HOTEL SMUG
It’s the super swanky ‘farm’ where the trendy elite — including Dave and Sam — play at being country folk. Don’t ask the prices ... or what the locals think by Jan Moir
EVERY cup of cappuccino has a heart etched into the foam, isn’t that just darling?
There are surfboard yoga sessions in the swimming pool, a Japanese grill house serving seared raw fish salads and soft-shell crabs, a lifestyle shop that sells £290 boots and a bar that stays open until the last customer leaves — and on at least one occasion that person was Prince harry.
yet this temple to hedonism and divine decadence is not, as one might imagine, nestled among the fleshpots of London or New york. It is right here, in the middle of the Oxfordshire countryside, amid rolling parkland and clusters of ancient oaks.
Welcome to Soho Farmhouse, a swanky members’ club-cum-country house hotel situated deep in the Cotswolds.
On the 100-acre site of a former farm, a new kind of arcadia has risen, comprising 40 purpose-built cabins, refurbished cottages and honeystone barns stuffed with every modern convenience, including bars, spas and even a cheese room.
It’s a Butlin’s for toffs, trendies and A-listers, where cocktail ‘trucks’ tootle between the cabins delivering freshly mixed martinis and you can book a man in a van to come and cook a full english breakfast outside your front door. There is a deli strung with fake plastic Parma hams (but none of the real thing) and even a hair salon.
But sweetie, I hear you cry, who on earth goes to the countryside to get their highlights done?
you’d be surprised. Soho Farmhouse has become a pleasure dome powerbase. An offshoot of the capital’s uber-celeb club Soho house, it sits on a remarkable confluence of society ley lines, taking in showbiz, politics, the media, rock ’n’ roll, the fashion pack, royalty and the film industry.
The estate, complete with manmade lakes, stables and an ironically ironic crazy golf course, sits within the Cotswolds’ golden triangle: a sought-after area between Chipping Norton, Burford and Stow that is home to the so-called Chipping Norton set of celebrities and politicians.
David and Samantha Cameron went to the Farmhouse opening party last summer, drinking cocktails and dancing around the fire pits to crooner Paolo Nutini.
THEY often pop in at weekends to have a lunch with the kids as their security pack try to blend in with the Daisy- Pixie- Alexa crowd of Primrose hill hedonists.
Royalty has been represented by the perma-partying harry, of course. And you just try keeping the Princesses eugenie and Beatrice away from a free glass of champagne and the promise of a good time.
Oscar-winning actor eddie Redmayne and his wife hannah love the place, Liam Gallagher and the MP Tom Watson struck up an unlikely friendship over a whisky session in the bar, while other guests include singer Paloma Faith and models Suki and Immy Waterhouse.
The junior Jaggers love it here, as does George Clooney, DJ Mark Ronson, Jemima Goldsmith, Jamie and Louise Redknapp, Cara Delevingne, anyone who is anyone plus their sister, quite possibly their dog, too — and now me.
The camp absurdity of Soho Farmhouse begins at the Gatehouse check-in, where guests must leave their cars and are transferred up to the Main Barn in a refurbished 1950s milk float, with a scallop- shaped leather seat.
‘how fabulous!’ someone says, as we whirr up the yellow brick road towards party central.
There is silence from the other passengers, most of whom are wearing black jeans with strategic rips on the knee, and are far too cool to acknowledge the enthusiasm of strangers.
everyone thrums with the quiet selfimportance of someone who either is a celebrity, knows a celebrity or once sent an email on behalf of a celebrity.
Through the milk float window, we glimpse Rosie huntington-Whiteley, wafting along a path in a pair of Uggs, looking as lovely as any international supermodel milkmaid should.
A tiny child trots by on a tiny pony, closely followed by a man scooping up tiny clods of equine poo with a tiny shovel. Still, nobody says a word.
Once at the barn, guests are introduced to their own ‘farmhand’, a kind of rustic personal butler who will transfer them to their cabin in a glossy black BMW. Mine is called harry and he is every bit as tall, posh and dashing as Tom hiddleston in The Night Manager.
At my £350-a-night wooden cabin, harry shows off the trendy Foffa bicycles, pre-adjusted to guests’ heights, the green wellies already supplied in guests’ sizes, the pre-laid fire in the wood-burning stove, the giant bed with its 300thread-count white cotton sheets, the ready-mixed cocktails in wax-stoppered bottles in the chicken wire cupboard, the two televisions, the claw-foot bath, the rainforest shower and the complimentary toiletries from swanky Cowshed.
