Great British Escape

Country

retreat

The hills of the Cotswolds are alive with the sound of

Henry Hopwood-Phillips withdrawing from London

e are Wellington-boot deep in sheep country.

Its quite easy to get lost here because you dont
have to be drunk to think all the villages and
towns look the same they are all the same, truly.
This is where wolds scoop and fold into the oolite
limestone cottages; where pubs are so rooted in the land that
they are named things like The Plough, The Maytime and
The Oak. If Westminster is how England likes to portray
itself in its dinner jacket, the Cotswolds is definitely its gilet.
The hotel were approaching is unassuming on the
outside. Perched on the edge of an escarpment overlooking
the Vale of Evesham, it looks like a little farmhouse: this
is probably because it is a farmhouse on the outside a
17th-century one to be precise a conkers throw from the
village of Broadway. Its called Dormy House, which makes
me think of sleepiness, evoking dramatic frescoes in my
head of the Dormition of the Mother of God but then Im
odd. Its actually a technical golfing term for hey, youre so
good you can just relax, or similar.
This is relevant because the houses that constitute
the house are separated from their 400-acre estate by

a golf course called Broadway. Its the inside that has

the bigger impact, however. To my immediate left is
a fireplace that could probably go through the entire
Amazon rainforest in just under a fortnight, while the
hall, with its Jacobean panelling, pushes all my buttons,
balancing historical character with the slick and cool of
London in a surprisingly mature manner.
Its all the work of Emily Todhunter who was given
free license with the place (including its 44 bedrooms) in
a multimillion-pound renovation that was completed in
August last year. The bedroom classifications come in the
vernacular: intimate, comfy, splendid and top notch, and
the six suites have similar cutesy names ours was the
Hideaway, for example.
True to form, the suite was hidden away at the end
of the building, its large window giving us the chance to
sink into a sofa to admire the Cotswolds contours over
a bottle of Veuve Clicquot. The attention to detail, both
in the interior sense (the lamp which formed a silvery
Sylvan scene was a highlight) and in the facilities (we
had a WiFi-connected iPad, notifying us of developments

both inside the hotel and around us) compete with the
best boutique equivalents in the capital.
The building may be a show-stopping fanfare of
flagstone flooring, exposed stone, rustic materials, earthy
tones and a bewildering array of fabrics, but what really
makes it stand out is its sense of proportion. The rooms
that should feel large and airy do so, while those which
deserve a more sensitive rendering of their history, boast
such an ambience.
A good example of the former is the Garden Room.
Its the more serious offering when it comes to food here;
its the Potting Shed that people talk of as if it were the

If Westminster is how
England likes to portray itself in
its dinner jacket, the Cotswolds is
definitely its gilet
insouciant younger brother. With its slick horizontals
and minimalist furnishings, at night its the perfect scene
for a Danish crime drama.
Most rational people, as well as a lot of
metropolitan sorts who have over-invested in their sense
of self-worth, acknowledge that historically absolutely
no culinary excellence has ever got past the M25. So I sit
down for dinner with my best patronising face on. A face
I confirm as appropriate when I see the prices are not
calibrated at stratospherically stupid; four courses can
cost as little as 40.
Tuna carpaccio first. Oh, yes but come on, theyre
just shaving tuna. They wont keep this up when the actual
cooking comes around, I protest as my partners eyebrow
arches. Next, octopus risotto it trounces the risotto con
polpo wed had in Italy the week before. This has me
dashing back to the bedroom to use its iPad to Google the
chef. Chef Ingram is his name, we can call him Jon, though,
as we dont work in his kitchen. At 37, hes already worked
at Cliveden House (Berkshire), The Grove (London) and Burj
al Arab (Dubai). It all falls into place in my head, slowly.
Breakfast in the morning doesnt let standards slide.
Its a full English affair while meats, cheeses (not the
usual pre-cut nonsense either), muesli, juices and yoghurt

B E L G R AV I A R E S I D E N T S J O U R N A L

orbit my ever-increasing mass. Im not allowed to

vegetate at the table today, however; I must be horizontal
and smothered in oil.
Passing the Veuve Clicquot nail bar (a creature thats
a little garish and out of kilter with the rest of the building),
I sink into the bowels of Dormy. Pleasantly surprised when
they ask me to choose a type of music rather than impose
the usual dying whales on me, I sink into a stupor, rising
only to slide into the infinity pool which puts infinity at
a cool 16 metres. With a thermal suite that includes two
saunas, a shower and ice chute, a salt infusion steam room
and a hydro pool, its not surprising that its been rated as
one of the top five spas in the country.
The word on the vine of grapes and rumours in general
is that Dormy is trying to get four stars. This is underselling
the experience. And if anything, Im Dormys worst
customer: I hate shabby-chic I think its a hollow rendering
of a yearning for the authentic, yet it goes right in too many
places. Put simply, it feels like the home you either cant
afford or cant be bothered to design; its perfect.
Willersey Hill, Broadway, Worchester, WR12 7LF,
01386 852711 (dormyhouse.co.uk)

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