I have no idea what a whisky barn is, but it sounds perfect in midwinter.
"Leave our bags – someone will help us," I say to M in the Wayside hotel's car park. "Is that all your luggage?" asks a man, as we step into reception. "No – the rest is in the car." No offer of help forthcoming, we follow him – he's introduced himself as Steven Johns, the owner, and here's his wife Lynn – past a sitting and dining area, woodburner ablaze, to a beautiful wooden staircase and up one floor.
Hey, great room: lots of space, beams, iron beds, traditional radiators, thick curtains and a bathroom beneath the eaves I want to linger in with a magazine – and a whisky. Weirdly though, the guest info is like a rulebook. Requests to use water (from their spring) sparingly, to tidy away fireside games, and breakfast is only served 8am to 9am. If we leave anything behind, "money for postage and packaging must be forwarded before items are returned". Hmm.
Downstairs, we learn that Lynn and Steven moved from Yorkshire and spent five years on the renovation. They run the show with no help whatsoever – four rooms, restaurant and bar. Ah, the bar. As well as a great selection of beers, it's whisky galore. Steven's passion. When I ask him, I get a fascinating insight into single malts from small Scottish distilleries – his favourite is called Springbank – and the sadly disappearing lowland varieties which he describes, irresistibly, as "smooth, sweet, lemongrassy, honeyed". There are beautiful, and expensive, bottles in his collection on the wraparound shelves, but also 30 or 40 varieties available by the glass. "You should run tastings," I say.
"That's set for one, that is," says Steven as we pick a table away from a party of four. Moved beside fellow guests, we study a worryingly long menu and wonder how they do it. The answer lies in the freezer. Smoked haddock and spring onion fishcakes are not bad, but braised steak and potatoes sit in reheated gravy. M's slow-cooked lamb, though, is so good she finishes every scrap (then orders gooseberry crumble). As home cooking it's not bad, but I wouldn't book it for a birthday.
"Tea always tastes better out of bone china," says M next morning. "But it's just mean making people get up early when the beds are this comfortable."
Outside the window, Black Combe fell rises steeply at the end of a track. Dogs are barking. "A sheepdog counting sheep in Cumbrian, yan tan tethera," says M, showing off.
I shower hastily (the clock is nudging eight) and go to request a hairdryer for M before breakfast. In a real hotel of course, we'd have our own hairdryer, and none of this rushing.
The word "hotel" raises hopes. Guest info is usually there to enhance a stay; here it is to facilitate Wayside's day-to-day running – because Lynn and Steven are rushed off their feet. As a licensed B&B, Wayside would be exceptional – probably the best rooms I've found at the price, well-stocked bar, evening meal option. As a hotel, it has some way to go.
• Further information at golakes.co.uk
