MARION SAUVEBOIS takes a quick trip across the border and heads to the historic Cotswold town of Painswick in the heart of the Slad Valley

HELL hath no fury like a Sat Nav scorned.

"Turn right," our pilot's shrill voice pealed urgently through the speaker, rising - or so it felt - an octave as she barked her orders; the (threatening) please a mere formality at this point.

But after 20 minutes of perilous cross-country driving, which involved scaling a steep hill up to a ravine-like ridge, we ignored her. I'm sure the people whose gate she urged us to crash into would not have cared for the intrusion.

This only sent her into full-blown frenzy, screeching at us to make a U-turn for a mile; the volume building up to a deafening crescendo each time we dared to defy her commands.

At last, she relented, warning us balefully she was “recalculating”.

And then she dumped us by a deserted field, bragging in a sly, triumphant cackle that we'd reached our destination. Its internal compass was clearly kaput but the retaliation mode was shipshape.

So we banished the vicious contraption to the glove compartment and weaved our way back down to less precarious ground, zipped onto the first available A road and consulted Google, only to realise were 25 minutes off course. She had really done a number on us. Finally, after much meandering The Painswick, perched high on the hilltop town of the same name, came into view.

One glimpse at the imposing Palladian house with its stunning panorama of the Gloucestershire’s Slad Valley sloping below and any lingering resentment at the Sat Nav had vanished. Despite her best efforts to scupper our romantic getaway and send us careening off into a ditch, we had arrived at our destination; and what a destination.

Originally tracing its history back to an Iron Age fort in 500-100 BC, Painswick later developed on the back of local sheep farming and the wool industry that flourished over a 300-year period.

Built in the late 18th century, the manor house became home to the parish vicar in 1897 before being converted into a series of guest houses and hotels from the mid-20th century onwards. It was eventually acquired by the Calcot Collection - which also owns the nearby Barnsley House, and of course Calcot - and relaunched as The Painswick in March.

Far from other clipped or downright forbidding stately homes, with their armies of uppity butlers lurking round corners, it firmly belongs to the new crop of 'too cool for school' boutique hotels.

Billed as a "middle ground between luxury at full-tilt and posh village pubs", it turns tradition on its head with its offbeat decor, inviting yet unpretentious vintage touches and riot of electric blues and yellows.

While modern in essence, playful nods to the region's historic woollen trade are sprinkled across every room; from the heavy linens and bed throws, down to the carved rams’ heads and even the waiters' Tweed waistcoats.

Fun and relaxation are clearly the order the day with a playroom filled with board games, a pool table and media centre. In our room, we were welcomed by a saucer of homemade bakes, which we greedily nibbled, all the while marvelling at the unbeatable view over the valley, oohing and aahing at the bathroom mosaic and the retro phone with its sheep's dial smiling back at us. Soon we paid a visit to the bar, where the bartender's easy manner and friendly banter made one thing clear: The Painswick is a place without inflated airs or undue formality. We heeded his parting command to "sit back and relax", and retreated to the first floor Morley Horder lounge, where we plonked ourselves on the plush ‘deconstructed sofa’ - an artwork in itself - before gawping at the gamut of prints, framed fabric samples, ewe ornaments and portrait of Virginia Wolf (the wolf in the this sheep pen?) before turning our attention to an oversized canvas spelling out: “The Earth without Art is just Eh.”

Our drinks gulped down, we made our way to the Restaurant.

In line with The Painswick’s maverick ways, head chef Michael Bedford is not one to serve up expected, tried-and-tested fare. Instead the Michelin star chef, who honed his craft at Le Manoir aux Quat’ Saisons and once helmed the Tate Gallery Restaurant, prefers to throw in the odd flavour curve ball. Exhibit A: my lobster and black pudding pie, deliciously flaky and drizzled in unctuous bisque.

My partner gobbled up his mini mackerel burger (far from mini by any standards) with ribbons of pickled cucumber.

In no time, our plates had been cleared and replaced by the main event: roasted wild sea trout on a hillock of butter-soft white beans and tender chunks of crab for me, and the intriguingly branded braised lamb neck lasagne for him. This turned out to be a generous portion of stew swaddled in a thin sheet of pasta. But the undeniable triumph of the evening was the towering raspberry soufflé peeping out from its ramekin pushed in front of me by our waitress. Served with a scoop of vanilla ice cream, it was the perfect blend of sweet and zing thanks to the tartness of the berries.

My partner's take on an old classic, blueberry arctic roll, with a side of tangy blackcurrant sorbet was a strong contender but did not quite beat one of the most moreish desserts I had the pleasure of tasting.

We dawdled as best we could back to the lounge, dropping on the sofa like logs were tea and coffee awaited us; as did a beribboned scroll. It was, it transpired, detailed directions for a short walk snaking around the historic centre.

"Had we just discussed it or did we actually ask for a map?" my partner asked, baffled by the level of service. The staff's ability to anticipate our needs bordered on the prophetic.

So, bright and early - but not before a plateful of Eggs Benedict - we set off, instructions in hand, down Kemps Lane. We circled back up towards St Mary's Church, past the infamous 1840s stocks still on display close to the old courthouse and available for anyone brave enough to crouch down and squeeze their hands into the shackles. Which my partner, neck craned, legs splayed, gladly attempted. This unsavoury remnant of Painswick's past duly ticked off our list, we headed to the cemetery to take a look at the final resting place of stonemason John Bryan: a pyramidal tomb jutting out from the sea of modest slabs surrounding it.

Back on the main road we strolled along Painswick Stream, which powered the wool trade way back when, and took a peak at the historic mills. It all went smoothly enough, until we veered off course up a supposed public footpath and ended up caught in tangle of prickly shrubs, getting denser and more coiled with every step. "Make a U-Turn," I heard the Sat Nav's menacing cry in my ear. Eventually we extricated ourselves from the thicket and wandered back to the hotel rather ruffled looking, to collect our luggage and bid our room and bathroom tiles an emotional farewell.

Leaving Painswick behind, the Sat Nav still banished to the glove compartment, we decided to go old school, using our trustee AA map; a relic from the 1990s gathering dust in the boot. Barely ten minutes out of town and we had already missed the first turn home. Navigation, with or without a sadistic sabotaging machine, is clearly not our forte.

But, at least, there is something quite liberating (if not noble), about simply getting lost on your own terms.

FACTFILE

*The Painswick, Kemps Lane, Painswick GL6 6YB

*www.thepainswick.co.uk

*01452 813688

*Marion stayed in a Medium room, which costs £174 per night.

*Prices start at £119 for an overnight stay.