In the North West corner of Somerset, between the Quantock Hills and Exmoor you will find the tiny, busy port of Watchet from where the eponymous Ancient Mariner embarked. Go inland a few miles through rising, twisting lanes and undulating hills towards the Brendon Hills and you will come to the hamlet of Dordon: a cluster of houses nestling in a quiet, sheltered spot. As you leave the cottages behind there is a sharp bend in the road. Here you meet the solid, low arched gateway to Dordon Manor. It is impressive. The Manor rambles after a fifteenth century fashion, its soft pink honeyed walls and stone roof are almost part of the landscape, as are the trees that wrap round it.
We drive in under the gateway and crunch our way over the gravel in front of the main house. The car park is tucked behind a high bank of rhododendron bushes, directed by discreet white signs with black lettering and arrows. It is good to get out and restore the circulation to our legs after the long drive down the M4 and M5, coming off at Bridgewater. After stretching we hold each other briefly. This is our privacy, our time, we are leaving the world behind. We can be ourselves. Grabbing our few bags, we set off smilingly, arm-in-arm, for the carved, sandstone porch.
The porch was built with weather in mind. A great iron boot scraper is set into the ground by the outer door. Inside there is a place to sit and divest sopping clothing. Go through the heavy oak door and you enter a building of great age and witness. Inside there is a sense of history. It smells of stone and wax. Heavy furniture sits on the flag floors in positions they may have held for a hundred years. Throws and rugs chart the change in decoration. There is a slight mustiness in the air that changes slowly here. Time seems to almost stand still. But, a grandfather clock ticking heavily in the stillness, reminds us of its passing. The windows are not large and let little light through their casements.
A polished brass bell sits on a heavy oak chest. You look at me and wrap your slim fingers around the handle. Picking it up you gave a brief shake and its sound echoes around the building making us feel like trespassers, breaking the silence. We hear a door scrape and footsteps on the flags. Round the corner appears a man in his fifties; generous heavy cords and belt, check shirt and tie, a great white moustache and whiskers. He wears a welcoming smile.
"Can I help you?" he enquires.
"We have a room booked for the weekend, in the name of Tasker, Mr and Mrs tasker," you reply.
"Ah, yes! Come with me. Have you had a good journey?"
Instantly we were made to feel at home. His name is Peter, Peter Wainthrop. Major. Retired. He talks about the weather; how Spring seems earlier than ever; about the floods down on the Levels, and how he is pleased to live in the hills. The house is a private home that offers accommodation, not an actual hotel and there are few guests here this weekend- none other then ourselves tonight You shoot me a glance that tells me you are pleased that we will have a peaceful time to ourselves and you are feeling comfortable.
"If you put your names in the guest book I will show you to your room. I have put you in the master bedroom. The notorious hanging Judge Jeffrey's stayed here once. History says that the famous judge stayed here while he was putting the fear of God, the king and the law into local people after Monmoth's rebellion." After signing our names we follow Peter along the flags, back out into the entrance hall. A door opens opposite to a reception room with fire burning slowly in a huge grate. I hope we will get a chance to spend some time in here. We continue up an impressive set of wooden stairs that creak slightly under our footfall and along a narrow hallway that leads to a wide step in front of a dark, ribbed door with heavy iron furnishings.
Peter opens the door and leads us in. "The fire is laid," he says. "You only have to light it. There are logs in the basket enough for the evening. Dinner is at 8.00. I'll leave you to make yourselves at home and to freshen up. I hope you will enjoy your stay." With that he leaves the room and closes the door behind him. At last we are alone.
We explore the room. The bed in the middle is a huge four-poster with heavy wine red, velvet drapes. A quick test shows it is comfortable and firm. The walls are completely panelled and the ceiling low with long beams, marked by an adze, the fingerprints of craftsmen from centuries ago. The grate is laid and a hazel basket is stacked with split oak logs. A dark oak dresser with mirror, massive wardrobe and two brown leather armchairs either side of the fire complete the furniture. The window looks out over a wooded valley, the edge of a lake and across in the distance to higher moorland. In the corner of the room there is a door, difficult to see at first because it seemed to be part of the panelling. This door leads to the most sumptuous bathroom, the centrepiece of which is a huge scroll back bath on a raised dais. At the end of the bath is a series of semi--circular brass pipes one above the other, connected by more piping and topped by a huge showerhead. This old fashioned device is an all-round shower; water comes at you from the side as well as from above. The bath itself is king-sized and has an enormous brass pipe as a plug; the overflow is literally over the top of the pipe. You could swim in a bath this big!.
From the window in the bedroom we can see the setting sun, painting rich pink, red, and orange across the western sky. The light is fading fast. As we still had our coats on we decide to go for a short walk. Leaving our bags at the end of the bed, you grab your hat and gloves and we set off to find our way through the narrow hallway, down the stairs and out into the clear, clean Somerset air. As we step into the softening light, the blackbirds are calling their intention to go to bed; otherwise, the silence here is palpable. I can hear a brook chattering through the undergrowth nearby.
We climb quickly up the hill behind the manor house to beat the failing light. Leaving the lane where the celandines have already closed yet the primroses still show bright in the half-light, we head across a steeply rising field towards the crest and a five-bar gate in the hedge. The steepness of the climb makes us both breathe faster. We haul each other up the last few feet and collapse against the gate. Looking out across fields below we can see the Bristol Channel and Wales in the distance. Steep Holm and Flat Holm rise from the darkening waters. To the East the rising moon lights the Quantock Hills. To the West on Exmoor, the last light from the Sun makes expanses of heather glow an emperor's purple. Beneath us we can see the odd set of headlights appear and reappear silently in the lanes but we can hear nothing but the stirring of a breeze. A visual feast.
