The hotel: the first resident you encounter when you step inside the Falcon is Purdey, the incredibly indolent black labrador. That’s if you don’t trip over him, because his recumbent station is right there on the welcome mat. Maybe he is the welcome mat. Raising one eyebrow over a well-turned shoulder is about all this canine flâneur offers by way of a large hello. Purdey is neither a meeter nor a greeter. No, his job is to set the tone of delicious relaxation that the Falcon is all about.

The long, low hotel, built of mellow yellow and grey stone, crouches at the side of a green on the edge of Castle Ashby, one of Northamptonshire’s most easy-on-the-eye estate villages. The Falcon dates back to Tudor times, when a traveller arriving at a hostelry expected a warm welcome after a tedious, uncomfortable, sometimes dangerous journey. Times have hardly changed, what with the M1 screeching and tailgating only five miles to the west.

I’d endured a long afternoon’s stop-start motoring in torrential rain, and it was balm to the soul and the senses to traverse the village of thatched and red-tiled roofs, to crunch in over the gravelled courtyard and to enter the light and warmth of the lobby, where the girl on the desk smiled, “Hello, how are you?” as if she really meant it. Michael Eastick, the owner, nodded sympathetically over my tales of motorway endurance. I felt a bit of a fool later, when he let slip that he’d once been a racing driver.

The Falcon is the sort of place where your fellow guests will almost certainly include couples on a canoodling weekend, because with its intimate atmosphere, beautiful gardens and beamy, stone-walled ambience, it presses all the right romantic buttons.

Yet somehow, without seeming to spoil the mood for its lovers, the Falcon also managed to absorb and satisfy a large party of hearty, revved-up Brummie businessmen out on the ran-tan that evening. How did they do that? Must be something in the water.

What about the rooms? The Falcon has 16 rooms decorated in unfussy, cottagey fashion, all ensuite and provided with the necessities you’d expect. They range from charming small singles to larger rooms with kingsize beds. Scottish guests with nationalist ’tude should inquire for the Tartan Tenement, a symphony in maroon and green. Top of the range is a rather splendid minisuite boasting a sleigh bed (bring your own bells) and a roll-top bath big enough to have fun in.

My room was located not in the hotel building, but across the garden wall in a separate cottage. A cream-and-blue theme spread over walls, doors and floral curtains. A tree pressed its leafy branches to my window, and through the mesh of leaves I caught hints of hedges and flowerbeds.

Bring on dinner: ambience is not everything to a diner, but it does count. The next-door table was so close to mine that eavesdropping was compulsory. My neighbours were on their first date. He blew it in the first five minutes by raising the spectre of her old boyfriend.

The Falcon’s menus follow the seasons, and range over the gamut of modern cooking. There’s a strong emphasis on fish, with a “catch of the day” bought from the local fish market. I wish I’d been feeling fishy. All around me, diners were smacking their lips and nodding approbation over freshwater salmon with pickled ginger and the chef’s speciality: fillet of catfish in a scallop broth. There was a steamed cod with leeks that would have made a Welshman sing, and not quietly. But I was after a bit of good red meat.

I did go Welsh for starters — a rarebit that must have been too subtle for my palate, because I couldn’t taste a thing. When my knuckles went white as I tried to cut the fillet steak that followed, I sighed. But the culprit proved to be my knife, as old and blunt as a crusty butler. The steak was delicious. The cheeseboard? Somerset ruled, fabulously, with a nutty cheddar and a melt-in-the-mouth goat’s cheese. As for breakfast, the meal that so few hotels get right — it turned out excellent.

What’s up elsewhere? After battling all that traffic, you wouldn’t want to get the car out again, would you? Luckily the village of Castle Ashby has plenty to hold your attention.

For starters, there is Castle Ashby House, a wonderful mishmash of architectural styles stretching back five centuries. It’s not open to the public, but the splendid gardens are (www.castleashby.co.uk). Then there are the old stables, converted into a Rural Shopping Yard, where you can buy everything from a bespoke oak table to a handmade Noah’s Ark for the kids you’ve left with grandma.

You can get a snack and a cuppa at the Buttery, too (01604 696728), after your stroll through the parkland of the Big House.

Who will like it? Motorway martyrs and recovering stress-oholics — it is an oasis of calm.

Who won’t? Those who agree with Lord Chesterfield that there’s nothing so ill-bred as audible laughter.

The Falcon Hotel, Castle Ashby, Northants (01604 696200, www.falconhotel-castleashby.com). A double room, B&B, costs from £112.50 (£145 with dinner, with a minimum of two nights). Weekend specials available

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