Fois gras. Chateau Latour. Louboutin shoes. Great Fosters Hotel. Unattainable, otherworldly, mystical, exotic – these things belong firmly and assuredly in the adult world. For a Pot Noodle-munching, Snakebite-quaffing, charity shop clothes-sporting student at Royal Holloway University in Egham, Surrey, Great Fosters felt so near, but at the same time so unchartered. Overheard in passing conversations, illicitly whispered, the name would float by on an elusive cloud of mystery. Self-consciously philosophical conversations in the union bar would turn from ‘What is the meaning of life?’ to ‘What is the meaning of Great Fosters?’ What was it? Where was it? Who went there?
Fast-forward a decade and we’re offered the opportunity to visit. I’m petrified. What if it’s decidedly average? What if it’s just full of ex-Hollowegians who are all there to fulfill their student dreams? What if we’ve all got it terribly wrong, and Great Fosters is in fact one in a chain of homogenous, dreary, suburban motor inns?
I pull myself together and Friday evening sees us screeching out of London and onto the Orbital, high-spirited and jubilant for our jaunt ahead. We exit at Junction 13, but I turn a blind eye – no time for superstition when you’re on the cusp of enlightenment…
We turn the corner, and there it suddenly is: Great Fosters, looming proud in all its magnificence and history, glowing golden in the early evening sunlight. Built in the 1550s as a royal hunting lodge, Great Fosters is conveniently located between Windsor and Hampton Court and has been used for over four centuries as a noble retreat. Henry VIII spent time here during his reign, as did his daughter Elizabeth. George III was also known to be a resident, hidden away at Great Fosters from the public eye during his later years of madness.
The hotel is divided into three guest accommodation areas: The Cloisters, The Coach House and the Main House, the latter of which we pass through en route to our room. Wide-eyed with mouths agape, we traipse like dazed explorers along dimly lit wood-paneled hallways and heavily adorned rooms filled with beautiful furnishings and exquisite antiques – it truly feels as though we’ve stepped back in time. Up the 17th century oakwell staircase, past the Anne Boleyn Room and the Tapestry Room we find our way to our bedroom: The Nursery. We’re told that Charlie Chaplin’s eight children were regular lodgers – there’s even a secret staircase inside the wardrobe, which connected the Nursery with Charlie’s room below. Sofas with cushions so plump and enveloping, welcome us in the living area, and in the bedroom is a bed so wide that it could have slept all eight little Chaplins.
After a quick freshen up in our charming, creaky bathroom – we joke that the house must be haunted, but I’ll come onto that later – we head downstairs for dinner. There are two dining opportunities at Great Fosters: The Tudor Room, which is a more intimate and formal experience, and The Estate Grill, where we have a reservation. The restaurant is light and spacious and has a very contemporary feel in comparison to the rest of the Main House – we’re told it opened earlier this year. The menu uses fresh, seasonal produce, with all ingredients either sourced from the estate, or from local suppliers. For starters we choose Whipped Goosnargh duck livers with port wine glazed fig and toasted sourdough, and hand cut aged fillet steak tartare. The latter comes with an element of theatre: the meat is seasoned and combined with additional ingredients of choice at the table. Mains of Dover sole meunière and whole baked market seabass follow. The Dover sole is delicate and perfectly cooked, and the seabass is impressively fresh, with a satisfying meaty texture.
It’s midnight, and we decide to take a stroll outside to ease our swollen stomachs before heading to bed. The grounds at Great Fosters are extensive – the hotel is set in 50 acres of gardens and parkland. A Saxon moat frames the hotel, with a Japanese bridge leading to the labyrinthine knot garden. There are also two secret gardens, a grassed amphitheatre, a sunken rose garden and a lake to discover.
Merrily muddled following the well-paired wines that accompanied dinner, we choose to lose ourselves in the maze that is the beautifully manicured knot garden. My only experience of such a maze involves a maniacal, axe-wielding Jack Nicolson, and so with thrill and trepidation running through our veins we trot to the entrance, and begin the journey into the darkness beyond. It is pitch black and eerily silent – despite the earlier wedding party, it would appear we are the only hotel guests in the garden; certainly the only people in the maze. We stride down the first path, only to suddenly slow down and grab each other by the wrists. Something, someone is approaching us. Slowly, slowly, moving, floating, a dozen yards ahead of us, of human form, but hazy. I squint to get a clearer view, and whisper, “What is it?!” My heart starts to beat faster and I decide not to wait for an answer as I spin on my heels and make a very quick exit. My fellow explorer stays put, transfixed. “Quick!” I shriek from the entrance, “Please, please come!” His bravery doesn’t last long and in a few seconds he too is overcome by heebie-jeebies and flees to join me. We wait at the entrance together, willing this trespasser to make an appearance – but there is no one. We climb the wisteria-clothed Japanese bridge to get an overhead view of the maze, but still, there is no one.
We’re feeling well and truly spooked, and it’s most definitely time for bed. Creaky corridors sound even creakier than earlier, and the journey up to our rooms is jittery to say the least. The Nursery greets us with a comforting embrace and hugs us into its warm bosom. Tired adventurers, we sleep well…
Morning comes and all our nighttime fears seem like a distant memory as our alarm clock squawks us awake at 7am. Cossies and speedos donned, we march enthusiastically and with a renewed sense of courage along the same corridors that proved so tricky only a few hours earlier. We’re heading to the hotel’s 1930s outdoor swimming pool for a revitalizing dip. The manager meets us on the way and tells us we’ll be the first guests to take a swim this year – which of course makes us feel very special. The pool is heated, and is flanked by a row of original bathing boxes. It’s vast, and after a few well-intentioned lengths we’re feeling rejuvenated and ready to face the day.
Great Fosters truly is a place to experience. From the moment the hotel comes into view from the drive, it exudes a presence that is so striking and magnificent and real, yet at the same time its history gives it a sense of bygone secrecy – there are so many stories that are beyond reach. Although my student curiosities have been more than satisfied, Great Fosters will, for me, continue to remain clouded in mystery, and will continue to raise questions… after all, who was our friend in the maze?
1 Comment
Ava, my dear sister!
I am so pleased to see that you are still eating. Having not heard from you since the New Street Tavern review, I could only presume that you had not been able to find food for one reason or another. Privately, I blamed the weather as it has been far too hot to want to do anything, especially dining out. So I thank you for reassuring me that you are still quite well.
As for this review, Ava you continue to make the same mistakes. Another fish dish?! Ava, why? You reprimanded yourself for the error at the New Street Tavern yet you have seemingly not learned from this. Interestingly you compliment the seabass by describing its ‘satisfying meaty texture’. Ava if its meat you want then choose a meat dish, please! I had many sausages today; they were meaty and satisfying – a far better compliment than your merely suggestive meaty texture.
I do hope you continue to eat and that you choose a land dwelling mammal next time.
Again, I hope to see and dine with you soon.
Trent