Heaven is a place on earth - oh yes it is

That is, if your idea of paradise, a place where all dreams come true, is a hotel inhabited by an army of delightful staff at your beck and call, has its own cinema, spa, hydrotherapy pool, not to mention stunning duplexes for rooms with ... drum roll please ... a Turkish bath.

A Turkish bath should form the centrepiece of any bathroom deserving of the name.

And have I mentioned floor heating? How about a DVD library worthy of the best filmhouses?

But I am getting ahead of myself. Let us start from the beginning – the very moment we set eyes on our room or cottage, we might as well call it a small family-sized house, overlooking a stunning patch of garden which featured at the Chelsea Flower Show no less.

One always must muster restraint and manners when in the presence of a stranger. In short, do not squeal, scream at the top of your lungs with excitement or jump up and down under any circumstance. So my mother and I, being the models of decorum that we are, waited until the kind woman who showed us into room 15, shut the door behind her to squeal, giggled hysterical and all of the above. And repeat.

That was just the living area, with a striking modern yet surprisingly cosy decor, dramatic light feature and touches of vintage wherever we turned. The flat screen TV was soon given its due with more (barely) stifled shrieks of delight as did the display of sweets, homemade shortbread and tea awaiting us.

Next was the staircase leading up to the bedroom, with its heated flooring and plunging view of the downstairs living-room.

Out of breath and finally ready to give calming down a try we stepped in the bathroom. Frankly, it should have come with a warning. A Turkish bath - if there was one thing I never expected to find in the washroom was a Turkish bath (I never tired of the words). And the bouncing and hysterics resumed with full force. Given the sheer size of the room, we could have launched into somersaults and even a rhythmic gymnastics routine and there would have been enough space.

After recovering ourselves – there is only so long you can spend staring at a Turkish bath, though it took a good ten minutes before we grudgingly pried ourselves away– we headed to the spa. We had a busy schedule of relaxation ahead of us. A few things had got lost in translation and my French mother was under the impression –an altogether understandable mistake- that the god-sent Turkish bath was in fact what the brochure had referred to as the spa facilities.

But as we strode along a path lined with a myriad storm lanterns and approached said spa facilities, she and I were given something new to get ecstatic about and swoon over – a heated hydrotherapy pool at the heart of the manor’s gardens, which thankfully we did not have to share with any other guest.

Having taken to the waters until resembling shrivelled prunes, we set our sights on a bit of steam and stepped into a room infused with the heady smells of aromatic herbs. The Nordic sauna was next. After sufficient levels of steam-induced repose were reached, the relaxation room beckoned. There, refreshing cucumber water and a mound of glossies on every subject imaginable were carefully laid out for guests. As were warm woollen blankets which we proceeded to nestle under.

As delightful as the relaxation room was, we were getting increasingly restless and itching to give our own home plunge pool a spin. Measuring in at just 5ft, reaching the taps was no mean feat. Eventually I gave in and simply lowered myself in the swimming pool-sized tub. The result was worth the exertion.

Replete after a delectable dinner of crab, cheese soufflés, scallops and lemon tart, our hopes to cover the few yards separating our sated selves from the large private cinema were crushed the moment we stood up. Instead – Barnsley House’s presence of mind in all things never ceased to amaze us – we borrowed an appropriately cheesy rom-com on DVD, Notting Hill, slipped into our pyjamas and plonked ourselves in front of the television. By that point our stash of homemade chocolate biscuits and shortbread had been replenished. Although unable to put a foot in front of the other just 10 minutes previously, gluttony won the day as we reasoned that throwing in a couple of extra biscuits would make no difference at that stage.

After much tribulation, Hugh Grant won over Julia Roberts and it was time for bed.

The sun was barely up and we were flipping for who would be first to have another go in the Turkish bath. I won.

Reluctantly we left our room to eat breakfast – life is full of strife sometimes but we must bear on. Jam, toast and two enormous English breakfasts later, we decided to explore the grounds with its water features and sculptures.

When time came to check out and hand over our key, I felt a tug of sadness. Forsaking our Turkish bath seemed a heartless crime. Yet it had to be done. Besides I doubt Barnsley House’s obliging staff would have taken too kindly to a pair of deranged women camping in room 15’s bathroom.

So we packed our bags and left.

Heaven’s gates may have closed on us for now. But until next time, and there will be a next time, a photo of the Turkish bath has taken proud of place as my mobile phone screensaver, to remind me of wonderful times past.