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The Cliveden Hotel
You gasp, audibly, as your vehicle, at no more than 15 mph, turns the bend in Cliveden's front drive and you see the main house in front of you.
By: Mary Gostelow
You come in through ceremonial stone gates, drive half a mile through woodland and, at a massive round Careera sculpture Fountain Of Love, by American sculptor Thomas Waldo Story 1855-1915, you turn sharply to the left and see the vista of Cliveden ('valley among cliffs') in front of you.
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Wow, where else can you stay in a palace like this, designed in 1660 by architect William Winde for George Villiers, 2nd Duke of Buckingham and rebuilt 190 years later by Charles Barry for George Sutherland-Leveson-Gower, 3rd Duke Sutherland? This must be a place for history buffs, we thought - and we were right. In 1905 it was a wedding present for Waldorf Astor, 2nd Lord Astor, and his wife Nancy Langhorne, who spawned the smart-young-things phrase 'the Cliveden set' (Nancy Astor later became the first woman to sit in the UK House of Parliament, taking over her husband's Union-Tory seat for Plymouth Sutton). In 1961 Cliveden was to become the stage for the real-life theater starring eternally infamous Christine Keeler and Stephen Ward and the much-admired former politican and lifetime philanthropist John Profumo.
Now the house is owned by The National Trust, which still maintains the 376 acres of grounds, but Von Essen leases what is a 39-room hotel. I was greeted at the magnificent front door by Jose, from the Portuguese island of Madeira, who checked me in, showed me up in an Astor-vintage elevator to the Gibson room, on the top floor (third floor, US-style). This was classic rather than designer led. I had powder blue and gold carpeting and drapes at the two big windows - looking back along the main drive - and plain white walls and ceiling embellished with a plasterwork circle. The room was dominated by a massive four-poster, with blue and white side drapes and a linen-lined top canopy. Walls were hung with old etchings of house and surroundings, and a more-modern oil painting of the hunt, complete with hounds, meeting in the driveway outside. A framed notice announced the room is named for Charles Dana Gibson 1867-1944, pen and ink draghtsman, who in 1895 married Nancy Astor's sister Irene Langhorne, after whom Gibson invented the Gibson girl, an elegant American beauty, swan-necked, a large bust and a proud and beckoning look. I had a walk-in closet with safe, satin-covered hangers, an ice bucket, a Panasonic flat screen, and wireless internet. I had an eclectic collection of hardback books, titles like The Novels of Balzac, Holy Bible, Life's Secret by Mrs Henry Wood, The Vicar of Wakefield by Oliver Goldsmith. A leather-bound guest book had comments from other recent guests, many celebrating anniversaries. The bathroom, next door, was unusual in that there was only a shower cord attached to the marble-surrounded tub's faucets - how would I shower without flooding the room? (Answer, I flooded it!). Toiletries were Culpepper.
I was escorted to the Pavilion Spa, past outdoor and indoor swimming pools. Becky did a sleep-inducing Terraké facial in a pink-lit room, one of six, and she showed me the sauna, hot tubs and conservatory café. I changed into running gear, ran around the front grounds a bit, and then down 43 stone steps, past flowering magnolia, to the rear grounds. Here I clambered down 172 steps (10 inches high, 4 feet deep) to get down to the mighty River Thames, where I saw one of the luxury resort's 19th century now-motorized Slipper Yachts moored, next to the exclusive and separate three-bedroom Spring Cottage (stay here, in a house with private butler, and think back to the days when Queen Victoria used to come to have afternoon tea with the Duchess of Sutherland).
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Back home in the Gibson room, I dressed for dinner. There are two restaurants, Waldo's - named for the above-mentioned sculptor - and the Terrace. The Terrace room is gorgeous, just the kind of family dining room in which you can imagine the Astors partaking of kidneys and mushrooms and kedgeree for their oh-so-typical English breakfast. Colouring is a deep and dull tomato, which extends to the patterned carpet and the thick full-length curtains flanking windows looking out at the rear terrace and acres of lawn with neat parterres. The long-wall opposite the windows appears to be lined with books, ceiling-high. There are three giant crystal chandeliers overhead. Tables are set with white linens so heavily starched I thought they would crack at any moment. We have lit night lights, and white roses, and gold-edged white Spode china.
I had chosen partly from the most-enticing all-vegetarian menu, partly from the main menu. As an amuse, I was brought an espresso-cup filled with tasty tomato gazpacho - my companion had a crouton of foie gras. We had slices of brown and white farmers-style bread, made here at Cliveden, and a round of Selle Sur Belle butter in a silver dish. Hildon water was poured and adequately refilled, and When The Saints Come Marching In played quietly, over a sound system. Both our courses came under silver cloches, and oh what aromas wafter up as they were taken off, by formally-clad waiters with big grins on their faces. Yes, they knew chef Chris Horridge and his culinary team know how to cook. First I had tiny gnocchi with baby tomatoes and truffle slices, and then slivers of turbot on petits pois, with pea shoots, with sides of halves of new potatoes, and also mixed green vegetables. I had a glass of El Cole Crianza 2005 Rioja, Spain, which was followed by Ch Cissac Haut-Medoc, Bordeaux.
I slept like a log, and sadly had a 5:30 wakeup call. Breakfast in the room does not officially start until 7 am but at six they were kind enough to send up a young butler with an enormous wood tray, with lots of linens. Continental here comes not only with your choice of fresh juice but also fruits, yogurt and much else. I had two pots of Ferme du Peupliers yogurt from Normandy, two rounds of butter, three china dishes with home-made preserves, six pieces of excellent brown bread or white rolls, and about 50 small segments of pink grapefuit, and outstanding Musetti coffee in a silver plunger. My newspaper - any one you want m'am - had sadly not arrived, but I was off. I will be back, next time to include one of head gardener Andrew Mudge's tours every Thursday and Sunday, or perhaps even for Christmas or New Year.
The Cliveden Hotel, Berkshire, United Kingdom
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