Coworth Park brings modern luxury wrapped in tradition to Royal Berkshire

Last entry I revealed my new love of historic exteriors with a modern heart. Today I'm lucky enough to be describing a particularly luxurious example of the genre.

Coworth Park was an almost-derelict, 18th century country house in the lush triangle between Virginia Water, Wentworth Country Club and Sunningdale. This is Royal Berkshire, rich in leafy estates, polo clubs, exclusive schools and the Queen's relatives. And yet, surprisingly, there's not much in this stretch by way of serious luxury hotels or Michelin-quality restaurants. Good, yes, but for film stars, CEOs, heads of state and the like, it was a trip up the Thames to Cliveden. The people behind the Dorchester spotted this omission and, thanks to Coworth's parlous state, were able to initiate major building works to create something distinctive.

I am, of course, not a movie star, a Fortune 500 boss or a politician. Just a corporate hack who occasionally hosts or attends events in places like this, lucky enough to get invited with a bunch of colleagues to a special opening week dinner and tour hosted by marketing communications agency Phoenix Partners. (Thank you, ladies, for a special treat.) As of its opening this week, Coworth is now a late Georgian gem surrounded by sprawling parkland and achingly picturesque outbuildings, yet with a completely new interior that's glamorous, elegant, high tech and most assuredly of the 21st century. If last night was any indication ... which, given my experience of the Dorchester mother ship, it will be ... this design combines with fantastic service and fine food to deliver the best in hospitality. There are 70 rooms between the mansion house, the stables annex (a self-contained group of buildings with its own restaurant, resembling a small village) and the three-bedroom dower house.

Regular readers of this blog will know I’m not a fan of much of modern “luxury” design, mostly because it all looks the same. Coworth has kept to the modern essentials of pale colours, nods to traditional furniture styles and quirky modern accents, but they’ve done it with elegance and sophistication. You’ll approach the neo-classical portico expecting Robert Adam or William Kent; instead you’ll find a magnificent open space with a floating, spiralling grand stair to one side and a sculpture of a tree, bare of leaves, in the centre of the room. The check-in staff is subtly positioned behind a sleek refrectory table to your left, behind which a massive modern interpretation of a Knole sofa stretches in front of an austerely beautiful fireplace. That tree is important, as is the delicate shade of green on the walls. Coworth is proud of its sustainable green credentials, and design throughout the mansion brings the outside in.

Lamp bases are silver sprays of bull rushes, sconces over wall lights sculptural interpretations of leaves. A series of framed, multi-dimensional paper cut outs of forests and stags was striking. Meeting and dining rooms have fascinating light fixtures cum sculptures on their ceilings, the most amazing of which being a giant, bronze crown of oak leaves and acorns that hangs above the dining room, echoing the oversized plaster leaves and nuts on the room’s walls. The elegant suite in the centre of the house is dominated by a four poster bed, the posts of which seem to be trees growing from floor to ceiling.

The other design element is equine. With polo fields surrounding and Ascot up the road, it’s no surprise that sculptures of horses dance across table tops and their noble forms race across paintings.

Before we had too much time to study the beauties of the design, it was time to go into dinner. The Dorchester folks have lured John Campbell, Michelin-starred chef of the Vineyard in Hampshire and regular TV star, to run food and drink. He dropped in before dinner to greet us and emphasise his philosophy, which is all about appropriate preparation of local ingredients (which a not-so-subtle slam of Heston Blumenthal and his chemical delights). Source the best, and let its excellence shine through. He’s introducing a “shire menu” here, with all ingredients sourced from no more than 20 miles away; I suspect we’ll be back to sample it. I’m not sure of the provenance of last night’s menu, but given the season it’s likely that it was all local.

The risotto of fresh peas and mint was perfectly al dente and delivered a concentrated burst of its vegetal flavours. The Gressingham duck breast that followed was gently cooked to a perfect medium rare, complemented by tiny diced apples and calvados. But the star of this course was the pinot noir from Gevrey-Chambertin (see 19.10.08 for the vineyard tour) that was so good I thanked heavens I wasn’t spending the night; I would have drunk far more than was wise. We wrapped with apple tarte tatin with sauternes grape ice cream, again served with a wine that almost stole the show. In this case, a little red number with a powerful bouquet like raspberry sorbet.

This was all delivered with abundant and attentive service. And while the food and decor are both stunning, this is where the hotel will really differentiate itself if they keep it up. Cheerful staff anticipated our every need. Glasses were always full, coats whisked away, generous umbrellas provided to shelter you through the rain from car to house and back again. Open just three days, they’ve already mastered that wonderful art of being invisible when not needed, and at your elbow just before you think you want something. The icing on the cake? The valet brought me back to my car, keeping the raindrops at bay, and said “good night, Miss Ferrara, I hope you’ve had a pleasant evening and that we see you again soon.”

