The credentials:
Bailiffscourt was built in the late ’20s and early ’30s (completed in 1933) for Lord and Lady Moyne of the Guinness family, who enjoyed yachting and lazy days on the coast at Climping, West Sussex. Lady Moyne was passionate about ‘the medieval style’, so they commissioned architect and antiquarian Amyas Phillips to create their fabulous folly using as many authentic materials as possible—golden Somerset sandstone, leaded windows, original wooden doors and beams. The result is a beautiful house—far removed from hideous faux-Tudor monstrosities—surrounded by several authentic-looking outbuildings in spectacular grounds, approached by a sweeping tree-lined driveway.
As you sip pre-dinner drinks in the pretty central courtyard, or walled rose garden, or wander past the downstairs music room and card room, you find yourself imagining the dazzling parties of a lost generation, fancy dress shenanigans involving a glittering host of bright young things, all manner of Mitfords and Waughs (Diana Mitford was the Moynes’ daughter-in-law before she married Oswald Mosley).
Lord and Lady Moyne both died during the war, and Bailiffscourt became a hotel in 1948. It is now a magical, unusual retreat from the outside world, with its thoroughly modern spa (complete with outside pool and hot tub) and private beach. We were encouraged to wander from the main house to the spa in robes and slippers, as ‘we want our guests to feel relaxed and at home here’. It worked.
Sleep:
Bailiffscourt’s 39 rooms and suites are located both in the main building, and the various outbuildings (which include the Thatch House—connected, pleasingly, to the main house by an underground tunnel that one hopes was the conduit for some wonderfully naughty behaviour in its former life). All the rooms in the main house are traditionally decorated (many with four-poster beds), the outhouses a mixture of contemporary and traditional, and all have ensuite bathrooms and flat screen TVs.
We stayed in Baylies, Bailiffscourt’s ‘signature room’—its star suite, if you like—and couldn’t have been happier with it. The vaulted beamed ceiling, wood burning stove with well-stocked log basket, attractively arched leaded windows and magnificent carved four poster with rich damask hangings and embroidered cushions gave us a fabulous sense of stepping back in time; the twin claw-footed, roll-top baths in the marble-floored bathroom, large velvet sofas and old fashioned writing desk piled with original ’20s and ’30s hardbacks added to our mood of supremely spoilt, nay cosseted, well-being. Oh, and the bed was beyond comfortable—it’s safe to say we loved this suite!
Dine:
Dinner is served in the Tapestry Restaurant—all white linen table cloths, gleaming glassware, medieval architecture, mullioned windows and tapestry-hung walls. Our starters were delicious. Andy’s raviolo of fresh and smoked salmon with butter sauce and lobster jus was a winning combination of flavours and textures, the delicate sweetness of the fish and silky pasta enhanced by their light butter sauce and heady richness of the jus; my langoustines, grilled open in their shells, spanking fresh and oozing herby butter, were accompanied by a seriously yummy tangle of noodles in a creamy reduction—subtle yet unmistakably redolent of flambéed crustacean shells.
The rest of the meal didn’t quite live up to the promise of the starters. Andy’s rack of lamb was exemplary, pink and tender, and accompanying dauphinoise potatoes so mouth-wateringly good that I kept reaching over to help myself to more. But he thought the aubergine ‘caviar’ added nothing to the dish, neither texturally nor flavour-wise.
My grilled chicken breast with creamed morels, kale and potato puree was an odd assembly—morels bosky, toothsome and great to have in season, kale fine, potato puree smooth, unctuous and rich with olive oil, but a tiny portion (served in a silver ramekin not much bigger than an egg cup). By contrast, the chicken breast was vast and not really that enjoyable to chew my way through. The other flavours on the plate did compensate, though.
My pudding was the only real duff note. Having ordered almond millefeuille with whipped cream and raspberries, I’d been looking forward to layers of feather-light pastry, with perhaps a little frangipane and some flaked almonds setting off the fruit and cream. What I got was—well, I suppose a deconstructed interpretation of millefeuille would be the best way of putting it. Three almond biscuits—which were, in on their own way, delicious, crisp and nutty, but not the thousand buttery leaves I’d greedily anticipated—were arranged at angles on the plate under layers of whipped cream so overwhelmingly, chemically perfumed it tasted as though half a bottle of almond extract had been chucked in. Andy’s chocolate mousse was much more successful: rich, dense, spoon-lickingly scrummy.
Who goes there?
Mid-week, when we visited, our fellow diners were mainly well-heeled couples of a certain age; other guests in the spa seemed to be slightly less well-heeled (though still monied) couples, also of a certain age: spa membership is available to non-residents.
It’s different at weekends, though, we’re told, with families (some of the outhouses are particularly family-friendly), young professionals enjoying romantic mini-breaks, and plenty of events—21st birthdays, engagement parties, and, of course, weddings. I thought it would be a fabulous place to throw a party, with its indoor nooks and crannies, lovely outdoor spaces (and that intriguing underground tunnel!).
There is also a helipad outside the walled rose garden—frequently in use, we were told—which speaks for itself, really.
Out & about:
The grounds were clearly designed as an idyllic playground for a pampered elite, with croquet and tennis lawns close to the house, hard tennis courts a three minute walk away, rose garden, cherry tree walk, woodland walk, moat walk, dovecote, and leafy, overgrown path down to pebbly Climping beach. The spa is great too—my aptly-named Drift Away massage left me in dreamy, contented haze.
With such variety at your fingertips, there’s not really any need to venture further afield, but if you fancy a change, the Black Horse, an 18th century former smuggling inn, is a ten-minute walk away, has a fine beer garden (though it’s pretty unprepossessing inside) and serves some good food. We ventured out for lunch and both went for the catch of the day, whole baked seabass, which was super-fresh and really well cooked. Accompanying vegetables were uninspiring.
If you’re travelling by train, it’s worth bearing in mind that Barnham, and all the nearest stations, are on the notorious Southern Railways which have recently drastically cut the number of trains, with those that still exist running up to two hours late.
The worst thing:
My pudding. This is really a very minor gripe though, as all in all we had a wonderful time.
The best thing:
Baylies, which I highly recommend. Yes, it’s the most expensive suite in the gaff, but well worth it if you want to treat yourself or somebody else to something quite out of the ordinary. Swimming in the heated outdoor pool and wallowing in the hot tub, looking out at the stunning grounds and surrounding Sussex countryside was pretty damn sensational, too.
