The Pig at Combe: A Getaway to Write Home About

I confess to being the kind of traveller who adores the rough, ready and realistic. I’m not someone who gasps at marbled hotel lobbies and gilt staircases – give me a local family Around a fire any day. It’s rare that I treat myself to anything bordering on extravagance but when opportunity comes knocking, 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. A three-hour drive from London, Combe is 20 miles short of Exeter. The hotel is the kind of place Downton Abbey fans would dream about – 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 who have 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 online pictures and the 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 classical music playing upon entry, 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 into 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 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 outside I’m now at a loss. The Pig at Combe isn’t for those in need of constant distraction.

 

Fortunately I take books wherever I go. The hotel also provides Time Magazine, Private Eye and the new Stylist, which seems miraculous as I normally have to fight for a Stylist at my station. A downside of the Pig’s popularity is that only odd dinner reservations were available, and mine was late. A small sojourn to the folly for a sinfully good chilli caramel cocktail and some Bakewell Tart keep me going until the hordes clear from the dining room.

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

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 a final glance at the desserts before rolling myself back to the cloud-like 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 wonder 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 the desserts due to last night’s lamentations. My departure is filled with serenity, smiles and satisfaction, 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 in this case I can’t do much else. The Pig at Combe was perfect and the prize goes to their staff. 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 get sumptuous food and magnificent beds and are treated like old friends.

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

by Jo Davey  This review was carried out anonymously.

 

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