Take it slow in the Cotswolds

Here is a 14th-century manor house set in 60 acres of meadow. A quick taxi ride, all stone walls and hedges, from Moreton-in-Marsh station. When you approach the entrance the drive curves up elegantly towards a terrace, majestic trees, lit and welcoming windows.

Hyll was once called Charingworth Manor, and TS Eliot stopped here when he visited another local estate, Burnt Norton. The poem of the same name is, among other things, a meditation on time. It begins: Time present and time past / Are both perhaps present in time future / And time future contained in time past.

I’ve spent some time with old Tom Eliot. He may be many things, but you wouldn’t describe him as a guide to self-indulgence. “The inner freedom from the practical desire,” as he wrote, isn’t quite what you’re looking for when you head to a fine hotel for the weekend.

And yet Hyll’s owners, Paul Baker and Sarah Ramsbottom, of Madfabulous Hotels, are clearly seeking to transcend time, by having Hyll focus on taking things easy. Delineated in the pages of two little booklets that guests discover by their beds are the pleasures of the nap, the importance of boredom, suggestions for the best places in the hotel to be idle.

There’s no gym here, no spa (though a massage therapist will come to your room on request). Don’t pound away on the treadmill – loll around. It was, late last year, a little chilly to settle down under a big chestnut tree, but a chair by the open fire in one of several lounges worked just fine.

Hyll, the former Charingworth, is cosily tucked away in deepest England. There is a sense of hiddenness about it, even in the 21st century. My husband and I arrived without a car, and we saw our lack of wheels as an advantage: no haring around the gorgeous Cotswolds, sure, but instead a proper immersion in the quiet hum of the hotel, just the two of us. Maybe it is always true to say that only a few people ever know of anyone’s care for another person, whether that care is hidden or not. But Hyll was a fine place to contemplate, in a kind of still privacy, the gifts of peace and companionship.

So we took it easy, as a pair. We were shown to our room (a suite, really, with a separate seating area) in the courtyard of the hotel. Left by the bed were those two little booklets, titled Do Nothing and Do Something. Mostly we holed up and read. Hyll has partnered with Borzoi Bookshop, a bookshop in Stow, and guests are provided with an in-room reading menu tailored to their taste. Before we arrived I was asked what kind of books I liked to read. “Classic,” I said, and an elegant hardback of Dickens’s A Christmas Carol awaited me.

Classics aside, there was a very good selection of new books, fiction and non-fiction, all available for perusal in the lounges. Whatever took your fancy was available to buy.

Hyll is reached by a long drive that winds up towards the collection of buildings that make up the place. For about the next year, it’s true, you’ll see construction at the front of the hotel while the events barn – which will seat 150 people and be available for weddings, performances and private gatherings – is being constructed, but I can attest that the work is not intrusive and had absolutely no impact on our strenuous efforts at relaxation.

Being on the crest of a hill (the house’s name comes from an Old English word for an elevated position) means that there are beautiful uninterrupted views across the Cotswolds. In the warmer months the stretches of inviting terrace will surely be blissful to settle into, the languid gaze stretching out across fields and dry-stone walls, red kites wheeling overhead. It being the beginning of winter, we strolled a little around the grounds when it wasn’t raining. But mostly we talked; we talked a lot. And we were grateful.

Plus, the food is really good, which is always conducive to conversation. Mark Coleman, Hyll’s head chef, works closely with farms and suppliers in the area: your breakfast honey comes from the hives positioned by the drive.

What you are served is simple yet interesting, which is often the hardest cooking to pull off. A starter of Devon scallops with hazelnut butter, fresh peas and watercress cream was on point, the scallops plump and just barely cooked, the popping of the peas a perfect contrast to the sweet shellfish.

One night, my husband had the wood-fired octopus, cooked with saffron and a burnt-lemon and garlic dressing. I chose lamb – raised on a nearby farm and served with cannellini beans and a tangy salsa verde – and it was perfectly pink. And the next evening I was advised to have my steak a little less rare than I think I like, because of the cut of the meat – which was good advice.

At lunch, the Hyll toastie is perfection, a kind of luscious croque with local chorizo stuffed inside. The homemade granola served at breakfast was excellent, nicely crisp and not too sweet. And guess what? They give you a little bag of it to take home with you – a nice touch.

I felt throughout our stay that Eliot would approve of it all, and I was glad to think of him. You might wonder whether his spirit still hovers about the place; I reckon all this comfort might trouble his ascetic soul. But it did not trouble mine.