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Bovey Castle: A dynamic manse in Devon, England, United Kingdom
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If I were to magically become today's Jay Gatsby, I would immediately relocate to Bovey Castle. I recently stayed at this 
majestic palace-turned-hotel for three days. I fell in love with every nook and cranny of this massive manse located in the middle of North Devon's Dartmoor National Park and originally built as a private home for bookmeister W.H. Smith's family about a century ago. These feelings dawned on me as I woke up the second morning to a mighty whooshing sound. Without even getting out of bed, I looked out my window to witness a colorful hot-air balloon beginning to take flight from the castle's groomed grounds.
What a marvel.
This rather regal mode of transportation seemed so close I thought I could touch it, yet I wasn't willing to get up to test the theory. I was happy to watch from my incredibly cushy bed, complete with a plush duvet and a hot water bottle tucked under my pillow.
This heating device was an added bonus the smart staff knew I would appreciate during my winter visit to the south of England. Since everyone was given one, I assume it is tradition at Bovey Castle or maybe just the manse's way of saying, "Make yourself at home."
That I did.
Although I am not dependent on highfalutin ways quite like the Great Gatsby, I sure became used to that lifestyle during a working trip across the Pond. A pack of journalists was on hand with which to brainstorm during our brief stay at this mighty stone fortress, though nobody minded if that hap-pened in a conference room, in the library, in the piano bar or in the cigar cove. They didn't even care if we got together at the archery range, on the golf course, during fly fishing, in the health spa or on a mountain bike ride.
To each his (or her) own.
We did end up together around the dinner table at night in the resplendent Palm Court, but nobody minded that either. Our appetites were always ripe, both for fine food and good conversation, and we were thus rewarded with both at Bovey. One night I dined on a juicy leg of lamb adeptly carved in front of us while the group discussed a game plan.
After meals, some of us were up for another round of strategy making in the confines of the manse's stately Oak Bar. Time flew by as we ordered from a carte of some 50 single malt Scotches and more than 150 imaginative cocktails while lounging in luxurious couches that must have been stuffed with soft down.
Although really comfortable, I periodically forced myself to take short leave in order to check in at home base. I did this just outside the bar's door where there was a computer armed with high-speed Internet access conveniently and creatively housed in an old red London phone booth. Other Internet sessions took place in what was once the stables area across the driveway from the main house and now acting as a combination theater and small business center. Suffering jet lag my first night there, at three in the morning I decided to get some work done in that serene space. The next morning, I arose just in time to take part in a lesson on falconry, an ancient sport that has always interested me but that I never sought out as I am deathly afraid of birds (I was pecked by chickens when I was little). For some reason, at Bovey I was, er, game for the experience. Maybe it was because I happened to be standing in the same country where the "sport of kings" flourished during the Middle Ages. Maybe I was just so relaxed I wasn't thinking.
Whatever the reason, during that morning class I even allowed the teacher to fasten a giant glove to my left hand so I could hold some sort of bird of prey upon return from his most recent conquest. Yikes! With my arm stiffly outstretched, I waited as resident falconer Martin Whitley alerted Merlin to hit his target: Me. The mighty bird swooped down smoothly, sitting with such grace I didn't feel weighted down even though his master told us that this was one of the largest owls in the world. Merlin had captured a piece of string, which he proudly showed for all to see.
Later, when the hooded falcon called Biscuit came out to play, I backed away and watched from afar as it was evil I saw in this creature's eyes. Even if this powerful bird was trained only to conquer fishing bait, I wasn't taking any chances.
High tea at Bovey Castle was much more my metier than was a dose of falconry - or even, for that matter, a round of great golf. However, I was impressed when a Canadian colleague told me that the estate's course, designed by J.F. Abercrombie of Gleneagles and Turnberry fame, boasts two of the best golf holes in the United Kingdom.
Still, I am a much better spectator than I am a driver or a putter. I am especially good at watching when I get to do so from such a lavish post as one of many public rooms lining the ground floor of the castle. Scones and such were served in the Cathedral room, a richly decorated retreat replete with oak-paneled walls and a massive stone fireplace where aromatic mesquite burns slowly throughout the day.
For me, that particular warmth was the perfect metaphor for my visit to Bovey Castle. I realize that comment seems strange when referring to a rambling retreat that contains five floors of more than 65 rooms situated on 358 square miles of grounds and part of Devon's Dartmoor National Park. But perhaps that is what makes this property so successful. I am sure even the most discerning of clients - including the great Jay Gatsby - would feel immediately at home in Bovey Castle.
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