If Kent’s rolling countryside were distilled into a hotel, it would taste like The PIG at Bridge Place — a heady blend of earthy rusticity, mismatched elegance, and farm-to-fork philosophy. Driving up to the original 1600-something building surrounded by weeping willows and into view of a Kitchen Garden that feels (impossibly) both vast and quaint, several roll-off-the-tongue words come to mind: pickling, pastoral, porcelain (well, nearly), and a plethora of plates piled high with hyper-local indulgence.

My countryside escape starts with lunch, as all good stories should. The restaurant, a whimsical collision of antique Windsor chairs, wall-mounted pickling jars (briny rainbows of Kitchen Garden carrots and beetroot), and mismatched floral crockery, feels like dining in your eccentric aunt’s pantry — if said aunt had an arsenal of Michelin-trained chefs. Fish soup from the South Coast arrives, its broth a golden umami storm, while hake sourced from Folkestone Market glistens beside sprouting broccoli drowned in clam butter sauce. I select a non-alcoholic Wild Idol Rosé from the curated list of afternoon tipples, its floral aromas and notes of summer berries keeping things crisp, but it’s the Pentire Coastal Spritz, with its aromatic, sea-kissed botanicals, that truly sings of Kent’s shores. The head sommelier, a raconteur with a twinkle in his eye, is steadfast in his musings of the chalky North Downs terroir and the unlikely alchemy of Kentish winemaking. “Save room for the wine tasting,” he winks. I already know I’ll say yes.

A hearty meal later, I check in, climbing up creaky residential-style staircases full of old English charm to where my Hideaway Room awaits, a cocoon of Farrow & Ball plum shades and William Morris foliage — ferns and thistles cascading across lampshades and curtains. Sinking into the velvet chaise lounge that lounges just so at the foot of the bed, I make a mental note to indulge in the sitting room’s minibar, tucked into an antique carved larder, for a midnight Negroni. But the pièce de résistance? The mezzanine bathroom: a free-standing tub, imbued with the scent of organic Bramley bath salts, nestled like a sanctuary above with views overlooking water meadows. Looks like my next mental note would involve stretching out to enjoy a long soak, indeed. 

As dusk stains the water meadows amber, book in hand, I retreat to the lounge — a chiaroscuro of crackling fireplace light and antique mahogany shadows. Shelves groan under the weight of spirits, liqueurs, and colourfully tinted wine glasses; armchairs sag invitingly under generations of well-fed guests. Here, Mr. Smith (a self-proclaimed espresso martini savant) has nothing but compliments for the velvety concoction that is the hotel’s signature Chestnut Cream Martini. His first sip tastes like autumn in a glass: smoky, nutty, and laced with the faintest whisper of Demerara sweetness.

Dinner service tonight, helmed by Chef Fu, is a love letter to Kentish soil. Confit Belton leeks arrive first — charred tendrils draped in harissa mayo, crowned with crispy capers that crackle like bonfire sparks. Mushrooms on toast follow, a woodland riot of earthy girolles and porcini piled atop sourdough and finished with a generous drizzle of garlic oil. But the star of the show is the chargrilled Tamworth pork loin, its caramelised edges yielding to a blush-pink core, served with a side of chips in a rustic flower pot — a cheeky nod to the Kitchen Garden’s dirt-to-table ethos. A few glasses of Dão vino tinto and a homemade rhubarb sorbet later, my return journey to the bed is at a decidedly unhurried pace. Food comatosed, and having lazed in a silken bath infused with chamomile, sage, and rosemary essential oils — their herbaceous steam curling like tendrils of meadow mist — I sink into crisp linens to find a bespoke herbal-blended tea bag perched on my pillow.

When sunrise filters through the hand-silkscreened curtains and gilds the dark purple walls, I relish waking without an agenda and look forward to the leisurely affair that is breakfast. Downstairs, the buffet is already humming with abundance: homemade jams of strawberry, apricot, and blueberry glisten in mason jars, their lids dusted with sugar crystals. Gilda Bakery croissants, flaking at the slightest glance, sit beside carrot and chia seed muffins still warm from the oven. Eggs — fried, scrambled, poached — come from the hotel’s own hens, their yolks sun-yellow and unapologetically rich. I heap my plate with granola, its toasted hazelnuts and oats sticky with zero-mile raw honey, and drizzle Ottinge yoghurt over Earl Grey stewed prunes. Pro tip: Claim the window seat. Watching swallows dart over the fields as you sip Kitchen Garden herbal tea is breakfast theatre at its finest.

Post-checkout, the sunlit lounge lures me back. I thumb through a novel while Mr. Smith debates a second martini. But nearby Canterbury beckons: The Goods Shed, the local farmers’ market-meets-food-hall, where ingredients travel (basically) 2ft from stall to plate. We lunch on slow-cooked lamb ragu over polenta and topped with Old Winchester cheese, then wander stalls piled with Hurstwood Farm cobnut oils, Canterbury Cobble cheeses, and Chapel Down chardonnay. A final purchase before I depart for home: a Bramley x The PIG Candle to remind myself of the fresh herby scents of the Kitchen Garden, the moss-green hue of its glass jar an olfactory memento of The PIG’s characterful, bucolic charm. If nothing else, it’ll take me back to chaise lounges made for daydreaming, cocktails shaken with foraged flair, and bathrooms fit for writing sonnets.