THE panic in me spread as the white lights flickered on. I moved around the kitchen pass and, thankfully wearing Wellington boots, stepped into a large puddle of murky brown water.

I looked down at this filthy pond then shuddered as I felt a drop of water land on my head. It seemed to be raining filth in there.

Out in the dining room and between the mismatched chairs and tables I tried to discern the colour of the carpet. Was it grey or blue amid the stains? The window ledges, meanwhile, may have had some old, unloved and wilted plants and large, old flagons as decoration but my eye was drawn more to the generous sprinklings of dead flies.

Between the dining room and bar was a strange space containing desks and what looked like an old billiard table covered in trays of cups and books. Down the steps, the bar seemed pretty decent by comparison: just plenty more flies on the window ledges, half-empty bottles of spirits, and a till, its drawer open with, almost hauntingly, notes of five, ten and twenty pounds lying there.

It was as if someone had left town in a great hurry. I didn’t take a further tour upstairs that day, to pad around the 16 bedrooms. I’d seen quite enough. More than enough to make me question what on earth I was doing, what exactly was possessing me.

Because I wasn’t tramping around The White Hart, in the west Somerset town of Wiveliscombe, as some kind of weird thrill-seeker. It was worse than that. I was battling to secure a lease on the place, straining every sinew to fight off competition and negotiate a deal that would chain myself to the building for the next two decades. And I was doing this, armed with, if not snowed under by, the knowledge that hospitality was not the industry to enter. And I didn’t know this because I read the news, it was an unrelenting truth, seared into my brain having been a restaurant critic and food writer for the last quarter of a century.

The days passed in a haze of panic and confusion. It was the last Friday in November when I finally signed the lease, and it was as if a divine power was trying to get a message to me. The online signature system failed to work. We had arrived at friends for the weekend, and, on arriving, I had informed my pal that I needed his signature as a witness. That didn’t work either.

I was reminded of words from a friend of mine who owns a pub in Berkshire two days before. “You can still pull out!” was the message

But by eight o’clock the deal was done, signatures collected, and a lease seemingly strapped to my soul for eternity.

And we would open for business on Monday. The “why” was obvious: the Christmas trade. The “how” was a different matter altogether. And quite why I’d agreed that we should go away for this particular weekend made me further doubt my sanity. I made my excuses and caught a train home.

A few months on, and while those memories are still clear in my mind, the trauma has relented. By some miracle of teamwork, hard labour and a clean so deep we might have emerged in Australia, we opened on that Monday: December 1st, 2025.

The dining room, with a now stainless carpet, had new furniture, white tablecloths, serious drink-enhancing glassware from Richard Brendon, a new paint scheme and new paintings. The billiard table and desks were replaced by elegant OKA furniture and became a smart lobby. And with chef Dom Hewitt in the kitchen, we started serving a simple, delicious Italian menu and I fulfilled a lifelong ambition to write a wine list filled with all my favourite styles.

All that remains are the trifling issues of hiring a team of waiters and chefs, managing a business as someone who never hired anyone, nor looked at a spreadsheet (and who never passed Maths O-level), had never poured a pint of ale, let alone understand the idea of cleaning lines, and had to face the quite horrifyingly daunting prospects of taxes and business rates.

Do tune in next month…