The idea of escaping the grind for a weekend of unashamedly luxurious pampering, dining and lounging in a grand countryside setting is one holiday fantasy that’s fairly accessible to Londoners. Until, of course, you factor in the total bill for such a short trip, before plumping for a more affordable week-long sojourn in Spain instead.
But scrimp on your spa break and you risk ending up at a joint with a tepid, municipal pool and anodyne, anytown bedroom, complete with ‘first class travel connections’ (i.e. views of the gyratory).
Therefore it’s worth considering delaying the R&R if possible, by arriving on a Sunday. Most hotels offer their best rates and attractive packages once the mainstream weekend punters have departed on their predictable timetable. If you’re a seasoned Sunday nighter, you’ll have worked out how to maximise the offset break too, including tricks such as arriving first thing and heading straight for the spa to await check-in from the hot tub.
And this is pretty much what we do on arrival at Ockenden Manor in West Sussex, just 45 mins on the train from Victoria (or via the Brighton-bound Thameslink) to Haywards Heath, then a short local cab ride which concludes by ducking down a lane in the sleepy village of Cuckfield.
From stowing the kids with granny to immersing ourselves in the outdoor Jacuzzi in under two hours, with not a moment lost. As the bubbles swirl in the tub (as well as in the brunchtime glasses of our giggly pool-mates) it’s time to survey the undulating green landscape, and breathe.
The spa is a modernist addition to the manor grounds, but remains discreetly tucked away from the main house, which dates back to the 1500s. Therefore all those angular shapes and Miami penthouse stylings never clash with the historic pile, and guests segue between the crisp stonework and glass surrounds that befit massages and bespoke detox tea-drinking, (you can stay in suites upstairs too) and the higgledy piggledy charms of the manor proper.
Our room now ready, we’re lead through low-beamed, creaking corridors with floors at wildly unpredictable slants, all so amusingly at odds with the clinical lines of the spa wing. The manor rooms are attractively spruced by dusky Farrow & Ball hues, while retaining plenty of ancient nooks and quirks.
Our bed, for example, is up on a separate level to the rest of the room, complete with a little balcony overhung with vines from which to ponder the rolling garden, stretching out towards the South Downs.
Summer rain showers give us the ideal excuse to remain in our post-spa catatonia right here, until we eventually muster up the energy to slink back downstairs for an early evening drink in the lounge.
Ockenden has had a Michelin star for 13 years, so has been doing the whole local provenance thing at the top level for longer than many. The wine list is a veritable Sussex showcase, and within moments we’ve a glass of light and fresh local Albourne Estate Chardonnay-Ortega in one hand, a plate of assorted canapes waiting to be plucked up in the other.
The capable, enthusiastic sommelier is only too pleased to guide us through some highlights from local vinyards too, which include the sparkling strawberry blonde Bloomsbury Brut from Ridgeview Estate, which sets off a starter of plump scallops a treat.
Bolney Estate’s local cherry-rich pino noir is also well suited to my sublime main of lamb four ways: saddle, breast, confit and crispy.
Despite – or indeed because – of it being off-peak Sunday, the dining room is busy. Other couples, perhaps escaping the kids too, or with very young ones stowed snoring gently next to the ice bucket, dine alongside bigger groups like our Jacuzzi ladies and locals.
The dark wood-panelling, dripping candles and vast fireplace are steeped in impressively solid, unchanging country estate grandeur. Yet as I navigate a deconstructed crème brulee served across a row of three cups, we agree that the kitchen, rather like the spa, manages to deploy contemporary essentials without upsetting the staid, traditional airs that are undoubtedly still the main attraction here. It’s all clever stuff.
Next morning, after a somewhat less remarkable breakfast, we attempt – and fail – to follow the hotel’s walking map, losing our way soon after picturesque Cuckfield churchyard, and bumbling through the briars alongside posh school grounds before returning to the high street.
Since the 60s, the village has operated as the Independent State of Cuckfield, complete with local passports, essentially a charity drive, but a local eccentricity celebrated on various plaques and signs. Small shops are mostly fashion or interiors boutiques like Nicky C’s, with the odd earthy café such as her son’s place just across the road, Tom’s Food, serving things like wild boar sausage rolls, healthy salads and proper coffees.
We swerve – just – the commuter crowds to return to London on Monday afternoon, thoroughly refreshed and with a four-day week ahead of us. We’ve also dined, swum and slept in assorted, but always luxurious ways, without wincing at the extravagance. All hail the new Saturday night.
