The Pig at Combe Hotel: Hedonism and Hospitality to Write Home About

I confess to being the kind of traveller that adores the rough, ready and realistic when visiting anywhere. I’m not someone who gasps at marbled hotel lobbies and gilt staircases – give me a local family round a fire any day. As such, it’s rare I treat myself to anything bordering on extravagance. Sometimes, however, opportunity comes knocking, and who am I to say no?

And so I find myself at The Pig at Combe, one of five Pig Hotels across the south of England. Combe is the baby of the bunch at eight months old. The hotel is the kind of place Downton Abbey fans would die over – a grand estate in the middle of Devon countryside, with log fires, wood panelling and not one, but two reading rooms. It also goes against all my usual cultural resolve, and that part of me really wants to find fault… The good people at The Pig, however, are making it damned impossible.

The great oak door does its best to intimidate, but an uncertain turn of the iron handle reveals a totally different, warm world. The staff are a sweep of smiles and sincerity. It’s hard not to look for a telling chink in their cheer, but they’re unwaveringly jovial and chatty. No false pretence, just a wholesome, homely welcome: they know regulars by name, kiss cheeks with old couples come for a cosy coffee and shake hands with familiar dining businessmen. It’s all disconcertingly lovely… Here’s hoping lunch will provide some delicious faults.

Not a chance. I even order things I wouldn’t normally, but the pheasant terrine and ox cheek in red wine are delightful. The portions and bread basket are so generous that, despite my best efforts, I fail to polish it all off. With no room for dessert, I’m quickly whisked away to the treatment room for the real indulgence of my trip: a facial and massage. I’ve been so looking forward to these that if I find anything wanting I will cry.

Luckily they’re a dream of strong hands, home-grown products and utmost relaxation. My masseuse is tireless – she doesn’t stop once throughout the two hours. The room itself is in the old stable, full of wood, blankets and bare light bulbs in jars. If it wasn’t so expensive I would live here for the rest of my days. I emerge two hours later looking like an oleaginous, but oh so serene, scarecrow.

A hop skip and jump through the hotel’s vegetable and herb gardens, up the grandiose staircase and I finally meet my room. I’m fully expecting the mid-range room to be smaller than the pictures online and the easily-overlooked cupboard-like door agrees.

It is, of course, bigger and it’s beautiful. I want to cheat on the stable spa and marry it immediately. There’s a classical music playing upon entrance, a four poster bed, couch, standalone bath, beautiful en suite and a gigantic gold mirror. I’m a little disgusted at how quickly I’m changing my tune. Something about authentic homestays flits in my mind and quickly out again as the mirror turns into a TV. I’m in the future and the past all at once.

The only dampener on the whole is the weather, which is proving itself typically Devonian. Part of me is secretly glad that the pre-packed walking outfit will stay firmly in my bag. The other part of me is wondering what on earth there actually is to do round here… The staff had promised me beautiful walks, but with a hurricane happening outside I’m now at a loss. The Pig at Combe isn’t for those in need of constant distraction.

Fortunately I bring books wherever I go. Additionally they provide the new Stylist, Time Magazine and Private Eye (which seems miraculous – I normally have to fight for a Stylist at my station). I turn my appetite to these while I wait for my very late dinner. Another hazard of being popular means only odd dinner reservation times remain. Thankfully a small sojourn to the folly for a sinfully good chilli caramel cocktail and some bakewell keep me going until the hordes clear from the dining room.

As befitting a life of luxury, I’ve had both bath and shower, the latter being the best I’ve had. Aptly named a monsoon shower, the closest thing I’ve washed in before was a waterfall. This, however, is blissfully hot. I have to wrench myself from it to find further sustenance.

Still stuffed, I opt just for a main, with a pitiful, longing look at the starters and desserts. The staff feel so sorry for me that they bring me a taster regardless – quails eggs in ham hock. These mini scotch eggs and the rare lamb are stunning, but it’s the veggies that are the show stoppers. You can tell they’re grown just outside, then cooked and seasoned with care. I took one, final glance at the deserts before rolling myself back to the cloudlike bed that could form its own country.

The morning begins much as the day before ended. Staff who’d never met me greet me by name, making me question if they have cameras taking secret mugshots. My bill is settled over the phone while I’m still lazing abed, and – glory of glories – I’m offered a free sample of their desserts due to last night’s lamentations. My departure is filled with serenity, smiles and satisfaction on both sides, and I’m left to face the aggravating fact that I absolutely loved it.

I hate glowing reviews, I really do. Frankly I don’t trust them, but I can’t do much else. The Pig at Combe was perfect and the prize goes to their staff hands down. My only gripe is the price because I can’t afford to do it all over again for a while. If you’re a couple looking for a little rest and relaxation, it’s ideal and I can’t recommend it enough. You’re treated to sumptuous food, magnificent beds and like old friends.

It just goes to show that every rough and ready realist needs a rare dose of fantasy every now and again. And with any luck again, and again, and again.

 

This review was anonymously carried out.

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