Newbury’s Vineyard fights back with opulent tented restaurant, food and wine to match

Forty four years ago, in a blind wine tasting that would become known as “the judgment of Paris”, French judges selected Napa Valley winners for both their red and white contests. The unexpected result rocked the wine world, proved a catalyst for moving California’s top wines into the quality category they occupy today, and provided the plot for an excellent film called Bottle Shock. It also inspired a marvellous restaurant near Newbury, England, called The Vineyard.

Opened in 1998 by Sir Peter Michael, a British businessman who’d established a working vineyard in Northern California the decade before, his English Vineyard is a five-star hotel with luxuriously sophisticated rooms in a modern building that has a faint whiff of French Château about it. All the rooms are named after California wineries, and the place is tastefully decorated with the Michael family art collection and a fabulous array of wine bottles and paraphernalia. There’s a spa, and a small conference facility, but the beating heart of the place is its extraordinary wine cellar and the restaurant that accompanies it. You can’t miss it; 20 steps across the lobby from the front door and you’re in a glass-framed hallway-cum-wine-cellar with bottles on either side and below your feet. Beyond is a life-sized mural of the judgment of Paris, with Sir Peter ... who was not at the real event ... painted in, benignly looking on like one of those art patrons included in medieval nativity scenes. 

As a restaurant, The Vineyard reached its apogee in the early 2010s under head chef Daniel Galmiche, who won them a Michelin star and Decanter’s Restaurant of the Year award while gaining publicity as a frequent guest chef on the BBC’s Saturday Kitchen. Galmiche and the star have gone, though the restaurant still holds a Michelin plate (one step below) and remains noted for a wide-ranging wine list with an unusual number of wines-by-the-glass and what I’d guess is England’s best range of Californian wines. This includes bottles from Sir Peter’s eponymous label and Schramsberg and Honig, vineyards we visited (and I wrote about) on our Napa tour. I’ve had the good fortune to at The Vineyard three times for work events, but my wine-loving husband had never gotten to join in the fun. It seemed a perfect venue to celebrate his birthday. 

We are only three weeks past the government allowing hotels and restaurants to open in England, and the rules for indoor spaces both dampen the atmosphere of restaurants and make profit margins a challenge. Outdoor dining is the only way to approach the conviviality and turnover of pre-pandemic days, but that’s always a gamble in the English summer. The Vineyard has risen to the challenge by filling their garden with a magnificent tent, its spiked dome, sinuous roof line, lanterns and painted canvas wall panels like something out of an upscale, fine-dining version of The Arabian Nights. It would have been a treat whatever the circumstances and, to be honest, is much more fun that their tastefully understated but unremarkable regular dining room. The only drawback was a slightly wobbly plank floor that sent a tremor through our table whenever anyone passed, but given the circumstances driving the alfresco pop-up, it’s a small irritation easily forgiven. 

We had started indoors, sinking into the deep upholstery of the country-house-style lounge to peruse the wine list before settling on a bottle of sparkling golden Schramsberg to take us from there right through our starters. Once inside the fairy tale pasha’s palace, made all the more surreal by all of the masked servers, I started with a beautifully presented and very tasty pork terrine while the half-Danish husband opted for cured salmon. “Someone in that kitchen understands the Nordics,” opined the arch critic. “ This has been home cured to a proper recipe.” So much of restaurant salmon would be hard to differentiate from packs you can buy at Waitrose. This was in a different league, with the curing reducing the original fillet to perhaps half its starting thickness, concentrating the salmon flavours and imbuing it with aromatic herbs and spices.

We reverse-engineered the main courses around the next wine.

