Our fabulous, foodie weekend at The Miller of Mansfield nearly didn’t turn out that way. We’d had to cancel our first visit when a mini Fresser had been poorly. This was our second attempt, and when we arrived, we found our room had been snaffled.

"You signed in earlier" said the smiling girl at the reception desk. 

Er, no.

Mr F and I had arrived at the Miller of Mansfield - a charming pub with rooms in the tiny village of Goring upon Thames, the home of the late and very great George Michael.

The lovely smiling girl pulled our signed form from her tray. Fell silent. Then got up to talk to one of her colleagues. 

Turns out that someone called Victoria (not a common name) with a surname rhyming with Prever, had checked in earlier. And was currently lolling on our king-sized bed. 

With huge apologies from our hosts, we were shown to the other Victoria's room - perfectly nice, but overshadowed by thoughts of ‘but is it as nice as our intended room?’. As it happens, each room at this 18th century coaching inn is decorated differently and our room in the eaves was gorgeously glamorous, if bijoux. 

We really should have left home earlier. A walk around the village revealed the early bird really did do better. The Goring Grocer - a chic store had closed for the day — and the entire weekend. Pierreponts, the trendy café in the village was also shutting up shop. The other Victoria was probably at that moment nibbling on gourmet treats on our king-sized bed having enjoyed a locally sourced lunch at Pierreponts.

If you do visit Goring, be like the other Victoria and arrive in the early afternoon.

Notwithstanding all of this, we managed a romantic walk along the beautiful Thames - this is a terribly pretty part of the world – before returning to the Miller for a cheeky afternoon drink and to get ready for dinner.

At this point, it all got very much better.

Owners, Nick and Mary Galer, have years of hospitality experience between them. And it shows. Both most recently worked for Heston Blumenthal's Fat Duck group.

The dining room has gastro pub feel, but the food is far more grand. Starving by the time we sat down (not having ruined our dinner like Victoria) we could have eaten much of the menu. Mr P ordered a dish of salty smoked almonds and sweet, creamy Comté cheese which was dotted with suitably tart, giant capers. Perfect with my cute mini bottle of Bottega Gold prosecco and his glass of Viognier.

They arrived with a mini loaf of warm, chewy sourdough, two malted rolls (in their own mini sackcloth bag) with home churned butter, homemade vinegar. There was also an amuse bouche of sweet pea puree ice cream on a nest of fresh pea shoots, lying on a tart base so thin and crisp it could have passed for filo. An icy, sweet, salty and crunchy mouth-gasm.  

If you’d stopped the meal then we’d have gone to bed happy. It was superb.

First courses of Scottish sea trout gravadlax — a slab of mouth meltingly mellow, fish on a plate dotted with pretty wild garlic flowers and thick, sweet treacle yoghurt — and Miller cheese salad — a creamy homemade soft cheese paired with little gem, sticky beetroot jam, crunchy salt and vinegar seeds and a fennel crisp. How on earth does anyone turn fennel into something so crispy crunchy it literally snaps in the mouth?

Main courses didn’t let the side down. My pan fried Cornish Ling sat on a thick, peppery basil puree, surrounded by yellow girolle mushrooms, the thinnest drizzle of salty fish sauce and a scattering of summery, green, crunchy peas. Mr P’s turbot – also dredged up in Cornwall shared the plate with lovage, oh-so-trendy burrata and a rainbow of sweet, heritage tomatoes. The sauce, which I’m guessing to be anchovy heavy, was another mouthgasm moment. So much flavour it need the rest of that sourdough – or ill-mannered plate licking to do it justice. Sides of crunchy sugar snaps and the crunchiest three times cooked chips were chip perfection.

By this point we were almost too full for pudding – lucky we’d missed the afternoon snacking possibilities, or we’d be waving the white flag. We decided to share, but we are entirely incompatible pudding eaters. So, we were forced to risk a Mr Creosote moment.

Mr P’s 64% Manjari chocolate custard was richly, bitter and smothered in juicy orange pearls and a thin sheet of salty, crunchy topping I would have more to say about but I hardly got a look in. My Amalfi lemon tart had a soft, creamy base and a side of the most blackcurranty sorbet I’ve ever tasted. Swoon.

I had to go for a run the next morning to even attempt breakfast. A relatively slim buffet – artisan yoghurts, cereals and fruits plus juice is backed up with a menu of cooked choices and granary toast cooked to order so it arrives hot and crisp.

It was weekend worth waiting for. I hope the other Victoria enjoyed herself too.