Get down, you dirty rascal!

Seeing as the aliens failed to land, the fever has long since passed and Dollface has started blogging again, I thoroughly intended to spend my Sunday evening updating you on events that have occurred over the past couple of days (a food festival, a wedding and a rather grand night out - now that's what I call a coming out party). But as a result of so much fun, I'm absolutely knackered ... so here's a recent Venue/Folio review for you to pick over instead. I apologise in advance (and vow to arm myself suitably for Doll's response) about what might at first appear to be a bit of a dig at my home town, but honestly isn't. Honestly. Really! Ah, published and be damned? Here we go ...

The Castle Inn, Bradford on Avon

“Such flattering and suspect beauty, this city: half fairytale, half tourist trap, in whose insalubrious air the arts once voluptuously blossomed, inspiring composers to lulling tones of somniferous eroticism.” Okay, I’m misquoting Thomas Mann, and he was actually referring to Venice, not Bath. But having just returned from a long weekend immersed in the relentless throb of callous urbanity that is Liverpool, one can’t help but feel the urge to wax lyrical on return to the pastoral peace of my adopted West Country nest. And because deadlines wait for no man, we’re back on the road before I’ve had time to ditch the high pitched, hysterical screech that, after so many years spent being unnaturally subdued, has suddenly re-limpeted itself to my vocal chords.

In a way, it was okay to sound like a tourist (even one that inspires an ominous sense of dread in everybody within earshot), because our little holiday wasn’t over yet. We were off to Bradford on Avon to visit a venture headed up by the same team behind the Lounge chain of cafe-bars. But lovely though we all know the Lounges are, the Castle Inn isn’t just another Porto/Deco/Velo. What was once, by all accounts, a rather dodgy, insalubrious dive is now a Flatcappers freehold pub, fully refurbished to very user-friendly standards (flagstones, beams, chunky furniture; a lovely beer garden overlooking toytown) with four sumptuous letting rooms upstairs. We were to lay our hats in room 4 – a luxurious little love nest decorated in richly sensual, stylish tones of dark plum and gold flock, featuring an absolutely massive bed scattered with bronze silk cushions, from which there was an uninterrupted view of the flatscreen TV. But ooooh, the bathroom! A walkthrough shower, two sinks (each with their own selection of handmade girly goodies) an antique armchair ... and a freestanding, cast iron bath facing a picture window that offers views across the rooftops to Salisbury Plain, Westbury White Horse included. Now that’s what I call a room with a view. On went the TV (even though he’s apparently “not that interested in Euro 2008”) and into that bath I dived, to emerge 40 minutes later thoroughly refreshed and with an appetite for a square meal that only four days spent living entirely on scouse party buffets can give you.

When it comes to Castle food, Lounge touches are distinctly evident on menus that feature upper-crust versions of proper pub grub at extremely wholesome prices. Our starters – a silky butternut squash risotto and a hearty bacon and mushroom salad topped with a poached egg – came in at around a fiver, and either would easily constitute a sturdy lunch or even a nice, light main course, should you be of a less gluttonous inclination than we are. For mains, Fabio Grosso defended his title as Steak King admirably, an 8ozs rib eye dripping with blue cheese butter making for his perfect set piece. As the only thing about me that’s WAG-alike is the fake tan, I opted for a manly portion of roast lamb rump accompanied by roast new potatoes and asparagus – a combination that, for me, says all you need to know about the flavour of Britain in mid-June. After that, we took the remains of our bottle of wine back up to our room to watch the Italian stallions make the Gallic Gods cry before returning to the fray for a massive wedge of lemon tart and a boisterous banoffee pie, after which we yo-yoed back up the stairs for the last time to sink into an undisturbed sleep on the bed of dreams before being woken many hours later by the gentle waft of real bacon floating up from the kitchen the following morning. And did we heed the call? Oh yes we did: a perfect full English and a very imaginative veggie version (including sweetcorn fritters and bubble and squeak) set us up admirably for the 15 minute journey home.

Overall, the Castle is king of the mini-empire from which it has sprung. Even with the Cilla Black-style inflections in tow, one night there made me feel like a queen.