First impressions of Ockenden Manor couldn’t have been better. We arrived at the beautifully preserved and endearingly higgledy-piggledy old house in early December, to be greeted by the welcoming smell of logs burning in roaring fires, mingling with that of the Nordic pine (prettily decorated in shades of red, white and gold) in the entrance of the oak-panelled hall. So far, so heart-warmingly Christmassy, but there’s nothing twee about this lovely country house hotel—the reception desk is tiny, and a wee bit shabby, which just adds to its charm.
The manor dates from Elizabethan times and has a colourful history, having been burnt down in 1608, rebuilt not many years later, bought and extended several times by subsequent owners. In the last century, it was home to a Jewish boys’ school and a safe haven for Canadian troops in the Second World War.
My husband and I weren’t staying in the main house, whose individually furnished bedrooms feature beamed ceilings and four poster beds, stone fireplaces and Victorian-style baths, but in the new spa building, which is hidden from the manor’s view by the crumbling walls of what used to be a secret garden.
The contrast between the two buildings initially came as something of a shock, but from the moment we entered the spa hotel, we felt cocooned in its modern luxury, just as sheltered from the ravages of the outside world as we had in the manor itself. Another Christmas tree (decorated more minimally in silver and white), welcomed us at reception. We were led upstairs to our suite, past glass walls revealing the enticing indoor pool and Jacuzzi, surrounded by comfortable-looking cream-upholstered dark wicker loungers.
I was due to have a massage in 15 minutes, which gave us time to explore the suite before my husband went off to explore the village (and its pubs). We liked it—a lot. An internal wall, two thirds the width of the room and featuring a large window with white-painted tongue-and-groove shutters, separated the bedroom from the bathroom in a neatly conceived semi–open plan manner. This allowed me (a little later) to luxuriate deliciously in the freestanding bath with a glass of bubbly while chatting to Andy through the ample aperture; equally it would allow a greater degree of privacy, were it necessary for the shutters to be shut (you never know). There was also a blissfully thundering
walk-in rain shower and enough Temple Spa organic aromatherapy toiletries to last us several more nights than we were staying.
The room was huge—bigger than our entire west London flat—with an equally enormous bed, capacious velvet sofas and floor-to-ceiling French windows leading out onto the roof terrace shared by all six spa suites, and featuring more Ibiza-chic cream-upholstered loungers. The views from here across the West Sussex countryside, and down to the outdoor pool, with its vast circular daybeds, must be absolutely stunning in summer; during our visit they were sadly obscured by mist and drizzle, so we decided there and then to return as soon as it’s sunbathing weather (one can but dream).
It was time for my (loathsome expression alert) girly pampering, and Andy’s manly, bucolic pub crawl, so I padded downstairs in my fluffy robe and flip flops, by now loving living in the spa wing, despite its lack of four posters and wood panelling. Ellie, my therapist, was sweet, chatty and professional as she explained the benefits of the Electric Body Signature Massage, which involved full-body brushing, a wonderful massage combining Thai and Swedish techniques using a patented oil (so good it eradicated the writer’s knots in my shoulders and left my skin silky soft) and a soothing, relaxing facial.
I’d arranged to meet Andy by the pool and we grinned at one another with pure glee as we negotiated the u-shaped, sun-dappled-jungle-painted rainforest shower—a lovely walk through warm drizzle whose volume increases as you proceed, transporting you instantly from grey old Blighty in the depths of winter.
The pool was an equal delight, large, floodlit and the perfect temperature, with a skylight through which we gazed up at the stars as we floated on our backs, and glass walls looking out at the spectacular landscape, with a pass through which we swam to the heated outdoor pool, steam rising in the cold night air. Heaven.
After wallowing in the Jacuzzi for a bit, it was time to change for dinner. Pre-dinner drinks were served next to the fire in the sumptuously decorated drawing room—think plump sofas upholstered in thick stripes, contrasting floral and bird-patterned cushions, large vases of freshly cut flowers, flattering low lighting from table lamps, all dominated by (yet another) Christmas tree, this one reaching almost to the ceiling and decorated uber-traditionally (strictly a tinsel-free zone). With our drinks came delicious amuse bouches, perfectly tasty little bites of brandade on toast, a croquette of pork, something tangy with melted cheese.
The head chef, Stephen Crane, has a Michelin star, and deservedly so, judging by our dining experience. My terrine of foie gras with port roasted pear, chicory and walnuts was a perfect assembly of ingredients, the pear and chicory cutting through the richness of the melt-in-the mouth liver pate. Andy went for the Huntsham Court Farm Middlewhite Pork croquette, a larger version of the amuse bouche, and none the worse for it, an alchemic fusion of belly, cheek, apple, celeriac and truffle. To follow, my line-caught sea bass, served with parsnip puree, baby spinach, purple sprouting broccoli and almonds, was so fresh it could almost have jumped straight from the sea and onto my plate.
All ingredients are locally sourced, with a ‘Flavours of Sussex’ food provenance map rather sweetly provided (fish and shellfish from Littlehampton, fruit, vegetables and herbs from Hassocks, organic eggs from Petworth—you get the picture). Even some of the wines, like the buttery Chardonnay recommended to go with my fish, are local—this from the nearby Albourne Estate.
Andy’s Balcombe Estate pheasant (breast, with the leg meat used as filling for a delectable, subtly spiced samosa) was another case in point. For pudding, we shared a sweet, creamy milk chocolate delice with mango salad and zesty passion fruit sorbet, and a light-as-air caramelised lemon tart with blackcurrant sorbet.
Having been fed and watered like kings we fell asleep as soon as our heads hit the pillows on our unbelievably comfortable bed, and slept the sleep of the dead, until it was time to wake for a final swim before breakfast—fruit salad and a kipper (joy!) for me, the full English for Andy, whose appetite seemed undiminished by the feast we’d consumed the previous evening.
I had to be back in London for a lunch meeting, but had there been time we’d have taken great pleasure in exploring the nine acres of apparently quite lovely grounds. Next time, when the sun’s out, we definitely will.