The real sign of luxury isn’t truffles, foie gras or gold leaf. It’s natural, unaffected service that recognises you as an individual and makes you feel like a superstar ... even if you’re just a marketing hack out for a rare treat.

House move hits the spot despite ... or because of? ... all the mod cons

History first drew me to England and, in my early years, I couldn't understand how any citizen of this country could resist wrapping himself in the glories of the past. I remember my profound shock the first time I dined at the house of a dear friend ... and quintessential Englishman ... and found him living in a featureless, modern brick block no older than my university memories. How could any resident of this country, unless forced by penury to do so, not choose to wrap himself in charm and antiquity?

It's been 16 years since that first dinner party in modern architecture. In the mean time I've lived in three quaint villages, one Victorian flat with character windows, one mock-Georgian place that pretended to be old, and bought a 200-year-old cottage with views of Queen Anne architecture out the front and medieval half timbering to the back. So far, true to form. And then, I moved to Basingstoke.

Though technically not a new town (there's a handful of venerable buildings in the town centre, Basing House saw a major civil war battle and The Vyne once hosted Henry VIII), most of what you see now has been built in the last two decades. Today's Basingstoke is a modern town centre, mostly comprised of an indoor shopping mall, ringed with office and apartment blocks, anchored by a train station with excellent, high speed connections. Sprawling away from that are vast housing estates of winding roads and detached houses with garages, punctuated by strip malls with plenty of parking in front of their new, or freshly-remodelled, chain stores. It is as spiritually American as Starbucks, baseball caps and overly-friendly shop assistants. And I love it.

Why this betrayal of my long-held aesthetic beliefs? I could be sappy and say it's for love. (The move was triggered by household consolidation with the man in my life.) But it's far more pragmatic than that. I like the fact that my walls are straight, and that none of the doors stick. I appreciate how the house actually retains heat, thanks to those stout yet large double glazed windows. I revel in hallways large enough to get down without knocking my elbows, and no longer have to worry about Piers smacking his head on low-hanging door frames and light fixtures.

Most of all, I love my new, American-style, double-sided fridge freezer with enough room for even the food-iest of couples to host a gourmet dinner or a big housewarming. (The former was the birthday feast my partner slaved over for me: chilled cucumber soup, lobster ravioli, steak Rossini ... topped by foie gras and grilled mushroom ... and white chocolate cheesecake. The latter our house-warming BBQ, Middle Eastern themed with chicken or fish skewers, home made hummus and baba ganoush, Moroccan rice salad and, returning closer to home, American-style chocolate chip cookies.) And how could I forget, for the first time in my life in England, decent water pressure!

The convenience of the neighbourhood is remarkable. Quick access to both motorway and train station, without much traffic. Every shop I could need nearby, with both easy access and parking. Trails for walking and cycling connect everything, thoughtfully landscaped. The town planners set aside generous parks and fields; the view from my office window is mostly treetops up to the crest of a hill miles away. We even have a local pub, built 10 years ago, thatched and stage set to look like it's been here for a while. It's disturbingly similar to the pub at Epcot in Walt Disney World, and the food on our last outing left a great deal to be desired (a crayfish and avocado salad with none of the second ingredient, a lovely tuna steak cooked beyond taste) but the menu is broad, the prices are reasonable and the place was packed on a Tuesday night. Certainly worth giving them another chance.

Of course, I haven't completely abandoned old England. My subscription to Country Life still drops through the letter box every Wednesday. A five-minute cycle from my front door takes me under the M3 and back to entirely rural communities. Half timbering, thatched roofs, crumbling parish churches, all available for easy enjoyment, without the personal maintenance responsibility. The venerable, ancient capital of Winchester is just half an hour down the road. We've already checked out its twice-monthly farmers market, rich with specialist producers offering fruit, veg, meat, game and all manner of luxury goods. Sometime soon I must make a pilgrimage back to the cathedral there to visit the grave of Jane Austen, who spent her last days at Chawton ... an easy cycle ride from the our house.

Unleashed with a generous lottery win, my dream house would still be historic. A Georgian rectory, a rambling half-timbered gentleman's farmhouse, a Kentish oast or perhaps a small Jacobean estate with a long gallery suitable for viewing the surrounding countryside. But on the back of just a few weeks of convenience, insulation and water pressure, my fantasy has shifted somewhat. Historic exterior, interior gutted and refurbished to the highest modern specifications.

Until the millions come through, however, suburban Basingstoke will just have to do.

