Review: Moddershall Oaks, Staffordshire

It’s never a brilliant idea to visit a hotel right before a massive revamp, reminisce about it for weeks and then realise when it comes to writing about it that it looks nothing like it did when you stayed. This is what happened after a trip to Moddershall Oaks, a glorious spa sunk in the middle of a meadow up in Stoke. At least I think it was Stoke, it could have been Stafford, or perhaps somewhere in between the two. Either way it took about two hours on the train from London and was so far off Zone 6 that it constituted a mini-break for me and my (then) new boyfriend.

Pulling into the driveway, my heart sank a little as what looked like a leisure centre came into view – a leisure centre with scaffolding to boot. But it soon perked up at the sight of our wooden four-poster bed stacked with cushions, hung with heavy curtains and a beautiful headboard that just begged to be broken. And so began buckets of champagne, chocolate smeared on the sheets and lots of… reading. The room had two big sofas, and a writing desk – always a waste as it’s only ever used as a clothes-horse. A thermostat or an air-conditioning system would have been more welcome additions as it became so hot at night, and there was no minibar or even a fridge for water bottles. Instead guests have to slip out to the honesty bar in the corridor or remember to stock up on the way to bed.

But these are niggles. When you spend three days wearing a chocolate-brown robe that feels like a hug from a yeti, and the most energy expended is from climbing onto a massage table, there’s not much to gripe about. However there is plenty to sing about and it started at lunch. Spas make me think of granola and yoghurt, sour berries and flax seeds, but Moddershall Oaks is probably the only spa that is worth going to for the food alone. Surrounded by ladies in robes, their cheeks freshly scrubbed and shining, their prosecco bubbling away, I laid down my Saturday Times magazine and eyed the menu, nervous at the sight of lamb rogan josh alongside prawn cocktail and Sicilian arancini. Such a broad scale of tastes doesn’t often lend itself well to fine dining, but I was wrong. Moules marinière often look like they’re lolling around in gone-off milk, but these were plump, fresh and gritless, basking in a gleaming wine sauce and scattered with chunks of sweet onion. The fries were so crisp and fine they stood to attention and the pulled duck confit was some of the best I’ve had both in and outside France.

We spent the remaining two days planning our activities around meals.

I shouldn’t be shocked by excellent food outside NW3, but having cultivated London-centric snobbism into an art form, I was

At dinner the restaurant was fully booked not just by guests but regulars from the area in jackets and shiny dresses. The wooden-panelled room resounding with happy clinking, and in the distance Jo the rescue swan, glowed in the moonlight as he glided around on the lake. Normally it takes me about 30 seconds to hone in on one item on the menu and know that I can’t order anything else but here was everything from locally sourced haggis with spiced gram batter, to Cuban-style mojo marinated lamb, to coffee-crusted pork fillet with slow-roasted belly pork. And it was all beautifully done. My scallops wobbled gently under the knife, falling open into two smooth halves of paper-white freshness, soft and sweet and smeared with some kind of complicated puree. And my char-grilled dry-aged sirloin came with a slab of slow-cooked steak and ale pie and the steak inside the pie was rare too. Heston, I’d like to see you try that.

I shouldn’t be shocked by excellent food outside NW3, but having cultivated London-centric snobbism into an art form, I was. And it’s not often that I remember the name of staff, but Aliona sticks in my head. She was the sweetest Eastern European blonde with lime-green nails and a warm Colgate-white smile that made us look forward to all our meals. She even convinced us to have the Chocolate Rehab for dessert which appeared to be about four desserts on one plate comprising fudge cake, white chocolate panna cotta, raspberries, vanilla custard… and I think there was a crème brulee in there too.

Moddershall Oaks is a jolly down-to-earth place with no airs and graces, plenty of hen parties who will mistake your boyfriend for a stripper and scream if he pokes his head into the wrong room, and staff who will bend the rules to keep you happy.

Even though they had already closed the reception, the girl behind the desk pulled out a box of DVDs for us to forage in and marvelled at my boyfriend’s willingness to let me pick Dirty Dancing and Sex and the City. “He’s a keeper that one”, she said. And she was right. We recently decided that we’re going to get married and perhaps we have Moddershall Oaks to thank for starting us off on the right foot.

And as for the spa’s new courtyard terrace, outdoor vitality pool and wooden decking complete with log fire? God damn it looks lovely on their website. C

Moddershall Oaks Country Spa Retreat, Moddershall, Near Stone, Staffordshire, ST15
01782 399000; moddershalloaks.com