"ROOM SERVICE”

November 1999

Paddy Burt stays at The Hundred House Hotel in Shropshire

The family-run Hundred House - on the A442 Telford to Bridgnorth Road - ought to be easy to find but, missing a turning, we end up in a maze of Shropshire's unlit and foggy B-roads instead.

When we eventually push open the door, how lovely to find that we've arrived at a place with a sense of humour. Here we are in the most convivial bar imaginable with a hospitable collection of old tables, settles and chairs with patchwork seats, and a big black stove pumping out heat.

Baskets of pumpkins and marrows lurk in every corner (it's harvest festival time), and a profusion of dried herbs dangle from the ceiling. To state the obvious: the Phillips family have an eye for the theatrical, and their very own herb garden out the back.

But we ain't seen nothing yet. Henry Phillips - he's Dad - has more surprises up his staircase. The journey to our attic room involves climbing stairs carpeted with brightly coloured patchwork. We assume it to be old - in which case it ought to be scruffy - but closer inspection reveals that it's new and probably specially made. The walls vie for attention with the carpet, having been hand-painted with gold squiggles on a terracotta background. If our hosts' aim is to hit their guests between the eyes, they're certainly succeeding.

The crowning extravaganza, though, is yet to come. It's a swing - a proper swing, made for swinging on - and it's hanging from the ceiling of our room. Hoteliers who delight in piling excess on excess score in my book every time. Henry Phillips smiles at our amazement - he's heard all the oohs and aahs before.

Having swung for Shropshire, we come downstairs to order wine by the glass and to study the menus - there's a regular and a "specials" one - in that beguiling bar. Henry Phillips hovers. I ask for the spiced pumpkin soup followed by breast of Hereford duck with parsnip rosti, crab-apple jelly and quince pur*e with a shallot jus - duck served pink, it adds. (In other words, if you don't like your duck pink, order something else - I like this uncompromising approach.)

My husband, choosing from the "specials", asks for the squid starter (in a white wine marinade with sweet pepper and couscous) and the braised shank of lamb. "Sounds rather filling, that lot," is my considered opinion, to which he replies: "Rubbish." We shall see.

When our table's ready, we're led through a series of interconnecting rooms to the very last one - small, intimate and full, with terracotta walls and gold squiggles as before. Soup and squid are promptly brought. Can't quite work out what the spices in my pumpkin soup are - let's just say it's hearty and subtly flavoured.

The couscous accompanying the squid also has all sorts of intriguing flavours. My duck is tender, the fancy accompaniments unusual and delicious. But my husband, although enthusiastic about his lamb, is forced to give up three-quarters through.

Puddings? Oh dear. He hasn't learnt. "I'll have the disgusting chocolately thing," he says to the waiter. "It's not disgusting, it's my favourite," chides the waiter - and then grins.

Crashing out afterwards, we realise our very large room is crammed with offbeat things - for example, a large and very deep leather armchair, draped with velvet patchwork, into which I nearly vanish without trace. As well as tricksy old chairs, they've a penchant for patchwork. It's everywhere. Patchwork bedspread on the brass and iron bed (a genuine antique), patchwork cushions, even a patchwork-leather campaign chair. The TV's hidden in a large, intricately carved cupboard.

The pièce de résistance, apart from the swing, is a large, velvet, heart-shaped wall-hanging crammed with mending equipment attached with safety pins. We commend the cafetière and packets of fresh coffee - very civilised - and love the efficient bathroom with its skylight and by-now familiar gold walls and ceiling - the rest being surprisingly 20th-century with white tiles and a bath that sticks out into the middle of the room. Bathrobes? Of course.

Breakfast is a speedy operation. Although everyone arrives at once, the woman in charge - smartly dressed in a dark trouser suit - deals with everybody without fuss and even has time to ask: "Is there anything else you want?" It's not her fault that the orange juice is not freshly squeezed.

They make such a big thing of being "family-run" here that they've got to expect the same old questions. "You are Dad aren't you?" I check. "Yes, I'm the old man," he confirms. An old joke springs to mind: you don't have to be mad to live here but it helps.

Paddy Burt