Having divested the single state, a wedding weekend becomes a memorable delight

Single women over the age of 30 hate weddings. Oh, they may assure you that's not the case, but trust me ... they do. I've spent years dreading wedding invitations. Delighted for my friends, of course, but angst-ridded over a day spent with a false smile upon my face, surrounded by couples, celebrating a desired state that I have no chance of reaching. Most of my wedding memories end with me alone in some posh hotel, crying myself to sleep with wet, gasping sobs as the sound of celebration continues to seep through the walls from the reception steaming along below.

Thankfully, those days are no more. Last weekend, for the first time ever, I attended a wedding as half of a whole. How that changes the perspective! You're no longer the lonely outsider peering through the window, you're a full participant in a glorious celebration of love. The dread is gone, there's only enjoyment. And perhaps a bit of hopeful dreaming for the future. So while I've been to more elaborate weddings, the circumstances mean that Sarah and Mark's simple Kentish country celebration has vaulted to best amongst my memories.

Of course, even in my formerly embittered state I would have appreciated the day, with Sarah's rigorous party planning and venues that could have sprung from a Jane Austen novel.

Tiny Tudely church near Tonbridge hosted the ceremony. The simple, whitewashed interior is enlivened by a set of windows by Marc Chagall, dappling the space with jewel-like blue light. The reception was at the nearby Plough at Leigh, the kind of rambling, architecturally venerable pub you always wish you could stumble upon in the countryside, and rarely do. The building dates from 1570 with a barn added about 100 years later.

A classic Kentish construction with hung tile exterior walls, it sits far enough down a leafy lane to give the impression of being in the middle of nowhere, though it's actually quite close to civilisation.

Sarah had booked both the garden, with its wedding-appropriate wishing well at its heart, and the barn. We were blessed with fine weather, afternoon sun gilding linen-draped tables set for a traditional afternoon tea. Sarah's party favours were chutneys and jams she'd made herself; the wedding cake was of the carrot variety also born in her kitchen. (Thank God. I'm still American enough to find the British tradition of wedding fruit cake with royal icing absolutely vile.) One guest at this event had a particularly bad time ... the spitted hog that had been dancing over the fire from the time we arrived. His noble sacrifice made a fine centrepiece for a buffet once the sun went down and we'd decamped to the old barn for dancing. The whole day was simple, highly personal and elegant, and I'm delighted to say the only tears I shed were ones of joy for my friend's happiness.

The wedding had also given us an excuse to briefly abandon the box-filled moving site that is our new home. We spent the weekend at The Hand and Sceptre, a gastropub with rooms on the outskirts of Tunbridge Wells. The place scored high on value for money: £110 for the two of of us for Friday and Saturday nights, with Sunday ... or a late check out ... thrown in for free. Thus you have to take my criticism with a grain of salt.

The Hand and Sceptre is trying very hard to be an elegant, modern, hip and trendy hotel. The colour palette is the inevitable beige, taupe and mushroom with stone tiled bathrooms and a few Asian decorative elements. I'm convinced somewhere there's a handbook everyone is using to make their places all safely the same. And yet, The Hand didn't quite get there. The first thing I noticed was a dead fly on the window sill, followed by badly-stained grout in the shower. The decorative elements in the room were nice, but two huge walls were completely empty. And then there's the ultimate betrayal of the luxury look: foam pillows and polyester-based bedlinens. It's as if they ran out of money near the end of their renovation, thus didn't have enough for finishing touches or maintenance.

It's a low budget version of the kind of thing you get for real at The Wavendon Arms in Milton Keynes (19.7.10) or The Crown in Wells-next-The-Sea (12.7.10). Had I not been to such places recently, I might not have been so critical. But I found myself wishing The Hand had either charged a little more to deliver on its promise, or not tried so hard so their delivery could match my expectations.

The restaurant was much the same. Cool, modern interior, heavy on walls of glass, pale wood and butcher block tables. A huge menu of the dining-around-the-world style (wood fired pizzas, country pate and Thai curry). The wine list was equally diverse and mostly in the £10 - £20 a bottle range. The food was good, though we both agreed that the fusion idea went too far in places. Haddock carbonara was interesting enough to be tried, but it really shouldn't have moved past the experiment stage. Breakfast, however, was a triumph of the traditional English fry up and embarassingly large. (Your room rate comes with a generous cold buffet and the cooked breakfast is a reasonable £5 surcharge, an idea I think more B&B's should adopt.) On the whole, the restaurant lived up to the promise of its design more than the rooms did. While I'd return here for a nice meal out, an overnight return would only be if we needed something functional and cheap in the area. For memorable charm I'd look elsewhere.

Fortunately, it was never the accommodation that was going to make this weekend memorable. I finally understand, and have partaken fully in, the celebration of togetherness that is a wedding. Long may it last.