COUNTRY bumpkin (plural country bumpkins): (slang) an unsophisticated person from the rural area of a particular country.

I have been guilty of bandying the phrase around in my misspent Parisian youth and most of my adult life, peering at the world from behind my city (bumpkin) goggles, assuming anyone unfortunate enough to dwell in a rural town, village or hamlet to be either a farmer or cattle owner.

Either way, the country bumpkin was woefully uninitiated to the superior ways of the capital. Like most city folks, I steered clear of the ‘countryside’, the nameless Netherlands beyond the tube line terminus.

My move to Bath after a pit stop in Edinburgh and Newcastle - allegedly a city, albeit one hemmed in by the dreaded muddy fields and tight A roads mobbed by tractors - was endlessly mocked by my defensively Parisian friends.

Dangerously on the cusp of rural life, for the best part of three years I have only ventured out to the surrounding countryside under duress. Throughout, I have steadfastly objected to buying wellies. My acts of silent dissent have earned me the rather hurtful but well-deserved nickname of city bumpkin from my lovely partner.

His relentless campaign to drag me out in the fresh unpolluted air must have worked because, despite all protestations to the contrary, after a while I did begin to enjoy the odd meal by the waterfront or nestled by the fireplace in the country inn in the nearby village (which we could access via sturdy and dung free pavements). A couple of stays in boutique hotels - in the middle of nowhere – also helped to soften me to the notion of grass as far as the eye can see.

The ultimate test of my hardened city ways was a recent visit to Homewood Park Hotel & Spa. I was not fooled by the Bath postcode. The country pile was firmly burrowed in the village of Freshford, Somerset, six miles beyond city limits.

It is impressive how easily the sight a stunning manor draped in trailing ivy at sunset can wear down the shallowest of city dwellers. Maybe it is the perceived air of sophistication and absence of cows.

Formerly a private residence, Homewood Park was reinvented as a four-star hotel surrounded by 10 acres of award-winning gardens more than 25 years ago.

Although the main part of the grand house is Georgian, with some Victorian additions, the foundations of the original building date from the 13th century. It is believed the manor belonged to the Abbot of the nearby Carthusian Priory.

Walking up the sludge-free drive we were swiftly shown to our abode for the night, a palatial suite overlooking the spa’s outdoor swimming pool with its own walled garden area.

With its imposing yet snug four-poster bed, solid vintage furniture, whimsical bird of paradise wallpaper and vibrant fabrics, the suite was a stylish blend of rustic and kitsch.

Barely recovered from our thorough inspection of our spacious sleeping quarters, I squealed with delight (staff in the office flanking our bathroom certainly had an earful) at the sight of a cavernous free-standing bath taking pride of place in the bathroom.

Reeling from the excitement and rather sad to be parting so very soon with ‘our’ own mini-pool we headed out to the spa, taking a short-cut via our terrace. The cosy hydrotherapy pool more than made up for the temporary loss. After a soothing lull in the restorative waters, we visited the sauna and steam rooms before another dip in the pool for good measure. Relaxation is a tricky business, one can never been too cautious.

Keen not to let the great specimen of plumbing in our room go to waste I capped off our jaunt to the spa with a bubble bath before dinner.

With awards coming out the wazoo, its restaurant’s reputation preceded itself.

Perusing the menu over an aperitif by the fire in the dimly-lit gentleman’s club inspired bar, the offering certainly lived up to the hype. Boasting an array of dishes rivalling - and we were soon to find out far surpassing in originality - the fare of many acclaimed city haunts, Homewood Park knew the meaning of fine dining.

If this was what the countryside had to offer, I was ready to broaden my horizons and embrace the lifestyle – mud, bovines and all.

A feast for the eyes as well as the taste buds, my entree, octopus carpaccio, was nothing short of a work of art. The delicate discs of meaty octopus were meticulously arranged on the plate and beautifully complimented by light and colourful tempura mussels sprinkled with a hint of saffron.

My partner’s ham hock served with home-made black pudding and pickled onion was equally attractive, for the brief minutes it remained intact.

Our culinary flight continued with crispy-skinned South Coast brill served on a bed of deliciously soft and juicy chanterelles and ceps. My partner tuck into tender morsels of Wiltshire Venison peppered with bacon crumbs and accompanied with roast celeriac, cabbage and spinach.

Having decided to spurn sweets (Homewood was truly changing me at my very core), I munched my way merrily through copious amounts of cheddar, creamy blue cheese and wafer thin crackers while my partner polished off a moreish chocolate pave bursting with crunchy hazelnut slathered in salted caramel.

Clearly delirious after our gargantuan meal and large amounts of wine I let myself be dragged for a post-meal digestive walk on the grounds, and actually enjoyed the eerie silence as we strolled across the gardens.

The next morning, after a hearty breakfast and yet another splash around the free-standing bath, we headed out for a saunter, this time under the pretence of bidding Homewood Park farewell. I didn’t even put up a fight or fake annoyance. I was thoroughly looking forward to a country walk and I did not care who knew it.

No sooner had we reached Bath than we were immediately swallowed up by sluggish traffic. In the endless queue, my heart pined for the peaceful, fumes free ‘sticks’ (sorry, country – old habits die hard).

I certainly had time to reflect: from then on I would think twice about berating country dwellers and agree to the occasional Sunday walk out of well-trodden, concrete bounds.

The wellies and Barbour combo were still a long way off though. Baby steps.

PANEL

Marion stayed in a junior suite. Prices start at £225 per night including breakfast.

Homewood Park Hotel & Spa, Abbey Lane, Freshford, Bath, BA2 7TB

01225 807321

info@homewoodpark.co.uk