A Wintery Stay at The Three Horseshoes

Batcombe sits amid the deep valleys of Somerset’s River Alham. The historic former-market town of Bruton is a walkable distance just three miles south, now a fashionable hub of creativity and food since Hauser & Wirth opened their Somerset gallery. Batcombe is at the heart of a parish of sleepy hamlets. Earthy lanes twist and turn into the village, where quaint cottages cluster around the stately 15th-century church of St Mary the Virgin. Bordering the churchyard is a 17th-century coaching inn that once doubled as the village doctor’s surgery. As was the fate of many beloved drinking dens, The Three Horseshoes succumbed to the pressures of the pandemic. Thankfully its doors reopened a couple of years back to locals, weary travellers and connoisseurs of good food alike.

I’ve read that Max Wigram, a former gallerist, antiques collector and investor, would visit Batcombe’s watering hole regularly for a pint with a side of pork pie. He once told the landlord to call, if ever he was selling up. When that call came, Wigram set about recruiting a select team to help revive the old inn. Local interior designer Frances Penn and landscape gardener Libby Russel brought their expertise to the renovation, celebrated chef Margot Henderson was invited to oversee the menu, and head chef Nye Smith entrusted with leading the kitchen.

We had the pleasure of feasting and lodging at The Three Horseshoes while I photographed the inn back in January before the year hastened on.

A stone path from the car park cuts between yew hedging draped with fairy lights. The beer garden shares a sturdy stone wall with the churchyard, propping up old fruit trees. There is a lawn of picnic benches and a courtyard where smoke curled from a smouldering fire pit. The borders were sculpted with winter’s rusty stalks rising between the rich colouring of evergreen herbs and shrubs; the seasonal head turner: a silk tassel bush with long silvery catkins. It’s a charming spot for alfresco dining throughout the sunnier months, but equally lovely to warm the cockles with a pint of stout beside the fire pit.

Chinks of friendly candle light beckoned us inside and across giant flagstones, dipped and worn by the passage of many years’ worth of thirsty folk. A beautiful 16th-century settle makes for a welcome perch to kick off boots caked in mud from restorative stomps across the surrounding hills (if you are at a loss for suitable boots, the team have a stash of wellingtons at the ready). A trusty log burner is set into the inn’s old centrepiece, a double-sided fireplace. Its warmth blazed out beneath a giant notched timber beam. Antique artworks hang from white washed walls and mismatched stick-back chairs gather around wooden tables, each topped with a flaming candle set in an old glass bottle.

We had a nosey around the private dining room that overlooks the garden with a classic local bistro feel, before settling at a table in the bar to quench our thirst with West Country offerings on tap. Immediately we started lusting over the bar snacks. Bags of Scampi Fries and Twiglets are up for grabs, alongside a superb chalked-up menu. We shared a bowl of devilled pig's skin, followed by two sandwich buns; one salt beef and Ogleshield, the other battered haddock with tartare. Absolutely delicious.

After inquiring about walking routes from the village, the barman gave us a handy map of a circular loop. Out in the crisp, wood-smoked air we nodded to a neighbour on the old lane, who was busy chopping a toppled veteran tree defeated by recent winter gales.

The walk stretches out beneath a granite sky, along muddy lanes, across sloping meadows, swaying bridges and beside the meandering fern-flanked streams of the River Alham. We passed mill buildings, some converted and others lost to time. I hunted for pottery shards on the mossy banks and in the shallows. My findings were left at a curious shrine made from crumbled stone ruins with the carved smirking face of The Green Man. A friendly herd of gorgeous Shetland ponies came to say hello as we passed through their field. A good time to have a pack of Polos in my pocket.

The Mendip foothills folded themselves around us as we followed their clefts between forgotten hamlets of farmsteads and handsome listed abodes. Isolated Spargrove was especially idyllic, with a mill, farm, ancient tithe-barn, and moated manor house. The sort of place that can wind back the clock to another era. We stopped at a farm gate to watch the watery sun sink into a brown tapestry of thick hedgerows, rounded hills and scooped valley views, before returning to The Three Horseshoes with wind-burnt cheeks. The evening was closing in and it was time to seek out our lodgings for the night.

