Not all cottage websites are created equal. Equally user-friendly that is. Some sites can't even provide a clear booking calendar but on the Wye Valley Holiday Cottages site I can see that the Malt House is 16th century, dog-friendly, near a pub, has a bathroom per bedroom and availability when we want.
The Wye Valley is a slice of heaven sandwiched between England and Wales. We drive over the rushing river to Brockweir on the (English) eastern bank.
Our cottage isn't just "near" the pub: it's opposite. We let ourselves into a modern kitchen. Random bits in the fridge (Actimel, Benecol) are leftovers, we suspect, rather than standard welcome rations. There is tea and fresh coffee (hurrah), but no teapot (hiss).
"Community shop's open till six," says A, flicking through the info folder. Back out into the gathering mist, to buy teacakes at the smartest village shop we've ever seen.
Back at base, we explore endless rooms and staircases (not a house for the infirm). "Nice pink lustre ware," muses A in the dining room which, she says, "smells like a church". Stone walls and hefty doors ooze atmosphere in what is a very classy renovation.
A twin bedroom with bathroom behind a wall of solid wood will do me nicely, thanks. This leaves the master double, with its own tiny woodburner, to A and The Novelist (he's still en route with Barney the dog). "Hey, there's a secret staircase," A's voice floats across the landing. A faux bookcase conceals a spiral flight to a room tucked into the eaves. It has a double bed, but begs, surely, to be a kids' room with its hidden stairs and tiny skylight, and anyway the bathroom partition isn't full height (so not soundproof).
Reading by the fireside, there's a knock. It's Tony the caretaker – to confirm our table in the pub and deliver a potted history. The monks of Tintern Abbey lived next door and our antique oak-furnished dining room is an original medieval hall. We look suitably impressed and vow to walk in the monks' footsteps to Tintern Abbey tomorrow.
Next arrival is The Novelist with Barney, who promptly falls asleep in his basket at the hearthside, while we repair to the pub for halves of Tewdric's Tipple, game casserole and chocolate bread and butter pudding.
"I'd like some decorative touches in our bedroom," says A next morning, sipping coffee downstairs. I agree, renovation of this quality deserves final flourishes, an aesthetic alternative to metal clothes rails and mismatched toiletries. Oh, and a full-length mirror. Not a priority on a walking weekend, granted, but no one wants to go to the pub with their skirt tucked into their knickers.
"Oh do stop it, you two," says The Novelist. "I really like it here. Now, are we walking to the abbey or what?"
We are, and what's more, we're returning to the Brockweir Inn for round two: Sunday lunch. No shortage of renowned eating options in the vicinity but why bother when we (and James May, smoking outside) have found un-prissied-up pub heaven? Leaving Brockweir is a wrench, I tell you, a terrible wrench.
• Dinner about £15 for two courses at the Brockweir Inn (01291 689548, thebrockweirinn.co.uk)
Sally Shalam (follow Sally on Twitter @sallyshalam)
