BE L GRAVI A RE S I DE NT S J OURNA L 025

I
f you like your wallpaper white, your furniture
abstract, your lines clean and your space Spartan then
you probably wont like Great Fosters. If, however,
you agree with Kenneth Clark that that particular style,
has the fatal defect of purityrevealing the poverty of
human invention when forced to spin a web from its own
guts, youll probably prefer the brilliant clash of pomp and
domesticity on display at Great Fosters.
The Elizabethan pile, which looks like Hampton
Court Palaces baby brother, is a catapults throw from the
latter. With a fair wind behind you and a non-faulty signal
system in front, it is only 40 minutes from London on the
train and has the potential, with its swimming pool and
proximity to Virginia Water, to become (to a sun-kissed
mind) what the Strandbad Wannsee is to Berlin.
But you have to get through the door rst, which is
not easy because in an Alice and Wonderland twist, its
a Russian doll of doors, with only the last hobbit-sized
one actually functioning. Once in, there is enough oak
panelling to build another Mary Rose and a replace
that could double as a room. Everything, from the
historical artefacts that stand as dumb sentinels, to the
latticed windows, seem to have been curated to cause
maximum heart damage to any executives who may
perchance be escaping from the gruelling schedule a
Swedish contemporary furniture company might impose.
Upstairs, past chandeliers that look as though
they might have enjoyed previous lives as maces, Im
introduced to my room, a story of unbridled damask.
Wondering why I dont have a bed, Im led through
another door to a four-poster, then theres a corridor
with three doors. Ill stop there, all you need to know
is Im not used to staying at a hotel where my suite has
more rooms than my own apartment at home.
The bathroom deserves a review of its own.
Sporting a swish twenty-rst century William Morris
uniform, its large enamel sink, oak oorboards and small
shop of Molton Brown products lure me into thinking
Hunting for greatness
There are several good reasons not to go to Great Fosters.
Henry Hopwood-Phillips could not nd any of them.
Great British Escape:
Ive got a bohemian chateau at my disposal. Then there
is the bath tub. This hotel has a long history as a hunting
lodge that includes Tudor, Georgian and Windsor royalty
(as well as modern greats such as Charlie Chaplin and
Emma Thompson) on its visitor list. It has also been a
mad house. The bath tub (a Victorian roll top) seems to
elide these two histories. It looks like a luxury torturing
device, but the only thing the industrial structure
precipitates is a waterfall from all directions.
If the innards of Great Foster combine luxury and
character, the manicured topiary and surrounding land
manage to balance the twee and the wilder instincts of
British horticulture. Be warned however, although this is
a 50 acre estate, the distance is only just enough to buffer
the drone of Dantes outermost ring a.k.a the M25.
When dinner time approaches we plonk ourselves
down in the claret-coloured, silk-covered Tudor room.
Great Fosters has been making noises about becoming a
serious destination for food for a while now, so long to see
if it is just bluster. The hotel has poached Nik Chappell
from a similar red-brick affair over at the Michelin-
starred LOrtolan. Keen on blending French and Asian
inuences into traditional British dishes, Chappell is well
complemented by Alper Sahin in the wine department.
Wine can make or break a meal for me. So a lot
rested on Alpers shoulders when he opened a bottle of
Ca dei Frati Ronchedone (2011). Its an unpretentious
wine and it only costs about 20 when bought from the
suppliers. The dark berries and herbs dont punch or
startle, but lure you into some sort of metaphorical bush,
not to throw pepper or any other unsubtle avours at
you, but to cushion the tongue in the rounded embrace
of tannins. Only the best wines can entice me into
scribbling such terrible imagery.
We opt for the eight course tasting menu to go with
the grape juice. We sit in anticipation. These tasters get
a bad press, often seen as silly juvenile toys, the product
of chefs egos rather than customer demand. Squid ink
stands miles above its companion canaps, capturing all
the best marine avours; it is like eating delicate, eshy
seaweed. The Scotch egg cooked rare was a treat, and the
pea-based swamp it sat in arrested the earthiness of the
whole garden, not just the conventional mint. Watermelon
with the tuna, soy and wasabi was an inspired choice; as
was the homemade pan-fried crumpets that canvass a rich
tableau of trufed tunworth cheese, honey and g.
Talking of local produce can get a bit silly in SW1;
unless people are taking to the streets to shoot pigeons for
lunch or growing potatoes in ower pots on the window
sill, the language rings a bit hollow. But here the talk is
real no gimmicks. In fact, the vast majority of the menu
grows on the grounds the house has owned for so long.
I think that the food is just a microcosm of what the
hotel does so well. In an age mired by an overabundance
of self-consciousness and a corollary thirst for authenticity,
Great Fosters stamps itself on the mind.

Stroude Road, Egham, Surrey TW20 9UR, 01784 433822
(greatfosters.co.uk)
The Elizabethan pile, which
looks like Hampton Court
Palaces baby brother, is a
catapults throw from the latter