Dusk descends on Northleach. Peering through the windows into this Cotswolds coaching inn reveals a series of cosy vignettes. A row of Victorian portraits hangs along a wall, their faces gaze down on restaurant tables and dark settles. Another window looks into the bar – old armchairs by a fire, two chaps leaning against polished wood, the better to hear the barman. A third room almost mirrors the first: more portraits, more restaurant, and the glow of another fire. Through the last, a girl is reading on a large sofa beside an artful composition of tall lamps, worn leather chairs and a large vase of lilies. At a guess, the guest sitting room.
Enough skulking, it's bitter out here. Into the bar. Rob, the food and beverage manager, is in charge tonight and shows me past the Christmas tree entwined in shiny fake cherries up to my Very Good room (the middle category). Bang & Olufsen screen, bed beneath cranberry mohair throws, no chair but a separate loo, and a slipper bath, above which hangs a picture of a gunslinger aiming at my bed. "That's an original Sebastian Krüger," Rob tells me. With all the charm of Freddy, I think to myself.
On tour, Rob shows me along dark corridors clad in vintage photos to a little treatment room (why didn't I book a massage?) and something called the Game Bar, unoccupied tonight but with its tiling and view of the kitchen's grill it feels rather continental. I'm warming to The Wheatsheaf. Oh no – he tells me the heating has just broken down. Still, there's hot water, and an electric heater will be delivered to my room. (When I run up to switch that on I note my radiator wasn't switched on anyway.)
Beer is from Hook Norton and Box Steam Brewery, but the one and only table in the bar has been bagged and the woodburner in the guest sitting room is unlit, so I may as well have my sherry at table.
Now I can see another Krüger painting – it's of Kate Moss. Jerusalem artichoke soup has all the soft, luxuriant pleasure of unwrapping a cashmere sweater on Christmas morning. Venison pie arrives, a ladylike portion, with a glossy pastry top, light mashed potato, buttered cabbage and a tiny spoonful of carrot and swede mash. The tender meat is a tad underseasoned, but at £12 terrific value. Finally, chocolate Balthazar – a flourless cake of dark wickedness. Ms Moss once said, "Nothing tastes as good as skinny feels," but she was quite, quite wrong.
Upstairs, the heater is working away. I run a bath and flick through January's Vogue, plucked from the sitting room.
Bed is so good it's a sin to leave it, but I click on the heater and dial for hot water and lemon. Down at breakfast – dammit – just one table is hogging the fire, the only source of heat. I fetch another layer from the car and order porridge. Fresh OJ is the real deal, on an unobtrusive buffet of cereals and fruit. Toast is made from Hobbs House bread, and comes with delicious butter from a Gloucestershire farm and good marmalade. At weekends a brunch menu runs seamlessly into lunch service, but why does a cooked breakfast cost extra? Breakfast is what we do on country breaks, and why quibble over a few quid when some guests are paying £180 a night?
If they made breakfast part of the deal, though, I'd say The Wheatsheaf rather stylishly brings past and present together under one roof.
sallyshalamsbritain.co.uk, twitter.com/sallyshalam)
