Country house hotels are definitely common. Before he became the Downton God of Everything, Julian Fellowes wrote a very Mitfordish novel, Snobs, in which an eager nouveau-riche invites members of a titled family to dine in an hotel which was formerly the home of their neighbours, with wincingly disastrous results. Obviously, setting foot in such a place implies that one doesn't have a country house of one's own: instant beyond the pale status. Heating is also common, as being immune to glacial drawing rooms and Arctic treks down endless corridors to enjoy four inches of tepid water in an Edwardian bathroom shows that one has been properly brought up. Nancy Mitford, herself a cold body, wrote of the particular dilemma faced by women when dining in upper-class houses. Backless gowns and ancestral piles are an unhappy combination. It is possible, when dressing for the evening, to put comfort first, but the result is why it must always come second. Nancy frequently stayed at Amberley Castle in West Sussex, now a country house hotel, and as someone who enjoyed both delicious food and warmth, whatever the U-haters claim, she would, one feels, have entirely approved of its present incarnation.

Amberley is just gorgeous — a proper 900-year-old castle with a portcullis and a curtain wall, plushy lawns and fabulous views, soothing colours, discreet chintz and huge, blissful log fires. The chef, Robby Jenks, trained with Michael Caines at Gidleigh Park: his food is sharp, clean and classic, with an emphasis on clarity of flavour which both contrasts with and perfectly complements the soothingly baronial setting of the vaulted medieval dining room. We began with pan-fried duck foie gras on pain d'épices, lusciously well executed, with a perfect caramelised crust on the liver and just the right amount of melting quiver beneath. A woodruff sorbet between courses was not quite a success; woodruff certainly hits the wild-food-foraging vibe which is so current in London restaurants, but it is mostly used for a Georgian soft drink called Tarhun, and it might be better left in Georgia. Sea bass with langoustine cannelloni was fantastic, the discrete elements of the dish being left to speak for themselves without being smothered by sauce. This is not simple cooking, but who wants shepherd's pie in such a grand setting? Inverted snobbery has backflipped into a laboured emphasis on casualness, fine for a pub lunch, but when I go out to dinner I want to feel like I'm going out, not eating something I could have knocked up in my own kitchen. The food at Amberley is refined enough to feel like a special treat without being overwhelming or difficult, not ostentatious or anxious, just really good. Pudding was mango savarin with a joyously-common Malibu jelly, after which the huge four-poster bed in our room was a welcome sight.

I liked Amberley so much that I took my mother back for tea. As a northerner, Mother has Views on scones; but these, along with delicate sandwiches and fragrant macaroons, definitely passed the test. Apparently afternoon tea is common too, but we were far too busy gorging on clotted cream to mind. Anyone seeking a genuine "U" experience should avoid Amberley: the food is too good, the rooms too comfortable, the hot water too efficient and the whole place just too pretty to be in any way reflective of the beleaguered lifestyles of the descendants of the Mitfords. But for the joys of country house life without the horrors, I couldn't recommend it more.