The beauty of Coombeshead is how unfussy and relaxed it all is, as well as its low-key cool. But in a way, this underscores the fact that it is, of course, madly cool. They make their own soap from beeswax and the fat from the ­Mangalitza pigs in the nearby field, which makes the likes of Molton Brown look painfully pedestrian.

Everyone seems to be having the time of their life working at Coombeshead, too – and it comes across in the service. That said, check-out is at 10.30am, so I was poised for annoyance. Yes, I know we still have amped-up cleaning procedures as part of Covid theatre, but what was going on before the pandemic? A quick spray of some Febreze and a glide of a feather duster over the bedside table?

As it turned out, getting up early wasn’t an issue, as the previous guest had set the radio alarm in my room to 5.50am, and it was still primed. It took me several minutes to find the device in the dark and wrench it from the wall. 

Happy I was not. I am used to hollow apologies at hotels for inconveniences, but at Coombeshead they made amends with goodies from their farm shop, including a ton of malt loaf (which I’d already tried fried in butter at breakfast), a jar of pork rillette, jams, honey, dried flowers and frankfurters. I was more than happy to barter the trauma of the alarm for that bounty.