The hotel: I’ve noticed an alarming trend in the shires of late. It’s when some splendid country-house hotel sticks on a modern extension round the back to squeeze in more guests. All very egalitarian, but who wants to stay in it? And it doesn’t stop there. They’ll also bung on a state-of-the-art gym. And a spa where they’ll wrap you in mango peel after your game of squash. Mango on my manor? I think not.

Combe House Hotel has no plans to expand. It has just 15 rooms, and if you want a bioneoduothermal seafood mud bath or a raspberry colonic, you’ll have to go elsewhere. There are no modern bits — instead, you get to choose between the old servants’ quarters and the old master’s quarters.

Relaxation comes in the form of afternoon tea on the lawn(s), Sunday papers on voluminous sofas and G&Ts by the croquet lawn. It’s the sort of place that makes you say “righty-ho”, “smashing” and “old chap” repeatedly. Maybe even “spiffing”.

The house isn’t Georgian, but that’s okay because it’s Elizabethan. Over the centuries it has been owned and added to (tastefully) by posh Devon families such as the Willingtons, the Beaumonts, the Putts and the Markers. So there’s plenty of intrigue, king-bashing and inbreeding to read up on while you stay, none of which is, to my knowledge, still practised by the current owners.

Ken and Ruth Hunt took over seven years ago and run it with a small team of expert waiters, maids, gardeners, chefs and Jeevesian bartenders, for whom nothing is too much trouble. And despite the mile-long driveway, the sumptuous antiques and the old-school service, it’s not at all intimidating. It feels homely. In fact, by the end of the weekend, you’ll feel as if this Grade I-listed manor house is your home. But it isn’t — so you’ll have to leave, all right?

So what are the rooms like? All individually and sumptuously furnished with antiques and rich fabrics. I couldn’t decide which was my favourite — the curiously misshapen, bargain Pitt, or Tommy Wax, the no-holds-barred deluxe option with a bath à deux. They’re all lovely.

And the food? The house is set on a huge estate of rolling hills and magical forests, with paddocks of whinnying Arabian horses and no restaurants to speak of, other than its own. To leave this calm sophistication for the cruel realities of Devon proper is, frankly, too much. So it’s fortunate that the food here is amazing.

What doesn’t come from the walled kitchen garden is sourced from a list of high-class suppliers: master butchers, smokehouses, local farm shops. Urbane Ken pootles down to Brixham in his Land Rover each afternoon to collect the catch of the day, and the excellent head chef, Philip Leach, then knocks up an unpretentious, delicious menu — roast rump of lamb with aubergine millefeuille, pan-fried fillet of sea bass with crushed new potatoes, that sort of thing. Before you think this is a Huttonesque whitewash, I’d avoid the John Dory with vanilla velouté, unless you like fishy vanilla. But the duck was the best I’ve ever had. It tasted like it died happy. Which is probably true for the morning kippers. I’ll leave you to find out how good breakfast is.

Let’s suppose we want to leave the hotel. Madness — this is a place to convalesce, Matisse-style. You want to sit, vegetable-like, soak up the views, stretch a lot, wake up from an unscheduled afternoon nap with a big pillow crease across your face. You don’t want to sightsee.

We insist. Fine. Go walking or riding around the estate. Have a crab sandwich in pretty Beer, 20 minutes’ drive away. And walk along the cliffs from there to Branscombe: one of England’s finest coastal stretches. Then, just stop it and go back to Combe House.

Good for: getting all Jane Austen.

Bad for: a facial or a trouser press.

Combe House (01404 540400, www.thishotel.com) has doubles from £140 to £275, B&B. Dinner is £36 for three courses, £49 for the menu dégustation

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