The sunset was reminiscent of Holman Hunt's "May Morning on Magdalen Towers"; sky-filling sweeping candy floss pinks, shot with jade green, orange, purples and turquoise, and reflected back across the estuary, so you easily doubled your money. Describing a sunset never works well, but this was a special effects Oscar winner. You couldn't make it up. I pointed it out to the back of my host's head, which was attached to a body striding determinedly and irritatedly across the gravel. After a few frosty seconds, "Yes, I suppose it is, if you like that sort of thing."

He did, he really said that.

I should have known when I called the place to arrange a much needed weekend break. The Welsh Rarebits' guide had always been reliable; indeed, it was how we discovered our beloved Ynyshir Hall Hotel, the best hotel in the UK, if not the planet.

My host had displayed a brusque 'phoneside manner. "No rooms available in the main house, but we have an excellent room in the coach house." In my experience, a "coach house" is rarely that, it's usually a shed converted into extra rooms somewhere at the bottom of the drive. "Is it a nice room?" I said in my best wheedly voice. "Well, it's good enough for Lady Gobblehole and Lord Porkinsgrope" (these weren't their real names), inferring "So you, peasant, will be well rewarded". This was my big chance to say, "well, it might be good enough for a couple of over-privileged junkie aristo's, but it might not match my lofty ideals", but I didn't. He continued with the conditions of stay. "There is one menu. There is no choice. We need to know of specific dietary requirements well in advance." No shellfish for my partner please, Sir, I whispered.

"And we will need to know what wine you wish to order."

"By when?" The visit was three weeks hence.

"As soon as possible. At least by six o'clock on each evening." Did he have to nip out to Netto?

"But I just said, we won't arrive until around 7.00pm."

"Well, we need to know."

"Could you fax me a wine list?"

"Certainly not. It's seventeen pages."

"Er, well, perhaps if I could suggest a particular grape…".

With the worm in my gut turning, I gave my credit card number as a deposit. To my now negative frame of mind, the idea of a relaxing weekend in North Wales was turning into a gruelling 48 hours at an epicurean bootcamp.

We set off for the three hour, Friday evening drive at 2.30pm, because I was scared of being late, and we had to get the wine uncorked or drink Tizer in our room. We arrived to the magnificent background of the aforementioned sunset. While Kevin parked the car, I bounded into "reception" with my usual friendliness mixed with relief just to be there after a gruelling week and a long drive. Hand stretched out, "Hello. It's Kate Copestake. Kevin and Kate. We did our best to get here a little earlier."

There followed the chilliest reception I have ever received, apart from the time when I asked my mother after the health of my great aunt, eighteen months after attending her funeral. Sergeant was not pleased. A long, cold, silent stare. Then,

"You're not supposed to be here."

"Kate. Ms. Copestake. I talked with you on the phone. Made the booking. Gave you a credit card deposit, and confirmed this weekend three days ago by email."

"You are due here tomorrow."

"No we're not. Friday Saturday Sunday. The weekend. Do you want to see a copy of the email?"

"Nonono. No." To persons unseen, "Darling, another two unexpectedly for dinner. Can we manage?"

The absence of a reply from the kitchen was the non-verbal equivalent of opening the door of a large walk-in freezer. I was beginning to feel that draining I-don't-want-to-be-here-feeling. In desperation - "Do you actually have a room? And is it ready?"

"Of course we have a room." So who's moving out? "Er, were there any dietary requirements?" I explained about the no shellfish rule. "I see. Is crab OK?" I know of no other kind of crab other that the ones with shells but this was a hotel with serious culinary plaudits and I was too tired to argue. Perhaps the crab in question had a soft shell, unlike the one my host sported.

The door to Room One of "The Coach House" was flung open and we crawled in. The room was fussy and over-furnished with Tudorbethan affectations, and cramped and cold, as shed conversions often are. Our host fiddled with the convector heater (well, why heat a room in late October when the bastards aren't due until the day after) and I made the mistake of asking for a welcoming glass of wine after our long drive.

"Yes, in the bar, at 7.00pm." I started to smoulder.

"No. Here. Now".

He left in silence, and we were left to contemplate the complimentary rotting fruit left by the last inmates. I inspected the sheets before pouring our glasses of complimentary brown sherry down the sink, and checked out if the bubble bath was worth purloining. It wasn't, so it followed the sherry.

Ten minutes later, our wine, and the infamous wine list, arrived. We had exactly seven minutes to choose to enable our Master to gravel-crunch, uncork and decant. Stabbing at an unprepossessing and no doubt over-priced claret, we huddled together for warmth and succour.

Dinner was at 7.40pm. All the guests had to assemble in the dining room at 7.30pm on the dot, as he had already assured me in our phone conversation that, if we arrived late, dinner would not wait and we would have to stand at the back of the stalls for act two to begin. What I didn't understand, dim old me, that it was just OUR dinner that commenced at 7.40pm, and everyone else would be served in intervals of around fifteen minutes. So, basically, if we had arrived late it would have been OK, assuming he would have let us in the front door, which I very much doubt. The long and torturous serving process (with him walking Black Rod style in front of serfs carrying courses) meant that some of us were presented with our first courses when others were finishing their entrees. And that's fine, if you all sit down at different times, like normal guests in normal hotels. So why the "we all sit down together" thing? Dinner was crab. That's not a typo. I heard him proudly announce that the meal had been based around the whims of one woman, a "vegetarian". I often wonder where vegetarians get their fish shaped vegetables from, but here they were, in the form of crab, salmon and sea bass, and tasting suspiciously similar to said. Kevin dutifully handed his crab, a succulent little tart, over to me, an angry one, and picked at the remaining garnish. The tart went in whole. The food was, I have to say, excellent; though over-decorated and tiresomely arranged of course. In fact, such food deserved a wine to complement it, but as we were asked to choose the wine well in advance of possibly knowing what the food was, our choice kicked the sea bass's arse out of the window.

