Burgh Island, Bigby-on-Sea, Devon

Wednesday, 12.47am
Monsieur 2 –  was devouring an Agatha Christie last night, giving me 10-minute updates on whether he thought the Major was stabbed with a hatpin by Simon Thomkins Minor or the mousy little Vicar. I pointed out that modern-day Britain is as much about bodies in libraries as France is about bicycle-riding men with striped T-shirts and onion necklaces. He wouldn’t have a bar of it, and stuck his head back in his paperback and refused to discuss the demise of national pride – until I told him it was the frosty housekeeper who dunnit. He flung the book across the room and stormed into the garden. Actually, I had no idea who the evil perpetrator of the crime was. Frankly, I just didn’t like the sound of the housekeeper.

4.10pm
He eventually came around ­– although he now classes me in the same camp as serial murderers, apparently – and we are now bombing down the motorway towards the West Country. Now, I'd always thought Monsieur’s interest in antiques tailed off after around 1902, but he was getting extremely excited about the Art Deco hotel he had booked. Jo and Susannah have been raving about its polished floors and doorknobs ever since their visit last summer. According to them the 1920s atmosphere and sea views are a real throwback to silk dressing gowns, flappers and Agatha Christie. And they were right!

Burgh Island Hotel

Our first glimpse was magical. The hotel broods – yes, broods – like a grand cruise liner off the coast on its own island, all white and shimmering. Apparently it was built just before the Wall Street crash in 1929, and is now Grade II listed for its Art Deco accoutrements. One of the joys of the place is that you leave your car in a private garage on the mainland and they pick you up on a sea tractor. In our case, it was a Land Rover as the sea tractor had developed technical problems.

5.30pm
Check-in at reception was effortlessness, and made Monsieur 2 and I muse: just when did elegance and travel take different roads? We followed the bellhop up the grand staircase, rather regally in Monsieur 2’s case as he'd decided to don a linen suit for the occasion, but after nearly five hours of travel, it had become somewhat creased.

I picked out a hazelnut whirl from the box we'd brought for the journey, and Monsieur 2 negotiated a coffee cream, in that peculiarly suspicious way of his.

Our bedroom - Fruity Metcalfe

Then we explored. Painted and furnished in typical 1930s style, our bedroom - Fruity Metcalfe - was rose pink and black, with a few contemporary tweaks like under-floor heating, REN toiletries, and fluffy white bathrobes which hung in the enormous bathroom.

Art Deco Bathroom, with Modern Extras!

To stay as true to the period as possible, there’s no audio-visual system and no WiFi, no mini bar or tea or coffee making facilities. If you want something, they will bring it to you. On a large silver tray.
There’s no getting away from the fact that this place is fabulous, with a capital F; there’s a bit of peeling paint and rust here and there, but it adds to the soul of the place. If you prefer the pristine or replica the real McCoy, this isn’t for you; if you love atmosphere and authenticity, get down the M5 tout de suite.

Back in the '30s, they had radio, fine wine and conversation. This is precisely how we intend to entertain ourselves: the old fashioned way. And our westward facing balcony which overlooks the mainland, is just the place to start.

11.08pm
We sipped on our Midnight Martinis, brilliantly prepared by Gary, and tucked into complimentary hors d’oeuvres in the cocktail lounge, looking, if I might add, sensational. Dressing for dinner is encouraged by the Burgh Hotel, and we weren't going to disappoint! Monsieur 2 looked a picture in a splendid white tux and, I stunning in a Favourbrook silk waistcoat (they use the same material to make bishop’s robes don't you know!) and a white jacket, for real James Bond appeal. The other guests looked frightfully gentrified, and thankfully we didn’t stand out.

Dinner was wonderful, and since it’s included in the cost of the room, we feasted on a superb three-course meal, which included flavoursome beetroot soup, followed by melt-in-the-mouth lamb for me, and slow roasted fillet of beef for Msr 2. Portions were generous, and whilst Msr 2 admitted defeat after the second course, I refused, and ordered Baked Alaska with two spoons. With jazz setting the mood in the background, it couldn't have been more romantic, and although we’re unconvinced about the jazz-style mural that graces the wall, but the food makes up for any aberrations in taste. The menu changes daily and is dictated by the morning market, which means everything is fresh, fresh, fresh, and totally unpredictable. Just the way we like it.

Thursday, 9.43am
Our orange juice, tea and coffee arrived on a silver tray, and so we languished in bed with the paper. Monsieur 2 has resurrected the dog-earred Agatha Christie, and has just shouted ‘Aha!’. I've been grassed!

10.14am
It wasn’t the dominatrix housekeeper who dunnit at all, but the newly-married young girl who had had an affair with the squire’s gamekeeper or understairs cleaning wench. Well, Monsieur 2 was delighted nonetheless, and dragged me out of bed for a long ramble along the Southwest coastal path. Handily, it brushes right past the hotel’s front door. He pointed out different varieties of sea birds to me (I assumed they were all seagulls or close relations) and we walked hand-in-hand on the edge of the sand.