Chandeliers hang from the faux-weathered ceiling and a selection of frontier-type tools, including shears and twine, are nailed to the cabin wall in case you suddenly have to help a cow give birth or something.
‘Call me if you need anything,’ says harry, and writes his telephone number on a pad before he goes off to fight the international arms trade.
I’m half in love before he leaves. And the split-level cabin, with its sitting room and wraparound balcony, is pretty adorable, too.
Soho Farmhouse is unlike any farm you’ve ever seen. For a start there is no mud and no smelly livestock, save for a few spruce chickens which look like they’ve just had a shampoo and set.
horse-drawn carriages deliver logs to the cabins. In this Disneyland for adults, groups of guests in brown fluffy dressing gowns traipse from the pool to the spa to the hot tubs to their lemongrass oil massage appointments. They look like flocks of monks, ready to worship at the altar of ‘me’.
During lunch in the posh restaurant, three of the four people at the next table are tapping their phones, entranced by the tiny screens as their roast beef turns cold. At the Teeny Barn nursery, children called Rupert and Clemmy play with wooden train sets while dads sit hunched in kiddy chairs, tap-tap-tapping away at their emails.
Who are these people? And how can everyone possibly afford to stay here?
Membership costs £1,200 per person, plus a £200 registration fee, and that’s before you’ve shelled out a fiver or so for a slice of celebrity cheesemaker Alex James’s prized Blue Monday in the on-site cheeseroom.
AND while Soho Farmhouse is open to nonmembers, it is almost permanently booked out, with the seven-bedroom cottage particularly popular as a 40th birthday destination.
The original Soho house was opened in 1995 in London by Nick Jones, who is married to TV and radio presenter Kirsty young. It began as a private members’ club for the film, media and creative industries and has since expanded across the globe.
Jones’s brand of louche luxury combined with great service has been a huge success, with only one global rule that really matters: the wearing of ties is banned, which suits Call Me Dave just fine.
There is another rule, which is that the snapping of VIP celebrity guests with phone cameras is strictly forbidden. At Soho Farmhouse recently, a couple who surreptitiously tried to get guests David and Victoria Beckham into the background of their selfie had their memberships revoked. Members must also be careful about social media posts, but try stopping this lot.
I watch a member take a selfie in one of the lake’s rowing boats and it pops up on social media seconds later. There are also posts from BlogMeBeautiful emily, a lover of frothy coffee, bubbles and afternoon tea. ‘Wowee!’ is her verdict on Soho Farmhouse.
Lorna Westwood, a fellow guest, is a digital director for beauty brand L’Oreal Luxe. She is also a vegan who thinks that every packet of sausages should carry a health warning.
‘Bravo Farmhouse,’ she says, spotting seven vegan choices on the menu, including baked cauliflower and a bean burger with (of course) avocado.
Ross Taylor is a DJ and skier, a man who ‘loves my tunes deep as well as my snow.’ he posted a photograph of Soho Farmhouse’s resident supercar, a butterfly door BMW i8 which guests can borrow for free, which he was looking forward to having a ‘Sunday thrash’ in along the country lanes.
‘Can’t wait to get back here at the weekend,’ he added, although I wonder if the locals feel the same.
For you can’t create an adult playground for creative hipsters in the middle of the countryside without a spot of trouble. Neighbours in the surrounding Great Tew area have complained about having their rural idyll ruined by ‘arrogant Londoners’.
The death of a local dog has not helped the febrile atmosphere: the cocker spaniel called Kenny was recently killed on one of the roads leading to Soho Farmhouse.
The driver failed to stop and report the death to the police, and several in the area are pointing the finger at the huge number of 4x4 drivers who visit the club in their ‘Chelsea tractors’ with blacked-out windows.
‘he was run over and left in the middle of the road,’ said ed Allen, Kenny’s upset owner. ‘It’s very sad.’
Back in the Main Barn restaurant, under the wagon wheel lights, it is true that a certain strain of delusional smugness perfumes the air of this gated community.
you know, it takes a certain type of person, on a cold spring day, to open a balcony door to make a phone call, leave it wide open, then glare at the person who closed it upon his return.
Not all Soho Farmhouse members are like this, of course, but it is interesting that these are the people among whom the Prime Minister has chosen to frolic. What does that say about him — and them?
In the meantime, we have a lovely roast chicken lunch, although I note with dismay that a thick skin has settled on my dish of bread sauce.
hey-ho there’s always a bright side. I’ll have to ring up harry to sort it out.