Sometimes you go on holiday for razzmatazz: to throw your hands in the air in the Balearics, perhaps, or to drip with cool in some nameless new Berlin restaurant. Sometimes, however, you might have a desire for peace, for an infusion of unrestrained luxury and bucolic calm. Sitting at a table in the garden at Lucknam Park with a plate of Clarence Court eggs, watching a portly chef sniffing the lavender he has just plucked from the border, and a uniformed butler cycling past, it’s hard to imagine a more perfect piece of England in which to unwind.