The Felin Fach Griffin Everything feels just right
From its tasteful rooms and gourmet food to its perfect pints, this Welsh inn keeps on giving, says Fiona Duncan
Is there anything, in these rough, uncertain times, more appealing than a proper country inn with great food, a blissful bed and somewhere lovely to walk after a heroic breakfast? Humour helps, too. “Please check your supper bill; this will ensure we don’t charge you for your neighbour’s Margaux,” read the chatty guest notes. “For us to be a rare hotel that doesn’t charge extra for dogs, do ensure that yours don’t jump on the bed and ideally ask them to wipe their feet on the mat downstairs.”
Bring your dog, bring your walking boots, leave your cares and woes at home. And if you really want to spoil yourself, book newly created Room 8, formerly a staff flat.
Luxury, of course, is subjective; all I know is that when staying in a modest, centuries-old place such as the Felin Fach Griffin in Brecon, with a long history of offering hospitality to passersby, the sheer size of beamed Room 8, stretching across the top of the building, with fine views across the fields and hills, feels sumptuous.
And while no one can accuse brothers Edmund and Charles Inkin – owners for the past 22 years of the Griffin and its sister inns, the Gurnard’s Head and the Old Coastguard in Cornwall – of being overly in the thrall of interior design, the auction-room finds with which the room is furnished, including two retro velvet armchairs, feel just right.
In a world of gadgets, illusion and “the rustic-chic” look, the Griffin is the real thing and the Inkins are so genuine that they are mavericks. They know what they like – unpretentiousness, a good pint, real food and realistic prices – and they stick rigidly to their honest approach. For years, there was no mobile signal or internet and there are still no televisions. Instead, you will find a Roberts radio by the bed, fresh milk for the tea and coffee, and a vase of flowers from the garden. Walk into your room, realise it is telly-free, and feel your shoulders drop.
I don’t want anything else. Do you? OK, maybe thicker walls in some places; my friend claims that she could hear me snoring from her room. But she’s lying of course, so forget that.
Televisions may never appear at the Griffin, but even the Inkins are not
How many country boltholes are as honest, real and rewarding as this?
entirely immune to change. “Where are the sofas?” I cried, arriving after an absence of several years to find the bar furnished with tables and chairs and the battered sofas gone – those very sofas on which I used to collapse with a gin and tonic in front of the fire.
Covid did it, I was told by Julie, the splendid Ulster-born manager who has been in charge since the start (and whose hobby, by the way, is canicross – running while harnessed to her two collie dogs). They needed more room for widely spaced tables, so the sofas had to go and it turned out that the regulars preferred being served their drinks at tables rather than slumped on sofas. I get their point, but it would be lovely to have at least the odd armchair on which overnight guests can curl up with a book.
As it should be, food is at the heart of the Griffin – and in the hands of Nick Evans, formerly head chef at Northcote in Lancashire, it is definitely having a moment. I’d probably drive to the Brecon Beacons just for the duckfat chips, herb sea salt and roast garlic mayonnaise, closely followed by the chicken liver parfait with Yorkshire rhubarb as a starter, the blood orange posset with cinder toffee and blood orange sorbet for pudding, and most of the main courses.
As for the drink, you can be certain that this place would never allow a bad pint or an imperfect G&T to be served.
Time for some exercise, with a delicious Griffin picnic in a knapsack, in one of the most wildly beautiful parts of the country: perhaps the Ystradfellte Four Waterfalls walk or the crash site walk, which movingly passes the wreckages of three wartime planes.
Some things never change. At the Griffin, one of those is the Sunday Sleepover – so popular they should trademark it – which includes a double room, Sunday lunch, supper and Monday breakfast, from £230 for two.
Another enduring staple is the invitation, in the information folder, for guests to call either of the brothers on their mobiles if they have any problem or feedback, good or bad. How many country boltholes are as honest, real and rewarding as this?
Double rooms from £152.50 including breakfast; Room 8 £252.50