A house, not a hotel.
Nine rooms in New Farm, run by Kate and Sam, who own every stick of furniture in it. Breakfast is cooked when you come down for it. Banjo the dog is, regrettably, not for sale.
You will be met by name, and it will be your name.
There is no front desk, no lift, and nobody wearing a badge. What there is: deep baths, gauzy curtains, a kitchen that starts at six, and two owners who have done every job in this building at least once. If something is wrong, the person who can fix it is already in the room.
Three reasons people book the same week next year
Small enough to remember how you take your coffee. Big enough to leave you alone when that is what you came for.
The rooms
Nine, no two alike. Ask for the Garden Room if the forecast is kind, and the Eaves if the storm season has other ideas.
The table
One sitting, one menu, six nights a week. Non-residents are welcome whenever we have the chairs.
The garden
Shaded, jacaranda-lined, and the reason breakfast runs late every October.
Doors, corners, weather
Photographed in February, which we think is fairer than August.
The garden door
Propped open from October, and the reason breakfast drifts onto the verandah without anyone deciding it should.
The side entrance
The wreath goes up in December and comes down when somebody finally admits it is February.
The courtyard
Best of it when the jacarandas turn, and nobody else is sitting out there.
Written on the way out
“We arrived in a downpour and were handed tea before we had our shoes off. Three nights and I never once had to explain what I wanted.”
“Booked it for the garden, stayed in for the dinner. The kitchen does one menu and does it properly, which after a year of long menus was a relief.”
“The honest list of what they do not have is on their own website. That is the whole character of the place and it is why we keep coming back.”
Midweek, out of season, is the best-kept secret in this city.
Two nights minimum through winter. Banjo comes free.