Bored with listening to our fellow diners' conversation and too scared to laugh too loudly at our own predicament we were still waiting for our dessert at 11.20pm. The puddings were served in some sort of bizarre "duet", with Kevin getting the meringue thing, and me the chocolate whatever. I rarely fancy dessert, and usually have cheese. When I asked for this, he treated my request with pretty much the same distain he reserved for us throughout the weekend. "Cheese? Now? You'll have to wait until tomorrow." Even that had to be pre-booked.

Breakfast was even more frustrating. Our anti-host asked us at the end of the evening what time we would like breakfast. "Breakfast served between 8.00am and 10.am", as in any other hotels' room directory, didn't apply here of course. "Nine o'clock please". "Ten past nine OK?" Realising with dread that the sins of the previous evening would repeat themselves ad nauseum for as long as we were resident, we issued a meek "Oh, yes, please, that'll be fine."

We were actually up out of the regulation faux Jacobean four-poster quite early, looking forward to our day at Bodnnant Gardens. So we breezed into breakfast at 8.40am.

And there we sat, without the offer of tea, coffee orange juice or a glass of tap water, while he ignored us until 9.10am precisely. It wasn't our turn, you see.

"Do you have any fresh fruit?" "We have what's on the menu." The word "no" would have been quicker because that's what it amounted to. The breakfast arrived formed into a fashionable tower, was quite average, and we were out of there asap.

After a day exploring the outstanding Bodnnant with the aid of a good cake or two from the lovely tea room, we were better prepared for the onslaught of the following evening. Our room had warmed up a bit, and the liquifying fruit had been replaced by an empty plate. Same rules for the use of facilities applied, although, fortified with new strength, we took to the "Drawing Room" for early evening drinks at five minutes to seven. We just didn't care. But it wasn't open. Better than that, the lights weren't on. I expected him to come in a little after seven and turn all the radiators on. Instead, we were treated to a Basil Fawlty style "groping around the architrave for the light switch" piece (I briefly considered standing there in the darkness to see if he grabbed my breast, but actually couldn't bear the thought) while we sat in the darkness. I was buggered if I was going to mess his system up. Needless to say, he was disgusted with our premature presence and waited until other guests had arrived, leaving our drinks order until last.

Dinner was long and uneventful, the dining room filled with a heavy miserable boredom of the kind created by people under achingly polite sufferance. I got my cheese, whether I wanted it or not, (it was instead of, not as well as, a pudding) and if he had bought it in especially for me he could have asked which sort I preferred, particularly with the great and varied choice in Welsh cheeses. But now I suppose I'm being picky.

We decided to set off home after breakfast as I needed to get back to the relentless freedom and sybaritic delights of running a plc. And that's when the Great Thaw set in.

"You're going now? Already?" Bloody right mate. My obligation to you and your spreadsheet is over. "Wait, I'll call my wife". He bawled out across the garden. He yelled across the estuary, over the walls of the Castle and on to the Lleyn Peninsular beyond. "Wife! WIFE!!" he shouted. "WIIIIFE! She has severe asthma, you know". Then leave her in the garden please, it's down several flights of steps. "WIFE!! WHERE ARE YOU!! THEY'RE LEAVING!!!

Wife eventually staggered into view, clutching at the stone wall and her sternum in turn, wheezing heavily and obviously distressed. I should have pointed out earlier that Wife was the excellent award-winning chef. She looked kindly but careworn, and she shook my hand smiling as I tried to prevent her from talking, as she was in serious trouble. This fact was lost on mine host, who proceeded to engage her in fast conversation of the type that demanded answers that were, in turn, understandably not forthcoming. He then launched into what a lovely area this was, so much to do, where were we from, yes, he knew it well; no, don't go that way home, there is a much better route, fantastic scenery, it's lovely around here, you must come back, stay longer.

Why did this seismic change take place? I really don't know. He may have been simply glad to see the back of us. He may have realised the extent of his appalling behaviour towards us. He may have suddenly realised I am a world famous restaurant critic (I'm not really). He may have suspected that we'd bought the place next door and would spend the rest of our lives making his already obviously miserable life hell. Whatever it was, we narrowly avoided spoiling the sudden arrival of this tide of warmth and hospitality by almost backing over their dog on the tricky reverse out of the poky parking space in front of the Coach Shed. Weekend breaks at hallowed, starred, vaunted establishments had never been so hard won, so chilly, so boarding school, so loveless. I waited until we were well away before I defaced the entry in our guide. I'm childish like that.

P.S. Funnily enough, the hotel website now mentions the incredible sunsets, so I'm glad I pointed that particular one out to him. It's an ill sunset that colours nobody any good.