ICKWORTH HOTEL - SUFFOLK
What does any sensible woman do when her in-laws offer to take three children off her nail-bitten hands for the first time in years, allowing her husband to whisk her away on a much-needed romantic break in Paris? That's right: any sensible woman jumps at the chance, packs some sexy underwear and runs for the nearest taxi. And what did I do? I said ‘No thanks, Darling. How about a few days at a family hotel in Suffolk instead?'
So that's what we did, of course. What the frazzled Lady wants, the frazzled Lady gets, as, where husbands are concerned, so long as she is happy he's in with more of a chance of appreciating that underwear, and that's what he's in it for, not the culture, let's be honest.
So it was ‘Au revoir Paris, Bonjour specially designed family-orientated hotel' – without the very things which make me and Mr Liz a family: our kids.
Now then, before you write me off as a lunatic, here was my thinking: what do I want from time away from my kids? Well, it's what we all want, isn't it:
a) sex. Lots and lots of it, preferably at any time of the day that isn't ‘just before I go to sleep' and preferably without a small person walking to ask why Mummy's legs are around Daddy's head.
b) Sleep. This actually comes a little above sex, but we have to pretend it doesn't. So long as I can wake up when I choose to wake up, and not when CBeebies kicks off, I'm happy.
c) Quiet. Immeasurable amounts of quiet. I want to read, and read, and read until my eyes hurt, nestled in a place where the only noise I can hear is my own breathing and the sound of the pages turning. I want to sit in the kind of silence that makes children leave a room, and lovers sigh contentedly.
d) As little hassle as possible. I'm sure Paris is fabulous and all that, but I am so washed out after living through a complete house renovation and completing my next book, that the idea of getting on a train to London, the Eurostar, the Metro, finding the hotel and then traipsing around a huge, sticky city for three days along with five million other suckers trying to do the same, when I could be doing all that delicious a, b and c above half an hour from home just seems like madness to me. It also seems rather a shame to go all the way to one of the most beautiful cities in the world, where I would feel obliged to get out there before my petit dejeuner had settled to do stuff: see it, admire it, eat it, drink it, walk it, appreciate it, and bloody well cram it all in, when all I want to do is sit and do nothing!
See, now you're starting to think a few days down the road in a country hotel has something after all.
The final straw in the apparently bizarre decision-making process is that, having spent the best part of twenty years travelling the world, first with my intrepid parents and, latterly, on my tod, I have developed over the course of three pregnancies and ten years of motherhood the kind of travel anxiety that has made anything more than a train ride to London from my home in Cambridge impossible. And on bad days, even this 45-minute journey is beyond me. Getting to gay Paris would be an ordeal greater than I can contemplate right now. What I need is rest, relaxation, rejuvenation and rumpy pumpy. In reverse order.
The Ickworth Hotel, housed in the huge East Wing of Ickworth House, now a National Trust property but formerly the family home of the Herveys for over 200 years, is set in 1800 acres (that's ‘definitely enough to get lost', to you and me) of rolling, park and woodland, about three miles from Bury St Edmunds.
I first heard about Ickworth while conducting my (very arduous) research into Britain's top family-friendly hotels for my first book, The Yummy Mummy's Survival Guide, and what I read about it sounded spectacular. Wanting a little reassurance that it really was this good before we committed – standard doubles start at £210 rising to £440 for a large one so, and, even though children stay for free if they share their parents' bedroom which is a fantastic bonus I think, in these financially painful times it's not a gamble you want to take lightly - I asked a close friend of mine, who, as Architectural Editor of Country Life for many years, has stayed in more country piles than can possible be considered polite, Ickworth being one.
Knowing how I like my fresh air and exercise, a spot of elegance and pampering and exciting bits of History and architecture thrown in, he assured me I would love the place, but his recommendation came with a warning that it may well be taken over by “hordes of London toddlers, so if you want to get away from lively children I would look a little further.” Hmmmmm, I've spent half my life with Cambridge toddlers, and what I was after was time away from their kids – but no matter, I decided: I love the sound of children, especially when they're not mine and I don't have to lift a finger to separate the squabbles, and with so much ground to discover, we were bound to find somewhere quiet! I swallowed hard, shoved Paris to the back of my mind and made the booking.
It turned out to be one of the best decisions I've made in years.
Our double room, called The Lady Montague, was situated magnificently in the triangular rooftop of the East Wing, and I immediately fell in love with the round window overlooking the manicured Capability Brown-designed formal garden and side of the magnificent Rotunda that forms the centre of Ickworth House. With enormous floor cushions to lie on and three months worth of Sunday supplements I've been unable to read in my chaotic home, I spent the best part of three days nestled in that window ledge, reading, thinking, writing and dozing.
Any fears of sharing our peace with screeching, tantrums, nappies or bickering were laid to rest within a few hours. Indeed, such was the quiet at Ickworth that we began to wonder if it was even open for normal business. Where was everybody?! To get our bearings, we headed straight out - well, almost…- on the eight mile walk around the stunning grounds (“Eight miles? Come on man, what are you made of?” I challenged, before realising I was totally worn out barely halfway round) taking rests for our picnic by the bizarre Obelisk and the pretty-as-a-picture Fairy Lake) and although we heard some happy squeals from somewhere deep in the forest, we only passed three people, and they all looked like staff to me, not guests.
