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HAMPSHIRE
WINCHESTER LAINSTON HOUSE HOTEL
Soon I was in ‘Lilac’, a room designated a ‘double deluxe’ and therefore £295 a night, breakfast extra. This I reached by climbing the grand main staircase to the first floor and then a narrow, secondary flight of steps to the second floor. I liked this spacious chamber. Its stylish décor combined ancient beams and a dormer window with spotlights and pieces of furniture in polished mahogany. Red, gold and beige were combined to create a restful setting. I switched on the ceiling fan, settled myself into the striped velvet of one of the two armchairs and enjoyed the beautiful view. Stretching before my gaze was a mile long avenue of lime trees, leading to a backdrop of gentle hills. Yes, the real England was here.
I have made reference to the architecture of the main house. There are various extensions here and there throughout the grounds, but they have been made with such discretion and with such commendable sympathy for the original that nothing disrupts the harmony of the whole. Wandering around after tea, I came across the croquet lawn and the tennis courts and found that – wonder of wonders – there is even a ruined chapel, which dates from the 12th century.
Prices range from £19 for a chardonnay vin de pays d’Oc to £1,300 for the 1981 Pétrus. Between, the world is spanned to good purpose, with some fine clarets (like 1982 Cheval Blanc at £970 and 1989 Haut Brion at £650), some Swiss whites, the reliable Chateau Musar from the Lebanon (1998 - £55), good French riesling (like the 1999 Reserve from Trimbach at £85) and some really tempting offerings from Italy (like 2000 Ornellaia at £150 and the 1970 Biondi Santi Brunello di Montalcino Riserva at £500). I trusted Davide to pour into the Riedel glasses (‘restaurant’ range) some good and interesting wines. And that is precisely what he did. My white was from one of Austria’s most famous winemakers, Willi Opitz – not an example of his renowned sweet wines, but his dry pinot blanc spätlese, from the 2002 vintage (£42). Golden, full-bodied, with suggestions of melon and lychees, this was a distinguished wine. Then it was to Tuscany for Davide’s choice of red, a 2004 Rosso di Montalcino (Ferrero - £38) – a smooth and velvety mouthful of black cherries, with a long and lingering aftertaste.
My main course was canon of lamb, a plate of lovely pink meat with excellent sweetbreads, although perhaps it would have been better with a lighter jus, instead of the heavy demi-glace. Still, I was perked up by the super and refreshing finale of coconut and lemongrass panna cotta. This was a fine meal and an enjoyable occasion, with friendly service (efficiently orchestrated by the restaurant manager, Kevin Crisp). I had the sense that all my fellow diners were having a jolly good evening. And, since it was so good, I will make a helpful suggestion. The wooden tables used outside should be covered with tablecloths, preferably of white damask (like those used in the dining room). This would make the scene much grander.
But no, thank goodness, it was spot on one o’clock, so it was back to the terrace for slices of roasted Aberdeen Angus beef from Grange Farm, Reading, with Yorkshire pudding, red wine jus and some perfectly cooked vegetables. Delicious, and preceded by the equally delicious grilled goat’s cheese with figs, and followed by a pretty arrangement of iced nougat parfait and fruit salsa. (£29.50 for this set Sunday lunch, including coffee.) The Royce and I trundled back towards London in a happy frame of mind. Blighty, we decided, was not such a bad place, after all – not if it can still offer a country house hotel like this. A lovely old building, glorious grounds, elegant rooms, charming service, good food and wine – Lainston House shows that traditional England is still alive and well. |
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© Francis Bown 2003
Just when I was beginning to think that England was not what it was – general decline in standards, manners gone to pot, slovenly dress and so on (I am, of course, now at an age when such thoughts occur with depressing frequency) – I decided to take myself and the Royce off to Winchester. Actually, it was just 3 miles outside Winchester, to the village of Sparsholt. Here my faith in dear old Blighty was totally restored – by Lainston House, a country house hotel so charming and so well run that it turned my grumpiness into sunny optimism.
We turned off a quiet road and passed high entrance columns of brick. As we purred up through the 63 acres of grounds, I noticed that the lawns on either side were well tended – a good sign. Then it was through wrought iron gates and onto the oval drive in front of a William and Mary house of exquisite proportions. (You may judge its architectural merits from the picture.) Already parked was another Rolls-Royce Silver Cloud III. My own motor seemed happy to see a member of the family, and I was happy to know that this was clearly a place for persons of taste and discernment.
Further time in my billet revealed that real thought had been put into ensuring that the details were right. (The General Manager, Julian Tomlin, certainly has reason to be proud of his establishment.) A teddy bear was provided, in case I needed some conversation, and an iron and ironing board, in case my striped shirts had been crumpled in the Globetrotter. In a leather box bearing the legend, ‘Service en chambre’, I found a kettle and the other necessaries for making tea and coffee. My usual inspection of the bath towels revealed them to be fully six feet in length. At night, a bottle of water was put by my bedside and a forecast of the weather for the following day was laid for my perusal. These small courtesies matter, and are part of what makes Lainston House such a very good hotel.
Food matters, too. My first experience of the kitchen of Head Chef, Andrew MacKenzie (pictured), was afternoon tea. There is a long and comfortable drawing room, but in the summer heat it seemed right to venture outside, to sit on the lawn in front of the panorama I had spied from my window. Here I tucked into some items of very high quality. The moist fruit cake must take the prize, but honourable mentions must be awarded to the scones, the raspberry tartlet and the smoked salmon sandwiches – and to that now endangered species, the toasted tea cake. To make my way through these delights, served in this setting on white porcelain by Villeroy & Boch and washed down with a silver pot of Lapsang, made the price of £15.50 seem modest indeed.
The sun began to sink behind the trees, and I began to think of dinner. Washed and brushed I made my way down to the panelled dining room. But the outdoors still called, so I was led to a table on the covered terrace and to a greeting from an old friend. I last saw Davide Vaccarini (pictured) when he was at The Vineyard at Stockcross, in Berksire. Now this talented and enthusiastic young man from Milan is the sommelier at Lainston House, where he presides over an interesting cellar. 
A six course tasting menu is offered at £50, but I chose four courses from the carte (for around £60). The menu is short and to the point, and I could happily have chosen any of its dishes. I congratulate Chef Andrew Mackenzie for giving prominence to the names of local suppliers. I began with Portland Bay lobster, tasty and tender and accompanied to good effect by a red pepper emulsion. Then it was a plate of duck, prepared in three ways. The smoked breast was decent and the ballotine of leg confit was flavoursome. But the foie gras brûlée… ah, that was – in its rich and caressing lusciousness – quite superb. Indeed, after dinner I tried to persuade the keen young sous chef, Raz Ali, that the brûlée should be enlarged and made into a dish by itself. Whether I succeeded or not, do not miss it, whatever its size.
I sat at one of those very tablecloths for breakfast in the dining room the following morning. This maintained the high standards I had come to expect of Lainston House. Cold food was secured from the buffet and hot food was brought by the waiters. Kippers, mushrooms on toast, orange juice, coffee – all were truly excellent. Afterwards, I went to the drawing room to read my newspaper, but found the sounds which drifted through the open French window – of croquet mallet upon wooden ball – too soothing. When I awoke, I thought I had missed lunch.