A 2011 Chateau Musar occupies a price point I normally wouldn’t consider sane, even for a special

occasion, but four months without restaurant dining has left a budget surplus that could handle the momentary insanity. Lebanon is one of the world’s oldest wine producing regions and Musar its most famous house. The result is pretty much what you’d hope for from 4,000 years of accumulated experience. Tannins melted away to an intense berry richness but with subtle hints of mushroom and earth that reveal its core of Cabernet Sauvignon. Mr. B was an English purist with a ribeye and triple-cooked chips, while I strayed closer to the Mediterranean with a beef shin ragout with freshly-made tagliatelle. With each mouthful-following sip, I thought “If I could only have one wine for the rest of my life, this would be it!” You need the right food, however, to bring the Musar to its full glory. We both had a few sips left after we finished our meal, at which point spices that had meshed seamlessly with the beef became so noticeable as to be almost overpowering. Validating our menu choices and the kitchen’s talent.

We split a custard tart with pink rhubarb sorbet. The former was pleasant but paled in comparison to the sorbet, served on a trail of golden crumble to deliver a hit of both sharp/sweet fruit and satisfying crunch.

One of the great joys of the “restaurant with rooms” concept is that you don’t have to kill your buzz, either literally or metaphorically, getting home. Push back your chair, enjoy a short, post-prandial walk and slip between some high thread-count sheets that someone else has had the chore of ironing. Bliss. The suites at The Vineyard have all those subtle, small touches that add up to the label (and the price tag) “luxury hotel”. The crisp bed linens and deep feather pillows. The classical music playing over a good sound system when you enter. Decor that’s streamlined and modern but not at all corporate. Tasteful lighting in multiple places to change mood and focus. (There was even a subtle nightlight glowing over the step between sleeping and sitting areas to prevent late-night mishaps.) A palatial marble and wood bathroom with a tub so big I could barely touch the end. Nice shower in a separate alcove, too, though people as tall as my husband will have to duck beneath the shower head.

I don’t think I’ve ever brought my dogs to a five-star hotel, but The Vineyard excelled there, too. Waiting in the room was a dog bed, food and water bowls, their own bottled water and pedal bin for used poo-bags and a fresh tennis ball. Needless to say, the canines enjoyed the outing as much as the humans.

The traditional British hotel breakfast buffet is another infringement of COVID-safety standards; many establishments seem to be switching to a policy of everyone taking breakfast in their rooms. At The Vineyard this means a wooden wine case left on a luggage rack outside your door. Flipping its brass latches revealed croissant, sourdough, jams, butter, milk and orange juice. A Nespresso machine in the room added DIY caffeine. If you order a cooked breakfast (a supplemental charge to your room rate) it arrives at a scheduled time and is well worth the extra cost. Mr. B’s breakfast featured “bacon” that was essentially a thick, cured slice of grilled pork belly that had his eyes glazing over with delight and scrambled eggs he reported as perfectly “baveuse“. (Too runny for me, but I know he ... and any other European serious about food ... considers American scrambled eggs horrifically overcooked.) I had gone for a different style of American: Californian Eggs were poached sitting atop pillow-like home-made English muffins slathered with crushed avocado and a spicy tomato salsa.

Our last pleasant surprise came with the bill. Which, of course, is delivered by email and charged to your pre-registered card upon agreement, to eliminate the need for human contact. Thanks to current government stimuli, there was no VAT (sales tax) on the room or food, only on the alcohol. When you’re pushing out into the luxury end of the market, this can be an enormous saving. So if you’ve been thinking about splashing out on a fine-dining-with-rooms experience, now many be the time to do it. While the pandemic makes the experience more unusual, the novelty can also be quite special, and up to 20% off the final bill adds to the delight.

Isle of Purbeck offers an ideal escape from lockdown

COVID-defensive tourism is almost enough to make me welcome the virus. Hotels and restaurants opened under strict guidelines on Saturday, and we were amongst the early adopters with a weekend excursion to Dorset. I might have put it off a bit longer had opening day not coincided with the 4th of July; I always feel a bit homesick around my home nation’s big day, and this year we should have been luxuriating in a Longborough Festival Opera weekend. With that cancelled, but hotels re-opening, I fancied a trip to the coast.

