Going back to Woodstock

The Feathers Hotel in Woodstock, beside Blenheim Palace, has played a vicarious part in my life. When my stepbrother was at Oxford 20 years ago he frequently made the eight-mile journey to entertain his girlfriends there, though whether this facilitated his actually making it was never divulged.

I absconded from the university after three weeks, so I missed visiting this much vaunted, 17th century haven. In those days the hotel was up to its chintz in chintz. Two years ago, it changed hands and underwent a refurbishment. For those of us on tight budgets The Feathers is expensive, so my expectations were high.

I envisaged a look of elegant rusticity that would have amused Marie Antoinette in one of her pastoral moods. My first impression was not favourable. When I entered the reception hall there was a loud screeching from a vicious looking parrot in a cage - presumably how The Feathers got its name. I'm glad to report that things improved. Whoever redecorated the hotel rooms had done a superlative job.

The overall style was more French, thank God, than trad Brit, with pretty chequered curtains and matching bedspreads. Those unsightly objects, Teasmades and trouser presses, so favoured by rural establishments, were nowhere to be seen.

This bed was American style, large enough to accommodate three. The apple-white linen was so finely woven it might have passed for silk, and the embroidered pillows would have cushioned a weeping Isolde. The bathroom was beyond criticism. It was roomy, discreetly marbled and contained a wood-panelled bath with two showers.

I ventured to explore the rest of the hotel. The restaurant was large, with delicately upholstered chairs and tables spaced far enough apart to enable indiscreet conversation. Irritatingly it was non smoking-quite unnecessary in a spacious room. Where The Feathers causes a mild crise de foie is in the tucker and the clientele - largely sweaty, liverish businessmen.

The food and wine were also disappointing, given the cost. (First courses began at £11 and mains at £22.) My terrine of goat's cheese was a lump of excrescence that appeared to have just been removed from its packet. The John Dory made amends, but the banana parfait was so deep frozen that a hydraulic drill would have been the only solution.

Wines were heavily marked up. A glass of house champagne, which arrived unchilled, was more than £7, and I was forced to drink three before receiving one of a satisfactory temperature. The prices of some of the Bordeaux had, on their way from the off-licences, mysteriously risen by up to 100 per cent. Winemosis, I call it.

Service was unusually accommodating for this country. The rooms had no mini-bars, which proved only a mild inconvenience. I rang reception and asked for a Diet Coke and mentioned that I had forgotten my toothbrush and toothpaste. The latter two the hotel did not keep - which it should - but it more than made up for this omission by sending a man to the local garage to buy the items. These arrived within three minutes, as did two bottles of Coke, one of which was not charged.

Breakfast could be had either in the restaurant or in your room. Sleepy-heads like me opt for the latter. The pastries were warm and freshly baked, and instead of the obligatory filter coffee there were no problems with requests for espressos or cappuccinos.

I have only one serious caveat about the Feathers, apart from the price of the wine. One of my windows was covered with a thin white blind. When the sun rose at six the light came streaming in and woke me up. A little too early to get up on a Saturday morning, I think. Either the hotel should line its blinds or advise guests to bring sleeping masks.

The Feathers Hotel (01993 812291), Market Street, Woodstock, Oxon; 19 rooms, four suites; £115-£185 B&B.