Built for a river pilot. Improved slowly ever since.
A hundred and twenty years of other people’s decisions, most of which we have chosen to live with.
We bought a building with a leaking roof and a very good staircase.
We were not hoteliers. Kate cooked for fifteen years and Sam spent a career fixing things other people had bodged. Between us we could just about run a nine-room house, which is the only size we ever wanted.
We do the breakfast, the beds and the books. In summer a few local people join us and they are the reason it holds together in January. Nothing here is outsourced to a company you would have to ring interstate.
Four things we will not compromise on
Written down because a promise you cannot check is only a mood.
Met by name
You are checked in by whoever is nearest, at the table, with a drink. There is no desk to stand at.
Cooked, not held
Nothing sits under a lamp. Breakfast is ordered when you sit down, which is why it takes ten minutes.
Quiet after ten
The verandah stays open, the volume does not. People come here to sleep and we take that seriously.
Say what you need
Allergy, anniversary, bad back, early flight. Tell us when you book and it will be handled without a fuss.
Four spaces you are free to treat as your own
No keys, no booking sheet, no minimum spend. Sit where you like.
The Snug
Two armchairs, a fire on a cool night, and the only television in the building.
The Long Room
Where the table is laid twice a day, and where the crossword gets finished by ten.
The Garden Terrace
Shaded on three sides. Breakfast moves out here from October.
The Kitchen
You are welcome in it. People usually end up there anyway.
Small on purpose
These figures have not moved in eight years and we intend to keep it that way.
There is usually one room left. Usually.
Nine rooms fill quickly in season and slowly in February, which is the month we would actually recommend.