Despite news coverage of crowds ignoring social distancing guidelines, we found sparsely populated tourist attractions and rigorously enforced safety measures. All National Trust properties require booking ahead for a limited number of slots, which requires ruthless advanced organisation; tickets for the following 10 days come online around 12:30 am on Fridays and are generally sold out by 9am. But your efforts are rewarded by easy availability of parking, people-free vistas and spots for quiet contemplation. Pubs are operating more like restaurants. You’re met at the door, shown to one of a restricted numbers of tables in operation, encouraged not to move from there if you can help it and directed to order and pay online. Leave out the back door to keep things a one way system. It might lack charm, but the delight of sitting in a historic pub that’s quiet and not overcrowded, is a rare joy.

Later at the hotel, limited numbers meant the bar/lobby area never got above a gentle buzz, every “household” got its own cluster of sofas and armchairs and service (masked, naturally) was prompt. The dining room featured Perspex screens between every table, creating barriers without removing light. Staff everywhere was cheerful and attentive, delighted to be back in business and supporting a fraction of the people they’d normally serve. It was a tourist’s dream. But is undoubtably still a nightmare for the hospitality industry, as I can’t see any way that anyone we visited over the weekend could be breaking even with the reduced custom.

I’m enjoying the quiet, but hope it’s a short-term blip or many of these places won’t survive to welcome us when the virus runs its course. Meanwhile, if you’re looking for “staycation” options, I recommend the Isle of Purbeck heartily.

The anchor of this outing was The Pines Hotel in Swanage. We stayed for just one night, allowing us to enjoy the short road trip (about two hours from our house) without making a single long a day of it. The hotel is at the end of a lane to the East of the town centre, making it the last building before property gives way to a protected landscape. Thus it’s blessed with magnificent views, gives easy access to some striking walks and allows forays into town without sitting in the hustle and bustle of seaside holiday makers. Best of all it has a private staircase down the cliffs to the beach, roughly the equivalent of four stories below. Between Covid and the lack of easy public access, the stretch of sand here was almost completely empty. We couldn’t linger, but if I had it to do again we’d stay two nights, have lawn chairs in the car and sit on the beach for the day.

The Pine’s architecture will win no charm awards (I’m guessing an Edwardian core with an inter-war addition) but our first-floor room was large and had the advantage of sliding doors leading out onto the lawn edging the cliffs. The supreme convenience when travelling with dogs. We ate in the restaurant. It was fairly simple fare plated with some fine dining tricks to add a big city look. Almost the definition of provincial but, frankly, all the sophistication I needed. The homey touch of the staff and their tangible joy at being back at work warmed my heart.

Swanage lies at the end of the Isle of Purbeck, which is geographically a peninsula but may deserve its “isle” moniker for how separate it feels from the rest of the country. With its deep lanes, thatch-laden villages, expansive views and old-fashioned feel, Purbeck is strongly reminiscent of the Isle of Wight, which you can see just off its tip. (See May and June of last year for articles about holidaying on Wight.) While mostly agricultural, Purbeck has long been famed for the quality of its limestone, which has been shipped North to build many a Palladian country house and government building, but also contributes to a pleasing uniformity of pale grey stone architecture across the peninsula.

The historic heart of the area is Corfe Castle, a natural crossroads between deep hills that’s been fortified and inhabited since Roman times. Today it’s one of the most picturesque villages in England, with a massive ruined castle standing above a picture-book village built from matching stone. Much of it salvaged from the castle after its destruction in the 17th century Civil War. Dramatic events unfolded here, from the murder of the Saxon King Edward (who became “the Martyr”) to the spirited defence of the castle by Lady Mary Bankes, an English heroine who deserves wider renown. The property is now managed by the National Trust and there are useful signboards and listening stations throughout that tell the story.