2.15pm
We flung ourselves into a snug in the Pilchard Inn, a cosy, atmospheric place that dates back to the 1330s, when fisherman would return from their pilchard fishing. The log fire was the focal point for locals who walked over the estuary with their dogs for a pint and a crab or bacon baguette. Rustic. Rurual. Lovely.

For some bizarre reason, we decided to try out the open-air swimming pool down by the rocks. Why did we not think it would be freezing? We ventured out to the little wooden platform in the middle, but Monsieur 2 thought I was going to have a heart attack and assumed the rescue position to haul me back to shore. The heavens opened, and we made a dignified retreat to the 'Day Room' for a few hands of poker. We weakened, and the waiter brought a bottle of wine, an ice bucket, and an extra bucket to catch drips of rain from the ceiling!

Burgh Island Hotel
T: 01548 810514
E: reception@burghisland.com
W: burghisland.com
A: Burgh Island Hotel, Burgh Island, Bigby-on-Sea, DevonTQ7 4BG
Our rating: ****+

Bellinter House, Co. Meath, Ireland

2.30pm
I found myself knocking off work early and sitting on an Easyjet flight to Dublin. Now, don’t get me wrong: I like no-frills as much as the next person; I enjoy experiencing life from every side of the box. But budget airlines: aren’t they taking the whole do-without thing too far? I mean, why not just seal yourself in a giant jiffy bag and rely on the Royal Mail to get you there? You’d probably feel less trampled that way.

It was all Le Msr’s idea. He wanted to catch a Fine Antiques Show in the Emerald City and it was the only flight we could get. Harumph. He regaled me with a moral tale of joie de vivre and laissez-faire. I told him there was a good reason we hadn’t entered into the European Union.

4.45pm
But when we hoved into view of the hotel, all thoughts of little plastic meals hermetically sealed on trays went out of my mind. It was a 40km drive from Dublin, through excrutiatingly lovely countryside; Monsieur hadn’t been to Ireland before and was lapping up the Guinness-and-shamrock welcome hook, line and trouser. And when we arrived at our pied-a-terre, we found that Bellinter House was straight off one of the glossy pages in Country Life that you dribble over inadvertently. 
Sold dark-grey stone brooding over a huge lawn: a homage to 18th century Palladian ideals, apparently. That aside, I couldn’t help but marvel as we swept up the front steps and into an exquisite black-and-white marble-tiled entrance hall, all elaborate mouldings, busts in niches and marble fireplaces.

6.10pm
Now I like luxury as much as the next boy, okay? But this is embarrassing. I mean, wine me, dine me, turn me over and ... well, you get the picture. And although parts of the hotel were a little tired, it all added to the charm.

And so to Bed!

Our room was paneled, had vintage furniture, stripped floors and a huge woven bedhead. The bed itself was big enough for the Irish rugby team (steady on…) and the vast sash windows gave lip-smacking views over the grounds, and the in-room entertainment system just added to my vision of perfection.

Deep roll-top baths

I left Monsieur 2 on the bed for his old-man’s power nap and forced myself to soak in the vast roll-top bath until he pointed out I was turning into a prune – or a fruit compote as he termed it.
He told me the story of a previous owner of the house, who rode his horse all the way up the spiral staircase from the basement to the top of the building. The horse was so terrified that it wouldn’t go back down – and was up there for two weeks until they unceremoniously hoisted it down on a pulley. Well, I’m with the horse: it took Monsieur 2 threats, bribery and eventual promises to be my love slave for the rest of his life to get me out of the bath and down the stairs. What a room.

The Bar

10.45pm
We finally made it down to the drawing room for a some pre-dinner Prosecco in front of a roaring fire, before heading for dinner at the hotel’s very good Eden Restaurant. We both went for pork belly starter which was beautifully tender, if a little salty. I opted for the Lamb Shank for my main, whilst Monseiur 2 devoured a perfectly cooked fillet steak with potato gratin. Fit to burst after somewhat of a meat feast, we decided to give the puds a miss in favour or a nightcap before braving the chilliness outside for a soak in the hot tub in the garden. Now, the Swedes certainly have the right approach to life. It’s fun, relaxing and very sociable – we shared it with another young romanced-up couple, and the memories came flooding back.

When we got back to our room it was late, late, late, and we were a little tipsy. Then Monsieur 2 discovered the mood control lighting, and that was the end of all sensible conversation. Watching a man lying in bed turning the lights off and on – while laughing like a three-year old – is not a pretty sight.

Bellinter House - What A Place!

9.35am
After he calmed down, we slept like babies between starched linen sheets: waking up was like begin life all over again. Then it was a couple of rounds of French toast and really good coffee, during which time I managed to talk the man into staying an extra night at Bellinter House. It meant that I could soak a bit more in the nice big bath, and he could drag me to the 5,000 year old pre-Celtic monuments at Newgrange, even older than the Pyramids and with just a few years on my Monsieur…

Bellinter House
T: 00353 (0)46 9030900
E: reservations@bellinterhouse.com
W: bellinterhouse.com
A: Navan, County Meath, Ireland
Our rating: ****