I'D ALWAYS assumed that Mayfield was just another ...

I'D ALWAYS assumed that Mayfield was just another East Sussex village. My friend Jan puts me right. It's a medieval village. Well, I never. She knows because her mother lives near by: "And there's a hotel called the Middle House where you might like to stay."

The name intrigues. Arriving, we find that the Middle House really is in the middle of the High Street. It's the star turn in fact: a sprawling, heavily timbered Elizabethan building very much part of and yet standing out from the rest of the street. In the car park at the back, there are two wonderful views: endless rolling countryside on one side and terraced gardens leading up to the ancient hotel on the other.

Pushing open the large oak front door we step straight into an entrance hall with a massive carved fireplace (Grinling Gibbons, I later discover), in which a huge fire burns. There are masses of dark red leather buttoned sofas and armchairs to sit on - or there would be if only there weren't hundreds of people already sitting on them.

A member of staff takes us upstairs to our first-floor front room - at first glance, a bit ramshackle (well, it's old) - all ancient fireplace, black beams and white walls. It is noticeably cold and the first thing she does is nip over to the window wall where there's an electric radiator: "I'll just pop this on."

"Only one bedside lamp," notes my husband when she's gone. "So, only one of us can read." "What's that cord hanging on the wall behind the bed?" I inquire. Ahem. He pulls it. Two not-too-bright overhead lights wink down.

Downstairs, I can almost smell the history. Ensconcing ourselves on one of those red leather sofas, now bereft of bottoms, we get into conversation with some local men who entertain us with stories of priest holes, tunnels, prison cells, murder most foul . . .



"And as I haven't had a steak for ages, I'll have the rib eye with brandy and peppercorn sauce," he says. When the waitress appears, he checks out the options: "Blue, rare, medium rare and well done," she reels them off. I go to the other extreme and opt for cranberry and chestnut strudel with orange and cashew nut sauce.
The Middle House boasts that its heavily oak-panelled and carved restaurant is "one of the most magnificent in England" with "outstanding cuisine" - in which case, starched white napkins instead of paper ones would add to the sense of occasion. I like it in here - it's dim, crowded and atmospheric - and I like my first course, too, its richness leavened by lots of nice crisp salad. My husband nods. Yes, he likes his mozzarella salad - lots of mozza - and declares the tomatoes truly sun-blessed.
But he's not so keen on the steak. It's the sauce. "There's such a lot of it, I can hardly taste the steak." Halfway through my very large strudel, I begin to feel queasy, but plough gamely on: "This is what I call old-style vegetarian food: very nutty, lots of sweet gravy, slices of orange, very sweet puff pastry. Good in small doses . . . "
For pudding, my husband orders Death by Chocolate. "You've done that to challenge me," I accuse him. "No, I've done it because I like chocolate." I ask for lemon sorbet in a tuile basket. Both puds come with little