In the village you’ll find a wealth of historic pubs and a good range of independent craft shops, though the latter weren’t open, presumably because crowds hadn’t yet returned. This place is usually a nose-to-tail traffic jam in the summer, but I was able to step into the street and get a shot of the castle without anything on the roads. I suspect that’s been almost impossible since the 1950s. The pubs, thankfully, had welcomed their “Independence Day” this July 4th and were all open for trade again. We had a delicious lunch at the Greyhound Inn, on the market square immediately below the castle entrance. Local crab salad, juicy, fully-loaded hamburgers and cold pints of locally-made beers and ciders. (Dorset Blush from the Purbeck Cider Company is a real treat.)

On our return journey the next day we wandered around Kingston Lacy, the area’s most impressive stately home and a logical extension to a Corfe Castle visit. Despite Lady Bankes’ defence, Corfe Castle eventually fell to Parliamentary troops and was “slighted” (purposely destroyed with massive explosions) to prevent it from being re-fortified. The family managed to hold on to most of their surrounding land, however, so when the king was restored they were able to celebrate by building this new, modern home. There aren’t that many Carolingian homes around (compared to the abundant Georgian selection) so its novelty is a treat for architecture buffs. Interiors still aren’t open but if they had been, we would have seen the original keys to Corfe Castle, plus a blockbuster art collection and a memorable room “papered” in embossed and gilt leather.

Instead, we wandered around the gardens, which balance French formality near the house with Arcadian landscapes spreading away from it. There is enough here to offer hours of happy rambling.

It’s been at least 15 years since I’ve wandered the Isle of Purbeck. It’s possible that, without a pandemic, it’s as crowded as other tourist hot spots. But I doubt it. The COVID crisis is reminding me that there are wonderful escapes very close to home. Get exploring!

Hosta specialist softens loss of Hampton Court show

I should have been at the Hampton Court Flower Show this week. My venerable annual tradition always starts with a leisurely catch up over a champagne breakfast with my friends Alex and Philippa before we wander across the road to the world’s largest flower show, drink in the new trends and shop ‘til we drop. Then we rest, fortify with a restorative jug of Pimms, and keep shopping.

Not this year. Yet another annual milestone fell to the pandemic axe as 2020 moves towards being the year that never happened. We shared breakfast over a Zoom call, but it’s not quite the same.

Lockdown has been steadily loosening, however, and garden centres were some of the earliest businesses released from shackles. So this year I still took my flower show day off, but rather than visiting all the specialist vendors in one place I picked one of my favourite suppliers and went to them.

New Forest Hostas specialise in a plant that claims a soft spot in my heart. Also known as the plantain lily, these shade-loving, broad-leafed plants are native to northeast Asia, but the centre of modern hybridisation is the United States. They were common sights in the woodland gardens of the American Midwest, including my childhood home. One variety ... its name lost in time and its simple appearance dating from an age before showy hybrids ... has moved with my family through every house we’ve owned since my grandfather planted it in the early ‘50s. Taking divisions of the plants was the last thing I did before leaving my childhood home to its new owners. For 40 years there, my mother had fought an ongoing, usually unsuccessful, battle with the deer who would emerge from the trees behind our house to feast on the tender leaves. She was trying to mimic beneath her own oaks the winding, multi-variety beds that snaked through the Missouri botanical garden.

In England, my wars are with slugs and snails. Gardeners seeking an easy life often avoid hostas, given their popularity with multiple predators, but that would be a mistake. They grow in shady spots many other plants refuse. They come in a beguiling variety of leaf colours and patterns, in sizes from miniatures to single plants that demand several square meters.

Some hosta miniatures by my smaller pond

Though foliage is the main point of hostas, they do send up spikes of white, blue or purple blooms in late July and August. They’re great value for money, with the typical plant doubling in size every three to four years, allowing you to separate and plant out (or give away) the spares. While predators may leave the leaves holed or gnaw them to the ground, hostas are amongst the toughest of garden plants and difficult to kill. They flourish in the ground or in pots. A well-planned hosta bed can be a soothing study in green, from deepest blue-greens to pale yellowish shades, sparked with the occasional white. Every year breeders come up with new varieties to tempt gardeners like me.

