An enthusiastic recommendation is also an opportunity to steer a middle course between commercialisation and bah humbug in the run-up to St Valentine's Day. Romantic simplicity in a gypsy caravan.
I've requested an evening meal, and set my course. This brings me to a bend in a narrow lane, and on that bend I find two brick cottages, an assortment of cars and a half-repaired caravan. Hope that's not mine. A man strides down a front path, hand outstretched in welcome. John Cookson runs Wriggles Brook Gypsy B&B with his wife Jane. Guest parking is round the corner. They don't really "do" signs, he says. Or brilliant first impressions.
They do pretty good second impressions though. Three dogs greet me at a wooden gate, and John and Jane lead me into a muddy, unmanicured and utterly bucolic setting. Their one-acre garden is bordered by the lane, and by Wriggles Brook, which rushes on into a waterfall. A hammock has been strategically suspended for over-water canoodling, musing or boozing. My Romany caravan stands beneath an ash tree in its own little encampment (there is another, but it is out of sight), cupped by a young beech hedge.
Campfire and outdoor seating mark out my tiny "garden" at the foot of the wooden steps. We climb these, and it takes only seconds for Jane to show me around the caravan's chocolate-box interior. No need for the hot-water bottle hastily stashed in my bag: there is a Queenie stove and an electric radiator. The raised bed folds into seating, but is ready for occupation and dressed in dark embroidered satin. A kettle, tea and coffee, matches, wind-up torch, bedside light, corkscrew, glasses and a copy of Winnie the Pooh complete my home.
Along the path they show me (almost gleefully) a timber shed with window boxes vibrant, in this colour-drained winter valley, with primulas. This is the shared shower room and compost loo (very eco). Everything is here – fridge, crockery, towels, biodegradable toiletries – including the kitchen sink and, most importantly, heating.
Meals are served in the adjoining little brick-floored conservatory, where garden tables nudge herb beds and a hibernating vine brushes the ceiling. A CD player and a bottle of Sarson's vinegar adorn a shelf.
Buster, the terrier, joins me on a walk. We return at nightfall to find the conservatory aglow with fairylights. Stove alight, kettle on … and relax. Leaves skitter across the canvas roof.
Some time later, John gives me a shout. Food, ferried from the house, is served to a soundtrack of honky-tonk blues. For your sakes, though, I cannot dwell on the pan-roasted pheasant breast, confit leg, polenta, spiced red cabbage, and crème brûlée, truffle and nut tuile. Dinner has been cooked by French chef Ollie Raout, who came to stay and hasn't left (at least not yet).
It's very innovative – juxtaposing rather fine dining with low-tech glamping – but you will have to get there tout de suite to sample it. Plans to buy more wagons and bring Ollie on board permanently have just been scuppered by investment woes, and Ollie is now job hunting.
I sleep well enough, though I find futons hard. A warm pancake is delivered for me to eat in bed while I watch finches flutter at bird feeders. I have a good, hot shower before John and Jane's veggie full Monty arrives at the table. Even after last night's meal it doesn't disappoint. I don't know how you feel about Valentine's Day, but Wriggles Brook feels like a little slice of heaven.
