‘Barnsley?’ queried the Lady. ‘Isn’t that up in Yorkshire somewhere?’
To be honest, up until a few weeks ago, that’s exactly what I’d have thought as well. And yet, one bright (if occasionally slightly rain-sodden) Saturday, we found ourselves ensconced in the splendidly comfortable surroundings of a first class First Great Western carriage, clutching our complimentary snacks and teas in our warm little hands, and looking out over a panoramic view of green fields, soaring vistas, and Didcot, although we will draw a tactful veil (if veils can indeed have tact) over that last regrettable addition to the landscape. Finally, we arrived at Kemble, a mere hop and a skip away from the village of Barnsley, and we surveyed our residence for the weekend.
We were not to be disappointed. Barnsley House epitomises what one might expect from an upmarket Cotswold country house hotel; if one wished to become all Gilbert and Sullivan about it, it is the very model of a modern rural residence. Originally owned by the garden designer and writer Rosemary Verey, it comes as little surprise to find that the elegantly manicured lawns and walks are a highlight, inviting an atmosphere of quiet contemplation on the beauties that lie around us, with the stunning setting of the Grade II listed house itself a more than fitting counterpoint to the aesthetically pleasing settings.
However, the Lady and I have never been particularly good at quiet contemplation. She complains that she has restless legs, which she claims is a medical condition rather than a practical expression of wanderlust, and I think I’d have been happier born in the 17th century, when I could have roamed for miles every day through untrammelled walks and still managed to find a tavern close at hand. So it was with a certain glee that we walked the two minutes to Barnsley’s sister establishment, the Village Pub, which is indeed what its name suggests, albeit in Farrow and Ball shadings and with a mix of louche style and cosy familiarity that instantly invites intimacy. We engaged in conversation with a couple of friendly locals, to discover that she was the daughter of one of Britain’s leading music producers. C’est la vie.
Bidding farewell to the warm fireplace, we trudged back to the hotel to esconse ourselves in a rather magnificent dual-level room in one of the stableyard rooms. The ground floor offers a sumptuous bed and the usual upmarket mod cons in the shape of a veritable mini-cinema, iPod dock and delectable fruit juices (as well as a rather eye-raising minibar tariff for jelly beans), but it’s upstairs that the real fireworks occur, as the top level, accessed by a just-steep-enough spiral staircase has a magnificent open-plan bathroom, complete with enormous shower in the centre. The temptation is to stand there overlooking the rest of the room, glory in one’s surroundings and let out a burst of Ozymandias; ‘Look on my works, ye mighty, and despair!’ Although you don’t need to be a Breaking Bad fan (though if you’re not, you’re not welcome in my house) to know that such hubris never ends well.
Scrubbed and booted, we headed over to the stylish Potager restaurant for dinner. There’s a distinctly Italian twist to the food, courtesy of head chef Graham Grafton, and the Lady and I lost no time in sampling some of the delights; a perfectly judged starter of crab ravioli had me making small whimpering noises of culinary satisfaction, and the Lady’s pork belly was so good that she put aside her usual kind-hearted concern for those ‘poor, poor pigs’ to revel in the porcine splendour on her plate. I made more inroads than I probably should have done, and was rewarded with a slap on the wrist and a frown. I probably deserved it.
The day’s exertions having worn us out, we had a fine night’s sleep, and awoke to a lavish full English, complete with produce from the kitchen gardens on site. (As is now seemingly obligatory, they’re big on provenance in this part of the world.) We then had a leisurely saunter over to the spa, where we disported ourselves in the hydrotherapy pool, gently perspired in the sauna and generally washed away all the cares and stresses of urban life for a few snatched hours. If we’d been lingering longer, then I’m sure we’d have taken advantage of the private cinema that lurks snugly in the grounds, watching something either cosily romantic (the Lady’s choice) or some searingly intense subtitled drama that investigates the human condition. Well, maybe not.
But eventually all good things come to an end, and we bade farewell to Barnsley with a degree of reluctance. Catching a last glimpse on the taxi ride back, the Lady turned to me, and said, with a deep sense of envy, ‘That lucky Rosemary Verey. She got to live there!’ It was hard not to agree, but at least it’s now possible to lead the life beautiful, albeit just for a short time.
View Hotel Info, Rates & Availability
First Great Western offers advance single fares from London Paddington to Kemble from £12. Visit the website for more information, or call +44 (0)8457 000 125.
