South Wales is home to a duality like nowhere else in the British Isles.
It's a land of of timeless verdancy, endless summers and persistent
rain. It's a land torn apart by poverty, and before that the machinery
of heavy industry. It is also my favourite place on earth.

On the train eastwards from Swansea, this tension between nature and
industry is visible. On one side, the mile-long steelworks at Port
Talbot, belching sulphuric clouds out into Swansea Bay. On the other,
hillsides ravaged by the sea breeze and acid rain, the scrub and lichen
rendering them a toxic yellow.

But beyond these scars of past industry lies a landscape bursting with
life, all green, scrubby and soggy in the March fog. In summer the
clouds hang tangible in the blue sky, the sun dappled through oaks and
cypress onto roads winding through the hills and down to the coast.

It's a raw land where nature is a constant presence, whether it's in the
sweeping views from every hilltop or the stucco-clad 70s eyesores that
nestle on crags and in hillside crannies (if you've not guessed already,
Wales is chock full of hills). It's this drama of altitude that makes
driving or cycling your way through the heartland of Carmarthenshire so
thrilling.

Cardiff seems downright European compared to the overgrown countryside.
Sheer hill faces give way to orderly hedgerows and terraced houses as
the train rolls alongside the River Taff and the Millennium Stadium. The
city centre is a fascinating mix of Victorian arcades, trattorias (Wales
boasts a large Italian contingent) and glistening new EU-funded malls
and libraries.

We trundle through suburbs, salubrious new developments and decrepit
industry. All of this sandwiched between hills and forests, the coast
and the land. Arriving in Penarth I realise I can't smell the sea,
though the gulls guide me along the mock-Tudor high street and down
through allies to the seaside.

The crumbling pier is overrun with families, tourists and the local
youth, even as the steward attempts to enforce closing time. The Bristol
Channel seems to go on forever in the March evening murk, as adults and
children alike stumble all over the pebble beach. In the distance, a
refinery of some kind peeks around the cliff faces surrounding the bay.

Penarth was renowned as a seaside resort by those over-egging
Victorians, who built sprawling seaside mansions which have mostly
fallen into disrepair. Now, the revitalising sea air is breathed in
mostly by Cardiff commuters and the retired, making up a quarter of the
population. As I make my way up Marine Parade towards the hotel I pass
hospices and care homes.

I almost miss the unassuming Holm House, with its tasteful gravel
driveway and the requisite Audi TT parked outside. I'm met in the
wood-panelled entrance hall, and shown upstairs to my room. Each is
individually named and designed and mine, Min-Y-Don, is full of neutral
tones and clean lines. The bed is big, and comfy. The windows look out
onto a magnolia tree, the coastal path and the Channel (or would, if it
wasn't quite so foggy). There's a bath alongside the window, which I
resolve to make use of later.

I have a look around the rest of the hotel, finding a serene
slate-walled pool and a modest gym. Some bedrooms have balconies, others
private gardens. It's a veritable pile of a house, with twisting
corridors and plenty of wooden panelling. By accident I stumble into
another room, in a newer section of the hotel, dressed in pristine white
and flooded with natural light.

There is a sense of the bespoke, though executed somewhat haphazardly.
The taps in my room are unlabelled, and turn in strange directions. An
eerie array of magazines have been placed on the table, next to the
plastic flowers and coffee creamer. They feature headlines like "349
Reasons to Smile" and "Things You Can Stop Worrying About RIGHT NOW".

I read up on the history of the building, built by a shipping magnate
when Marine Parade was known as "Millionaire's Row". I am amused to find
that it was, for a while, a nursing home.

At dinner time, I head down to the bar to prepare for dinner at Neale's
Restaurant. It's a brooding room full of leather and wrought iron, big
seats and circular sofas. I order a whiskey, and I'm furnished with a
bowl of crisps and olives. Looking over a menu, I notice a caveat: "the
game is local, and may contain lead shot."

Out of the blue comes the first of many amuse-bouche: a chicken liver
parfait with Bloody Mary jelly. It's full of iron and sweetness,
delicious but a bit pungent for so early on in the evening. I
immediately regret not ordering a cocktail, the "Neale's" featuring ruby
port and cognac.

I'm shown into the restaurant, the only other guests on this Sunday
night being a chatty newlywed couple and a pair of men celebrating a
birthday. Another amuse-bouche is promptly served up: a meaty king prawn
served up in rich, lemon-scented garlic butter, teetering on a crunchy
bundle of samphire.

After all that, the starter arrives, a pork terrine served alongside a
piquant garden of pickles and a paltry triangle of toast. It's got a
fantastic rough-chopped texture, but doesn't taste of much. The waitress
teases the newlyweds, and the men eat on in silence. It's a slow Sunday
night, perfect to enjoy the round and buttery wine I've chosen from the
extensive by-the-glass selection.

My main is pan-fried duck breast, which turns out to be perfectly
cooked, rich and covered in seared skin. It hasn't been interfered with
at all, other than being sprinkled with tangy white caviar, and is
served with a pile of deliciously sauced cracked wheat and chicory.

Yet another amuse-bouche makes its way out of the kitchen: a timely
creme egg parfait, airy layers of chocolate mousse and fondant a far cry
from the sickly sweetness of the real thing. It's now that I realise the
emphasis that's been placed on comfort, from the rich food and low light
to the soft bed and sea views. Perhaps it's just the wine.

Finally, I end with a rhubarb assiette, a high-concept tasting plate
including a rhubarb consommŽ, a deconstructed crumble and rhubarb
caviar. It's hit and miss, but light and refreshing, exactly what I
needed after such a profound meal.

After a strong coffee and some petit fours, the fairy lights strung
across the garden lure me outside for a walk along the coastal path. I
can see lighthouses along the Devon coastline winking through the haze.
A brisk wind comes off the bay, and I realise how little Holm House has
to do with the landscape it inhabits.

There's none of the timeless quality of the coast, or any of the
immediacy of Wales about it. The overcast March weather seems only to
heighten the sense that the house is floating somewhere outside of time.
This isn't necessarily a bad thing. Indeed, staying here feels like all
worries have been suspended for a brief spell.

In the morning, I head down for a breakfast of porridge and whiskey.
Sitting next to the garden window, I watch seagulls wheel through the
fog. On the table is the standard Continental fare: fruits, cereal and
toast. The porridge has been made with water, and the toast is a little
soggy. The hotel that perfects breakfast will be the most successful
hotel on Earth.

On my way back to the train station, I take a detour through Alexandra
Park, a sprawling garden on a hillside, its war memorial facing the
Channel. The sun has come out, and I get a strong sense of the Victorian
grandeur that was the mark of Penarth's heyday. The seaside mansions
loom above the pine, and I realise that what I've been hearing all day
is birdsong.