After a reviving coffee in the drawing room we decided to check out the swimming pool. I'm not sure what I was expecting but whatever it was, what I found surpassed this by some considerable margin.
On two sides huge glass windows look out onto small courtyard gardens where palms, ferns and other green stuff I'm not qualified to describe accurately lend a dreamy, peaceful note. The pool itself (1.4 m deep throughout, so worth noting that kids who can't swim will need to be watched at all times) was spotless, with deep piles of warm, neatly folded towels provided, and the changing room was deliciously old-fashioned – it felt rather like stepping into the set of Atonement or Gosford Park, such was its nostalgic simplicity. There are plenty of floats, armbands and so on to keep the kids safe and entertained, but with only one shower and two changing cubicles you need to time your pool exit carefully: I was joined briefly by a blonde two-year-old girl who stared at me for a while, before deciding I was definitely not her Mummy! I didn't mind one bit – it's all part of the fun and relaxed family atmosphere, and anyway, I'm sure she's seen a wobbly tummy before. The water in the pool was a perfect temperature: easily warm enough to plop about in happily with a spouse you're falling in love with all over again, and not too hot that you turn into a beetroot. Three times out of four we had the whole pool to ourselves, and really felt as though, after twelve years, we were on our honeymoon again.
Despite the olde-worlde-ness of some parts of Ickworth, it is never, ever stuffy. Funky pieces of art and furniture, eye-popping chandeliers and bold furnishings are mixed with beautiful antiques, and the look is eclectic and modern yet grand and absolutely in keeping with the building. The décor in the rooms is similarly mixed, and you can choose how modern or plush you want to go.
Food at Ickworth is whatever you want it to be: you can have picnics in the grounds, a more relaxed dinner in the other-worldly, airy, quintessentially English conservatory or a more formal affair at Frederick's Restaurant, situated in the original dining rooms once frequented by the Hervey family.
And here we come to the other unique thing about Ickworth: the family history. It's a heady, dramatic, sad tale of enormous wealth, glamour, jail, theft, hedonism beyond imagination and, ultimately, loss. There is a very strong sense in the hotel that what has been before still lives in here, from the room names ( they are all connected to the family or building. Ours, Lady Montague, was a well known 18 th century poet and friend of the family ) to the frames containing newspaper articles about former scandals, parties and the like, photographs from times long gone and even an old leather belt I'd bet had been used on several naughty children's backsides… Ickworth's last inhabitant, the 7th Marquess of Bristol, enjoyed himself rather too much and squandered the entire family fortune on his ‘manifold excesses' before auctioning off everything in the East Wing for a little extra dosh and finally dying at the age of 44. The estate had already been transferred to HM Treasury in the fifties in lieu of death duties, who in turn passed it to the National Trust, who then agreed to let the family live here on a lease basis.
If you're into a spot of exercise during a short break, then you're in for a treat here – aside from the pool there are bikes you can explore the estate on, and if you're a runner like me you are spoilt for choice. Each morning I went for a beautiful run, passing those good-old mighty oaks, woods, sheep and vast fields and the occasional mad person like me running off the work/family/life stress. With a quick shower and a dip in the pool to cool off, this was the kind of fitness I could get used to!
We did eventually find evidence of other people staying at the hotel: several pregnant ladies were with us for our third tea in the drawing room (Oh, can you ever get tired of saying that?) presumably there to have a much-needed last rest before their next addition arrived, while Daddy and Toddler gave them plenty of space and rest. All were not only impeccably behaved (yes, even the Dads) but were so busy trampolining, swimming, biking, playing tennis, running around the gardens and generally having the most fantastic time that they were a pleasure to be around. We did meet another couple who had madly come here without their kids, and we were all in agreement that it was actually not sure a bad plan at all: you get a complete break from yours, while being gently reminded at various times – such as the beautiful collection of variously-sized welly boots by the huge front door, the socket covers, the ‘just-like-it-is-at-home' plastic Ikea tumblers in the conservatory and the occasional sound of giggling – that you have kids, and are glad of it. Indeed, that you miss them!
The staff at Ickworth were the perfect mix of attentive and invisible. When we needed anything we were helped out immediately, and when we wanted complete privacy and peace, we got it by the bucket-load. On day two we tried out the spa in the basement – all in the name of research, obviously…! - and each had the best full body massage of our lives. I've had treatments the world over, but really, this was hard to beat. Getting rid of the knots in my runner's shoulders was described as ‘like popping bubble-wrap' and I sure felt the better for it. I fell into a deep sleep, and awoke feeling about ten thousand miles away from any worries or stresses at all.
After two unbroken, dreamless nights and three heavenly days of never-ending peace and relaxation, we left with a spring in our step, a glow in our skin, a twinkle in our eye and no doubt whatsoever that we will be back as soon as we can, next time with the little ones. All we have to do now, is make sure they don't get any wind of what a fantastic time Mummy and Daddy have just had, or we'll never hear the end of it…