I've looked outside, and I can't see a tweed-liveried doorman waiting with a little covered buggy to drive me to dinner. This is disappointing. It's the after-Coworth effect.
Let me warn you about leaving Coworth Park: as you drive out through the gates, it's going to come as shock to find that all the cars on the roads of rural Berkshire are not gleaming Bentleys, Jaguars and Audis. That all the English countryside is not as gorgeously groomed as Coworth's parkland, that all service is not charmingly attentive in a natty tweed suit, and that you might come to four o'clock in the afternoon and not find the most perfect little macaroon next to your cup of tea. Read More...
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