If a new wave of country hotels is anything to go by, these are shaky times in England for cabbage-rose chintz. Neither is the outlook very bright for overstuffed upholstery, bouillon fringe, frills, or furbelows. Take that, Nancy Lancaster.
It was bound to happen. Throughout the nineties, marquee places like the Hempel and St. Martins Lane redrew the London hotelscape by being aggressively literate in contemporary design and vigorously courting a young, restless, style-conscious traveler.
Now the hinterland is rushing to catch up—and well-loved institutions such as Cliveden House and Chewton Glen are watching their backs. Encouraged by the runaway success of Tresanton and Babington House—country properties that were among the first to dare to reject convention—hotels are hanging cheeky modern art instead of tacky fake Gainsboroughs, imposing a blackout on botanical porcelains, zapping guest rooms with electronic gadgetry, and painting walls in colors joyously uncertified by the National Trust.
It's not just traditional decorating that's on holiday. Overcooked roasts and three soggy veg are giving way to mountains of arugula heaped with regulation Parmesan shavings. If you want to put your feet up on the coffee table in the lounge after dinner, no one's going to tell you not to.
And one more thing. Leave your tie—or tiara—at home.
Cowley, the Cotswolds
You know you're in a new-generation English country-house hotel when the young City types next to you at lunch finish their beetroot Tatin, pluck the bottle of Pouilly-Fuissé off the table, and then stride laughing into the bar to finish it. While such laissez-faire behavior is what Cowley Manor is all about, it certainly wouldn't go down very well at Cliveden.
The bar itself is a spoof, with cartoonish papier-mâché sculptures of baboon and gazelle heads posing as hunting trophies. Other indicators that your English grandmother might not be totally comfortable here are the staff (mostly under 30), the staff uniform (T-shirt, sleeveless pullover, corduroy jeans), and the furniture (benchmark pieces by Arne Jacobsen and the Eameses). No antiques, please, we're British.
The ban on old things at Cowley—which has 30 guest rooms and is 12 miles from Cirencester, the capital of the Cotswolds—seems heartless to some because Cowley itself is old and pedigreed: Georgian mirrors and William Kent consoles might have been a no-brainer, they argue, but appropriate. Inspired by Rome's Villa Borghese and begun in the 1850's, the building is largely the work of George Somers Clarke, a student of Sir Charles Barry, who built the Houses of Parliament in London. If the manor's 17 rhyming arched bays don't do anything for you, you're even more blasé than I am. In the late 19th century, it is said, 1,000 trees were planted on the property every day for two years. With woods, cascades, a chain of lakes, a wildflower meadow, and ornamental gardens, Cowley's 55 acres are one of its most seductive attractions. (Just don't venture a walk without Wellingtons, set out in the front hall for guests to borrow.)
No, antiques never had a chance. For as everyone knows, they enforce undesirable comportment, such as sitting up straight and minding your manners. Besides, say Cowley's owners, Jessica Sainsbury and Peter Frankopan, English decorating has moved on from the gilded ideal held by people like the Duchess of Devonshire at Chatsworth. Sainsbury is the daughter of former Tory MP Sir Tim and a member of the Sainsbury supermarket dynasty, and Frankopan is a Croatian prince and medieval historian. Both are 33, graduates of Cambridge (where they met), and first-time hoteliers. Wearing a T-shirt espousing a fashionable political cause, and with two-year-old twin daughters hanging off her, Sainsbury hardly looks the part. She might not even read Tatler.
Overseeing a platoon of furniture makers, consultants, and architects (including the popular London firm of De Matos Storey Ryan), Sainsbury created a contemporary atmosphere for people with a fear of contemporary design. With their oeil-de-boeuf windows, cantilevered mezzanine bathrooms, and original ironwork, rooms in the old stables are spectacular enough. But what you really want is one in the manor house, preferably number 17, 18, or 19, all with balconies and views resembling Constable landscapes. Furnishings run to blond four-posters with leather headboards and taut cotton canopies; puckered bedcovers that might have been recycled from a Comme des Garçons collection; and armoires with doors like shoji screens. I've auditioned 137 new-hotel bathrooms in the past 29 months and Cowley's—with their aquamarine glass panels and cleansing Nordic vibe—take the award for best designed.