My main hosta bed

My only criticism? They die back over the winter, leaving bare earth on view for several months. And, of course, the endless battles with the predators. My garden in England is walled, so I don’t have to worry about Bambi and friends. (Though to this day I still feel the victory of revenge whenever I eat venison.) Most people used to control slugs and snails with poisonous pellets, until we got smart to the fact that the frogs and birds who eat the pests were getting poisoned, too. Now gardeners debate their favourite organic defences, from rings of copper, stones or crushed egg shells around plants to garlic concentrate spray to beer traps to a regular dose of nematodes, a microscopic organism that likes to eat slug and snail eggs. Encouraging frogs, hedgehogs and birds into your garden helps. In my experience, growing hostas in pots produces the best results, but that hasn’t kept me from trying beds as well.

Hosta alley; my potted collection

New Forest Hostas is one of a handful of English hosta experts who show up at the big flower shows. Your average garden centre might have five or ten varieties, while these specialists will have more than 100, along with vast knowledge of what grows well where, disease resistance, legacy and speed-to-division. New Forest is a young contender compared to Suffolk’s Mickfield Hostas, who hold the national collection and have been in the specialist game for more than 20 years. But New Forest hails from my current home county of Hampshire and I’ve had a soft spot for them ever since I met one of the owners at a local plant fair and she talked me into what’s become my favourite hosta in my garden: Cathedral Window. (Top photo.)

New Forest Hostas impressive collection

They’re only open to the public on certain days and the shopping area is just one shaded poly tunnel with three aisles. But that’s more than enough for an addict. The first aisle is dedicated to their show plants ... champion specimens in pots ... and the other two a tidy supermarket-style array of plants for purchase arranged by name.  All in a Covid-safe one-way system with plenty of hand gel on offer, of course. I spent at least an hour pottering about in deep contentment. Without Alex and Philippa to restrain me (their usual role at Hampton Court when we get to the hosta stands) I had to police myself. I was there to try to identify two of my plants for which I’d lost the name and buy no more than three additions to my “hosta alley”. 

Mission almost accomplished. One of my missing IDs was “Geisha”, the other probably came from Mickfield and remains anonymous. I emerged with “Georgia Sweetheart”, an unusual yellow hue I don’t have anywhere in my collection, “Coloured Hulk”, a deep blue that’s likewise under-represented, and “Sting”, a white centre with multi-coloured green edges I couldn’t resist. I also learned that hosta like constrained roots, and I’ve probably been retarding their growth by putting them in pots that are too big for their current size. A flurry of re-planting followed my trip as I sunk pots within pots to create some squeeze.

Along the Lymington

New Forest Hostas is a little over an hour from my house and provided an excellent excuse to drive down to that eponymous area of ancient woodland. One excellent effect of the pandemic’s social limitations has been to remind me of what’s on my doorstep. Between the annual round of events and holidays that always start with a passport check, I’ve fallen out of the habit of sightseeing in my general area. The forest that was “new” in the 11th century when William II enclosed it as a hunting ground is now a charming hybrid of national park peppered with private properties, charming villages and hotels. It’s a popular place for picnics and walks. I didn’t pack my lunch but I did enjoy a spectacular walk in the woodland next to the Lymington River, a stretch so picturesque in its mossy, sun-dappled solitude you’d think Disney’s early animation artists had visited to sketch their backdrops for Snow White and Sleeping Beauty. (Any of the National Park car parks on the B3055 just to the east of The Pig restaurant and hotel will put you next to this path. Just park and walk into the woods with your back to the road.)

I miss normal life, but my garden and my local knowledge are improving with life’s current limitations.