Checkin for a taste of luxuryan and the whiff of scandal
THERE’S a 5mph speed limit up the long gravel drive leading to Cliveden. We move even slower — imagining.
From the front, this beguiling house is smaller than you expect. Of course, its lustful past (Profumo, Keeler, the Russian spy) means you can’t help thinking you’re up to no good, especially when two smartly dressed men suggest you leave your car keys in the ignition . . .
I’m in baggy shorts and tatty shirt. Our luggage isn’t in the Joan Collins class. My chin’s not seen a razor all weekend.
‘So, where did you park the helicopter?’ says a confident, well-spoken young man who supervises our check-in. ‘Just behind the wall near the pool.’ This is fun. And what’s really good news is that Cliveden has been revived after years in a coma while run by the nowdefunct Von Essen group. The secretive Livingstone brothers (who own Chewton Glen) have gone about restoring and updating the 44 bedrooms and refreshing the dining room and bar. And they have done so with aplomb. It helps, of course, when you have arguably the finest views of any hotel in the world, with glorious gardens and majestic woodland, never mind the Great Hall, with its rich red velvet sofas, tall lamps and spectacular fireplace. It fizzes with intrigue.
Above the grand piano, John Singer Sargent’s Nancy Astor — the formidable U.S. divorcee (she told Churchill if she were his wife she’d poison his coffee) who married into the Establishment, watches over proceedings.
We are booked into a classic room, but are upgraded to a deluxe double, which is huge, with a marb of an average bedro time of 7.45pm for 15 minutes late then ing if we can still hav and order food from invite the proverbia
‘I would need to c even though there tables occupied in th mally, we like to exp table.’ And so we go where we’re joined puree dip with toast
All very lovely, bu
le bathroom the size oom. We are given a r dinner, but arrive push our luck by askve a drink in the bar m there. This seems to l spanner to turn up. check,’ says a waiter,
are only five or six he dining room. ‘Norplain the menu at the straight to the table, d by a ravishing pea ted parmesan. ut I’m surprised that the waiter does not know what wines are offered by the glass and there doesn’t seem to be a sommelier to hand on this Sunday evening.
A Japanese couple occupies the best table in the room, with sweeping views down to the Thames. They’ve opted for the tasting menu but seem to have lost the taste for conversation and commune only with their mobiles.
Next morning we wake to the sound of the scrunching drive. At breakfast, a kite puts on a show above the lawn. But what’s this? The orange juice is from a carton rather than freshly squeezed. And we think the buffet is more three stars than five. But, overall, this is a glorious revival that will run and run.