Tuesday, 3 August 2010

The Druidstone

Imagine this: the most beautiful coast path on earth, a beach half shingle half smoothed sand, flanked by cliffs and rockpools, white-horsed rollers, a sky as big as Asia; a handsome old house, Welsh stone grey, a walled garden of grottoes and lawns and bowers; imagine a hotel in which you feel no need to lock your door, where one assumes friendship with one’s fellow guests and where one is prepared sometimes to wait a little longer for one’s supper than is quite desirable.
Stuck where the tonsils should be in the great mouth of St Bride’s Bay, the upper pious lip of St David’s to the north, the full, commercial lip of Milford Haven to the south, is such a place. The Druidstone is uncompromisingly itself, a haunt for those who once dreamed of the bohemian idyll. You will either feel utterly at ease or edgily uncomfortable; for the former this could be the best hotel in the world.


No comments:

Post a Comment