Hotel ReviewCliveden House, Berkshire

By Henry Hopwood Phillips

Cliveden House, meaning “valley among the cliffs”, is regularly stabbed in the front with the blunt, clichéd adjectives that belabour luxury journalism. It’s inevitably inhabited by the “glamorous”, each room is “palatial”, all fttings are “sumptuous” and so on.

Worse, the stately home possesses the sort of visitor’s book that includes Churchill, Charlie Chaplin, George Bernard Shaw, John Profumo and Christine Keeler, and so every incident must be framed as “portentous”, “scandalous” or “clandestine” in the same soulless journalese – just as the ambience is predictably “fn de siècle”.

These lexically-challenged attempts at capturing Cliveden fall short because the house’s Italianate facade looms far above the bromides of brochures. Blending history (Nancy Astor, whose nymph-ish John Sargent portrait hangs to the left of a 16th century freplace, was Britain’s frst female MP) with a hallowed public status (it’s one of the National Trust’s most visited properties) and its fve-star hotel services is no easy manoeuvre, yet it’s one that the house somehow manages to pull off.

Its unusual blend of functions is due to being owned by the National Trust but leased to the Livingstone brothers (who also own Chewton Glen in Hampshire). And its Palladian cum Cinquecento appearance is mostly attributable to the Astors (whose family produced America’s frst multi-millionaire in John Jacob). A visage outdone only by its surroundings, with a 19th century parterre running through hundreds of acres to the Thames.

Located near Taplow and Bray, Cliveden reminded the seventeenth century diarist John Evelyn of a papal residence in Frascati known as Villa Aldobrandini –famous as “Belvedere” (beautiful view) thanks to its prospect (though Cliveden’s garden balustrade is, in fact, swiped from the Villa Borghese in Rome).

Today – beneath a plum-coloured sky – the northern driveway flls with glitzy cars rather than a sense of Evelyn’s “solitude” but the result is still unmistakably heady as visitors glance up at a house that is less silly than

Blenheim; less Jacobean than Charles Barry’s other edifce, Highclere Castle; and clearly more loved than Wentworth Woodhouse.

Inside, 38 rooms and suites (each named after fgures and visitors from the house’s past) balance the needs of luxury like wif and air-con with historical integrity.

There are only a handful of casualties. The most obvious is the usually ubiquitous coffee machine, which fnds itself banished to the Butler’s Pantry. A quibble more than compensated by making the room a larder sans honesty-box i.e. effectively free to pillage at will.

Little touches ensure the grandeur doesn’t grate. On the doors of suites guests’ names are etched, making each feel as though they’ve taken up residence rather than snuck into an historical celebrity’s bed.

Above my own is Lawrence of Arabia’s, who may have enjoyed the freplace that seems original and now blazes a gas fre (the real deal is out of the question given how many times the place has burned down) and antique furniture including chaise longues and mirrors.

The most modern part of the hotel is the spa (standing to the north of the Stables), which is the result of a recent renovation. Enclosing the original outside pool, its inside-pool, sauna, steam room, hot-tubs and bar form an austere Art Deco riposte to the clock-tower’s gilded famboyance.

Entering an impatient, hostile Londoner –glued to my phone – I leave blissfully buffed and oiled like a hunk of one of the wagyu breeds.

Despite this, little things irk. Though the tinkle of cocktails please the ear in a room that prides itself on being a “liquid museum”, being beneath the fight path doesn’t. And the humidor is perplexingly small for a room the Astors used to describe as the “Cigar Box” (thanks to its Cedar panelling).

And, fnally, though it’s best to err on informality, the failure of staff to bring those into line who seem happy publicly belting out

YouTube clips to their friends, makes things feel more awkward than relaxed. André Garrett’s 3AA Rosette restaurant is also full of misfres. Cliveden has seen talented chefs come and go – like Gary Jones, now at Le Manoir au Quat’ Saisons.

And Andre cut his teeth at both Orrery (under Nico Ladenis) and Galvin at Windows. So nobody is expecting hotel fare in the pejorative sense. Yet the 70-cover dining room is seating perhaps nearer 20 as we enter and it’s quickly clear why. Mark-ups are nothing short of punitive – even on the wine where there’s still little relative improvement on the big-hitters.

Worse, my starter of crab and caulifower is dry and tasteless. I use my partner’s oyster sauces to provide succour for the parched crustacean. The scarlet venison is faultless but also £40. And the pavlova is a binary creature that rarely avails itself of the sea buckthorn that might have provided an extra dimension. Moreover, the Galician waiter is the perfect gentleman –matching banter with informative asides – but is repeatedly ousted by a fellow who seems to want to pull rank on the poor chap, leaving a rather bad attitude lingering in the air.

This is all rectifed the next morning by a giant spread and a superb full English. But, intrigued at whether the restaurant had simply been an anomaly (perhaps a parting shot of gaucheness from a chef soon leaving for London’s Corinthian), we have lunch at the more informal restaurant known as The Grill.

A “superfood” starter (covered in a lip-smacking green harissa) followed by a lamb-chop main ticks all the boxes. But, again, whether this justifes its price-tag (one can easily hit £150-200 for two) is hardly up for debate. The whole affair reminds me of a lyric from the New Zealand band Flight of the Conchords, which, while tackling the topic of cheap labour in developing countries noted that “sneakers aren’t getting any cheaper”,

Cliveden House, Berkshire, SL6 0JF, 01628 668561 (clivedenhouse.co.uk)