There are five ensuite bedrooms above the pub. Each unfussy, elegant, airy and decorated with antique furniture and artworks. There are freestanding bathtubs, fluffy towels, natural Wildsmith products and enormous pillowy beds handmade by local company Relyon that has been going since 1858. We were in bedroom five, which has its own entrance from the terrace and a rather luxurious bathroom complete with a squidgy sofa, roll-top tub, and a separate zellige-tiled rain-shower stall. But it was the room’s view that I fell for. This side of the inn forms part of the church boundary and the windows open out into the gothic graveyard.

We tore ourselves away for a happy hour of cocktails and Scrabble by the log burner back in the bar, before settling into a dining room nook for dinner. The menu changes daily and reflects the seasons, celebrating Somerset produce and country classics. Co-patron of Rochelle Canteen in Shoreditch, Margot Henderson is a key figure on the London food scene, alongside her husband Fergus Henderson of the brilliant St. John restaurants, with an emphasis on the thrifty rural tradition of nose-to-tail eating.

I can never resist Maldon rock oysters for a taste of the sea. We also shared a cod roe and a leek dish to start, followed by a grilled sika haunch and a wonderfully rustic pheasant, venison and bacon pie straight from the pages of a Dickens novel. Dessert was a perfect apple pie with custard, then ricotta and sour cherry ice cream. All washed down with a carafe or two from a considered wine list featuring the St John range. Everything was exceedingly good and rooted in down-to-earth delights.

We took a turn about the churchyard to walk off a little of our grand supper while January’s fierce Wolf Moon shone overhead. Back at the fireside we indulged in a whisky and Somerset cider brandy nightcap before turning into the comforts of the room.

Waking to the age-old voice of church bells and a cold dawn breaking through pearly clouds felt pretty special. I bundled into the window seat with a cup of tea and the sense of being watched over by a majestic ancient yew. His protective shadow stretched over the headstones in the rising light of dawn. A bath before breakfast felt like a good idea. I flung the window open and wallowed contentedly to the chorus of morning bird song. To sink into a tub with an enchanting view is one of life's precious luxuries.

Smoke was mouthing from the chimneys of neighbouring dwellings as we tripped across the terrace to breakfast. The sweet tang of cafetière coffee greeted us in the dining room where the fire was already glowing. Bottles of local orchard apple juice and Somerset apple cider vinegar were laid out to help yourself to. The morning menu was deliciously understated: homemade yogurt and granola with fresh stewed fruits, sourdough with slabs of butter and jam, poached eggs, roasted tomatoes and grilled streaky bacon.

Following yet another feast, we lazed about our room before it was time to check out. I returned to the window seat with a blanket and book, thoughts drifting across the graveyard and swirling around the imposing church tower, a beacon for miles. We couldn't set off without paying the church a proper visit. St Mary’s was built on the site of a Saxon church, then rebuilt with stone in the Norman period. It has seen numerous alterations since, its current form dating mostly to 15th, 16th and 19th century renovations. I wondered how many of those with their names etched into the headstones had treasured these valley views. How many had frequented the old inn that they were laid to rest beside.

There was one more port of call to two championed suppliers of The Three Horseshoes. Westcombe Dairy and the Landrace Bakery mill is a short, undulating walk down and up the lane. They make incredible unpasteurised cheese and artisan charcuterie that you can sample and buy from a small on-site shop, along with local beer and cider. A like-minded neighbour to the inn, focused on quality produce with a respect for the community and surrounding landscape.

The Three Horseshoes is a gem in a beautiful pocket of countryside. It’s a base for rambles, resting up, roaring fires, chiming bells, local brews, hearty food and a peaceful night's sleep. A real feasting hub for all seasons where the air of a historic local boozer victoriously endures.

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thethreehorseshoesbatcombe.co.uk | 01749 326147

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