Twilight over the Downs

As we had not arrived until late afternoon, we decided to eat in the mansion’s original dining room. I had a very succulent loin of lamb, Frances had a tenderloin of pork, and most importantly, Kate had a hamburger, which made her very happy, indeed. After dinner, we took the remains of our wine and sat out on the patio and watched the sun make its languid descent beyond the mottled emerald line of box and oak.

"We're in with the servants, madam!"

Of course, nothing is perfect. Some of the bedrooms were wonderfully appointed with four poster beds. Rooms for couple traveling alone. We were given the original servants quarters at the very top of the house, up several steep flights of stairs. Even though our room was huge and filled with charming furniture, it was still the attic. The location was obviously geared for families traveling with small children, who could scream to their hearts content without disturbing the other guests. Poor us.
“They’ve put us in with the servants, madam!” I groaned rather dramatically.
“Must have known you came from Dagenham.” Frances smiled.
In spite of myself, I grinned back.

Who knew this was here?

The Hilton House had nothing to do with the hotel chain. Located just beyond Gatwick Airport near the village of Cuckfield, the former Victorian country mansion had been gently converted into a private hotel. Lounges were filled with large overstuffed chairs. The music room had a baby grand. We found the conservatory filled with a wide array of exotic foliage, pineapple plants and orchids. As we walked through, the glass doors that led outside were flanked by tumbling rose shrubs and hyacinth. We strolled onto the grounds across a carpet of green. Old stone birdbaths were surrounded by islands of geraniums, well-weathered park benches were perfectly placed for guests to enjoy the views beyond the garden.