Razzmatazz is all very well, but sometimes quiet country-house gentility hits the spot perfectly
A reader emails, wanting somewhere calming and reassuringly trad, and it reminds me that sometimes that's just what we need; plenty of places dish up razzmatazz. A communiqué from The Old Parsonage languishes on my desk. Time to dust it off before holiday hordes bring the A30 to a standstill.
Wheels crunch on gravel outside a solid Georgian house the colour of clotted cream. Looks reassuring. Sun's blazing. Can't wait to explore – I've never been to Boscastle.
Margaret Pickering, who runs the OP with her partner Morag Reeve, is on the drive, smiling. Find it OK? Yes – and thank goodness for the note about avoiding a Cornish hill – they freak me out.
Geraniums and wellies in the porch look very country-house five-star, only this is the real thing. A long hall, windows of elegant proportions. DVDs, books and small fridge with jugs and mini-flasks for milk at the foot of the stairs. Passing a ground-floor bedroom, we ascend to the other four. Mine, overlooking the garden, has everything. Light through tall sash windows. Space. Enough for a pristine bed with satin throw, armchairs flanking a fireplace, antique French wardrobe, chest of drawers and a tray loaded with Fairtrade teas, good crockery, cafetière and Morag's mini Cornish fairing biscuits, which I cannot stop eating. The bathroom is almost as large, with a roll-top artfully placed for a view of steeply rising fields.
Everything is pretty, soothing, nothing screams for attention. Best of all is the atmosphere of quiet gentility. I sense, before setting off across an ancient field system called the Stitches for a coast path edged with clumps of sea pinks bobbing in the breeze, gaining Boscastle harbour in the sharp evening sun, that my stay will feel too short.
At the Napoleon Inn on Boscastle harbour, a band is playing in a back room. I choose from chalked-up specials that include mackerel caught that day by a kayaking chef. Finally, I stroll back and climb into bed – ah, the pillows are soft as clouds.
Lambs bleat. From my heavenly vantage point, I gaze at vivid green as the sun climbs. But breakfast finishes at 9.30am, so I cut the reverie short. There are other imperfections: not much power about the shower – a damp squib in such a bathroom. Dining room and conservatory both have a breakfast table and chairs as well as sofas, and both suffer ergonomically.
I enjoy the company of Australian and German guests at a communal table. They're all too polite to enquire why I am writing instead of giving undivided attention to Cornish yoghurt, freshly squeezed juice, scrambled eggs with salmon (brought by Morag), and DIY toast with homemade marmalade. Country house hotel comfort without the price tag, I think as I drive off, and website photography that doesn't begin to capture the allure of The Old Parsonage.