Mrs Nigel and I are determined that while we still have legs to carry us, we will finish walking the England Coast Path. What they don’t tell you when you start off, though, is quite how loose the word “Coast” can sometimes be. King Charles may own the foreshore, but he sure as hell doesn’t own all of the land that abuts it, which means that from time to time you feel like you are closer to London than you are to the sea.

One such stretch is the bit that runs through the New Forest from Hythe to Lymington, where the only sea that is seen is at one end and the other. The 17-odd miles in the middle is a tramp over moorland, down pathless roads, funnelled by a combination of feudal lands and some very irate looking cows, wandering (in my opinion far too) freely.

Taxi Driver

Another feature of the Coast Walk is how infrequently it lends itself to linking up with local transport, to allow yourself to use one point as base and return at night on a bus/train/tram, to set off in the opposite direction the next day. In general the only bus that is going to make the journey you want is the twice daily school special and without an Enhanced DBS check, you ain’t getting on. So some parts of the walk are limited to finding somewhere that has more than one taxi driver (you’d be surprised), or where a circular walk makes some sort of sense.

Which is how we found ourselves in Beaulieu. We had been here before (my love of classic and exotic cars has always far outstripped my budget, so the Motor Museum is the next best thing), and had lunched at the Montagu Arms, mainly on the basis that Beaulieu is a one pony town, and there were not many options. We were surprised enough at how good the food was (Pigs’ ears, literally!), that we were keen to come back.

Whole Latte Love

At first glance, the Montagu Arms is a typical English out-of-London hotel, and I’m not sure I mean that as a compliment. I’d looked at the photos and was a little worried that it was going to be a repeat of our visit to the Alexandra in Lyme Regis, where Mrs Nigel almost gave the breakfast waiter an aneurism when she asked for a latte. I seem to recall brown Windsor soup on their dinner menu… And it was not cheap, even on a deal (which very kindly included hot items from the breakfast menu as well, which in some ways made the rack rate feel a little usurious).

How wrong I was, how wrong.

A Fridge Too Far

If you’re in a car, you’re most likely going to come in from the car park, which seems an inordinate distance from the hotel as you are driving round to it, but is in fact slap bang at the end of the garden, and the garden is immaculate and gorgeous. It’s far lusher and better kept than it needs to be, but it gives you an idea of the kind of hotel you are walking into. Because, honestly, these people want you to have a good time. I do have some niggles (which we will come on to), but the service here put every hotel in the UK to shame, even Cliveden, where the service is back to being faultless but still strainingly polite: At the Montagu Arms, the friendliness felt, and I am pretty sure was, real. You can forgive an awful lot for that.

We were very happy with our Superior Room. There are quite a few rooms more superior than ours (we were offered “cheap” upgrades in the days leading up to our stay), but given the time of year, we would not have been able to take advantage of some of the outdoor space they offered, and given they are across a courtyard from the hotel, the necessity of an umbrella for breakfast would have been annoying (and hell on the slippers). Mrs Nigel was most happy with the White Company toiletries as well as the bath. I was most content with the powerful shower with a decent sized showerhead and available hot water, an issue which has been plaguing me for a while in a number of establishments (is my photo circulated on some sort of Hoteliers Hitlist WhatsApp group? Should be called “Nigel’s Niggles”.)

Pie Hard

We opted on night 1 to eat in the pub. Except that it’s not in the pub, it’s in a dining room next door, which wasn’t quite what we had in mind, but nonetheless, it was a pleasant room with an ever-helpful staff contingent again. The meal was the ultimate curate’s egg experience. I greatly enjoyed 80% of the pigs’ ears (some a little too undercooked and fatty), hated the whitebait, and loved, just loved, the pie, which had some of the richest and tastiest gravy I have ever had. I could have had it as a soup starter it was that good (Mrs N did have soup, which she enjoyed, but she was not taken with the pork chop). Drinks were fine, with a reasonably good Negroni (which probably telegraphed the overall meal quality), but a very nice English sparkling wine. The bill with tip was £136 which I thought was worth it, just for the pie.

Don’t Speak

One thing that did grate over the course of the two evening meals we had there was the volume of some of the patrons. On the first night, the restaurant was not that full, but we were seated next to someone who could have been heard in his native Australia. On the second, a large family made up of people probably called Jonty and Lucinda were sat next to us. I actually quite like listening in to people’s conversations (and other people clearly like listening in to ours: Recently someone tried to pull up a chair at our table at No1 Duke Street in Richmond to contribute to our, obviously fascinating, convo). But this was boring, braying, drivel. Like being able to text British Transport Police when you’re being bothered on a train, restaurants need an app to discreetly attract the attention of the waiting staff, with a request to tell other diners to STFU – I’d pay an extra 10% just for that, although I fear I would be on the receiving end, rather more than the giving.

Carafe Me If You Can

Night 2 saw us move upmarket to the main restaurant, which on paper looked worryingly like the night before, just 30% dearer. We did, however, get to have a drink in the bar (I switched to G&T just to mess with the cocktail gods), where the most delightful young fellow presented us with a delicious amuse bouche, which boded well for the meal.

And oh my, what a meal.

One of the great innovations (and one that seems to be catching on) was 500ml carafes of wine, basically priced similarly to the bottle. I like a glass of red at some point in the meal, so a carafe allows us both to have what we want, and keep the overall consumption to a bottle. And, joy of joys, the waiting staff were more than happy to keep coming back with taster glasses until Mrs N settled on her choice (sadly not the Lebanese, which I had as a red later and greatly enjoyed), the B58, an English wine and absolutely terrific. I mean beltingly good (Santa, take note).

Food-wise, amazing bread, a duck liver parfait that was genuinely parfait, when the word is so often mistranslated on the plate, very well executed gravadlax (the egg is a nice touch), braised ox cheek that could have served as the pie filling from the night before, and a hake cooked bang on. Absolute perfection. Even the multi-coloured carrots were a hit.

I was too full for cheese, but I have a feeling that I would have left unusually undisappointed.

Verdict: Probably the Best

In some ways I hate reviewing good places. It’s hard to add a dash of cruel humour when you have had an amazing (if pricey) experience. But on the other hand, it’s so rare to go away and feel you’ve got excellent value, possibly more than you’ve paid for (maybe…), that I’m happy to give this one 5 stars, even allowing for the slightly ropier meal on day 1, and the weird acoustics: if Carlsberg did hotels, they would probably be a bit cheaper, but I’m not sure they would be any better. And for the record, the one night I refused to consult the Negroni turned out to be the best meal of the trip, which either proves the test works or that the cocktail gods are petty.

We left, after an excellent buffet breakfast (too full still from the night before to eat the complimentary hot items), sad to leave. We were bound for Southampton to continue the walk along actual coastline, leaving an oasis of foodie tranquillity for the joys of the Fawley Oil Refinery, lit by the autumn sun (and petrochemical flare-off). It all seems like a daze now, so hopefully I’ll find an excuse to go back (maybe Lord Montagu needs someone to drive his E-Type for him).

Conclusion:

Overall Rating: 5/5

• Service: 6/5
• Accommodation: 4.5/5
• Food: 4.5/5
• Drinks: 5/5
• Ambience: 4/5
• Value for Money: 4.5/5
• Price: ££££
• Would we go back? I’ll settle for the Ferrari, your Lordship

The Montagu Arms Hotel: https://www.montaguarmshotel.co.uk/