Home Farm B&B

"On arriving at Home Farm Hotel you approach the quintessential English B&B, nestled amongst the rolling hills of Devon, it truly is a beautiful setting. Do not be fooled, what lurks beneath is something so terrifying the film rights were recently sold to M Night Shyamalan. The service... the kind of place that puts the word hospital in hospitality. There is a coldness that befits a more clinical setting, I felt less comfortable in their presence than at a recent colonoscopy. Maybe they were always bad, maybe they just hate their jobs, what we do know is they definitely hate their guests. If you happen to hear birdsong over the nearby busy A road, you may be mistaking a local chaffinch or tit, for the incessant ringing of the hotel phone. Abandoned for hours with no care it rings and rings and rings, Michael O'Leary described it as "a level of service Ryanair could only dream of." Conveniently a bell at reception is used to alert staff of the needs and wants of their guests. If unanswered a number is provided, which is a very considerate approach for a small business. The number however dials the phone next to the reception bell, I applaud this level of irony. The rooms... low expectations are blown out of the water, with rooms so small and walls so thin you get a sense of community not typically associated with a hotel. Aside from the generally damaged interiors the decor is in keeping with expectations of the architecture and tasteful. Carpeted bathrooms are something fighting for a resurgence and I truly support their efforts. Our bathroom did have a delightful homemade rug which I did love, on enquiring where I could purchase one I was informed it was merely the matted hair of previous guests. The food... it is advertised as "quality food... Using local produce... To taste the difference" aside from the obvious copyright issues, the real issue is the first act of this sentence. At the weekends you are faced with a buffet, if hoping for a decadent generous breakfast you will be sorely disappointed. Stale cereals sit next to a lonely jug of orange juice. Lifting the lid of a bain marie you aren't greeted with crispy bacon and artisanal local sausages, but just sadness. This sadness is overwhelming, like an army of dementors, you sense the despair of the low quality products dismal life, it's imposter syndrome of not living up to the word bacon and the general lack of care and attention in its cooking. The crockery is chipped but in a delightful respite the bread is fresh and the eggs were useful on a recent DIY job as we were completely out of polyfilla. Overall we loved our stay, and have booked in for a whole week next year."