There is a lushness to the pictures of Exmoor on this B&B's website, but also a hint of humour. A section is headed Complaints – next to Gift Vouchers. I click to find things such as, "Trees obscure the views" and "No McDonald's anywhere near".
Fast forward to a rain-sodden evening outside this sprawling 1930s house. Owner Edward Christian wastes no time grabbing my bag, saying the car is fine unlocked but to keep the doors shut.
It's the dog, he explains. Roger the retriever will make off with anything in a bid for a game of chase. By this time, we have crossed a large parqueted lobby. Dining Room, it says on one door, and opposite I spy a long, somewhat corridor-like sitting room. Goodness, what a lot of patterned carpet. Passing a little office, we reach the foot of the stairs. Five bedrooms are upstairs, and one (with its own entrance) is on the ground floor.
My room overlooks the garden and a beautiful old beech. Bed's inviting, good clothes hangers, hot water bottle, handmade chocolate on the tea tray and free Wi-Fi. The bathroom has a rolltop bath and separate shower, places for my things, a heated towel rail (which performs as described), bathrobe, and for once, conditioner.
There's something of the suburban two-star though. A standard hotel-issue wardrobe and chest of drawers beside a grannyish wing armchair conspire to sabotage the country house elegance of a polished antique desk and beautifully made-up bed.
Downstairs, a variety of chairs and sofas await, along with newspapers and magazines. I plonk myself beside an unlit fire (it's summer, but a room this large could do with the crackling cosiness). At the far end is a bar from which Edward dispenses dry wit along with wine, Sheppy's cider and bottled ales from Cotleigh Brewery in Wiveliscombe.
He and his wife Julie have been running Three Acres since 2003, having left former lives in London. They took a hotel management course (very sensible) and rented a house in Dulverton. "That was before we knew that Exmoor is the most beautiful place in the world," he says, pouring a pint.
Julie ferries in food (some German guests are in for the evening, like me) and we all sit at tables by the bar. Mmm, this light supper is exactly what I want. Leek and potato soup comes with delicious, crumbly biscuits made with cheese and gram flour, followed by a lemon posset. "With cream from Westons farm," says Julie. While I am stunned into silence by its tangy, rich marvellousness, the Germans are propelled into exclamations of delight.
Cooking done, Julie comes in to chat, regaling me with the antics of Roger the retriever. (He once trotted home carrying some brand new M&S knickers, lifted, she thinks, from an unsuspecting neighbour's shopping bag.) When I ascend to my blue room, the moon is shining through the trees. I lean through the window and breathe in damp air. Trees rustle. An owl hoots. A solitary car passes then all is quiet.
Breakfast in the sunny dining room. "Sleep all right – no snoring?" asks Edward. (I think he's read a review or two.) Brisk south-westerly winds, says the weather report on my menu. It's a star-studded feast, from squeezed OJ and fruit compote with Exmoor honey to today's special – Exe Valley smoked trout with scrambled eggs.
So, now you're asking whether there's anything for the Complaints section? How about this – I can't say the decor bowled me over, but everything else did.
