Buckinghamshire

I can never understand the two-night minimum stay rule – you know, when places won't take a single-night booking at weekends. For city-dwellers, the chances of ending up in Friday night traffic and missing dinner are high. I'd rather set off on Saturday morning, have two days away (Saturday and Sunday), but, if necessary, pay more for a single night. No such dilemma at tonight's pub-with-rooms: no minimum stay, for one thing, but also it can be reached from central London by public transport. Couldn't be easier. The Crown is home to the suite in which Andie MacDowell and Hugh Grant got it on in Four Weddings and a Funeral. That four-poster room, the "Elizabeth", is very popular, and the last bit to require refurbishment. The rest of the inn has been transformed – its current owners having created a modern coaching inn using the services of designer Ilse Crawford (whose Studioilse has a client list that includes Soho House New York) and chef Rosie Sykes (whom my restaurant critic friend lauds to the skies). "Take it from me – the cherry fizz is fantastic," says S, ensconced in an armchair with her seven-year-old when I arrive on this freezing Saturday night. She orders another glass but I want something hot. Sipping Earl Grey in our nook, between bar and restaurant, gives me time to survey both. Beams, exposed brick, lots of dark wood – everything you might expect in an Elizabethan inn – plus some things you wouldn't. High-backed settles are draped in plaid blankets (very folk, very now) held in place by thin leather straps. Naked bulbs sit in glass lantern boxes on the walls; tiny pewter plates are laid on light oak refectory tables. My room overlooks the street and has a genuine medieval wall-painting. A custom-made "ladder" bears Penguin Classics, kettle, little brown cups (a change from ubiquitous white), even an iron. The bed is wonderful and despite myself (because they aren't British-made) I love the plant-based Aesop toiletries. Can't fault the tactile concept, but what hasn't been taken into account is wear and tear. Room info comes on thick A5 sheets which are grubby and dog-eared. Black rubber flooring in the shower is worn, and grouting around the bottom is grungy (I wish I'd packed flip-flops to separate feet from floor). A tweedy square cushion on my bed has something encrusted on it, and the red Roberts radio is dusty. Tut tut tut. Back downstairs, for early dinner by the fire. "For once," says S, "the kids' menu isn't all pasta." The grown-ups' is that rarity – we want every single dish on it. A main of white bean, fennel and celeriac stew is shared as a starter (so good we declare we could eat it for main and pudding too), but what follows – roast venison with butternut squash and chestnuts, and poached chicken with prunes and leeks – gives the stew a run for its money. Noisy cabbies briefly disturb before I drop off – to be expected on a Saturday night. I could get into this pub-outside-a-city lark (recommendations, please), but this one must swiftly clean up its act.