish of exceptionally creative and beautifully presented food arrived.
To list them all would turn this into a full-blown novelette, but to give you a taste of the intricacy of their dishes, let’s consider the humble salad. Small, but perfectly formed, the palm-sized ‘Gravetye salad’ features thirty seasonal pickings from the kitchen garden’s heritage bounty; fruits, vegetables, herbs, flowers, they’re all there, perfectly poised. You cannot get more local than that – each ingredient (even the yuzu!) grown so close to the plate it’s ended up on, that should these glorious windows open, I could frisbee the whole lot back over the sandstone wall into the soil it was grown.
The next morning, I pulled on my trusty Le Chameau’s one last time. Having bid farewell to my other half, assuring him I wouldn’t far behind, I slalomed my way through the crocus-strewn meadow, down to the glittering lake. Treating myself to one last theatrically large gulp of fine Sussex air, heavy in pollen and scented by log fires, something caught my eye… a QR code. What’s the harm? It’s just a quick pootle…
Rooms start from £385.00 per night, including breakfast for two. Dining is open to non-residents, with the seasonal lunch starting from £80pp (dinner is £128pp). Garden tours (April – October) are available to guests staying or dining at Gravetye. For more information, visit www.gravetyemanor.co.uk.
