They were driving through a lovely village filled with old houses. The streets were narrow, the sidewalks even narrower, and a lot of the shop fronts had small-paned bay windows and hand-painted signs. The whole place was like something from a fairy tale.

“It looks like a film set for Midsomer Murders,” said Helen. There was so much to take in.

Werner had pulled off the freeway barely an hour ago, and since then, the view had changed constantly. At first, the landscape had been flat, then increasingly hilly. Helen had seen white outcrops of chalk, as well as thick woodland and rolling fields dotted with sheep.

“This bit is more like Top Gear,” joked Werner as he drove out of the village. He stepped on the gas and took obvious pleasure in the curves and undulations of the road.

Helen tried to catch a glimpse of the landscape behind the tall, untidy hedges that grew almost directly alongside the asphalt. According to the GPS, they had only another two miles to go before they reached their destination. “Can you tell me where we’re going yet?”

Werner glanced at her. “I’ll give you a clue: it came highly recommended by Serge.”

Serge was someone Werner knew well—a top chef whom the kitchen staff at the Horn of Plenty would visit each year for inspiration.

They drove past a large brown-varnished sign that alerted passing motorists to a five-star hotel farther down the road. Their view of the landscape was still blocked by the tall hedges, but through occasional gaps in the vegetation, Helen saw flashes of hills, meadows bordered by hedgerows, and here and there, an enormous tree.

She caught a glimpse of a building standing high up on a hill. It was half castle, half manor house, and it looked historic. “That can’t be it. Can it?”

Werner said nothing. He took his foot off the gas and turned onto a driveway, which meandered through a carefully maintained patch of woodland. On either side grew the biggest rhododendrons Helen had ever seen. At a bend in the road stood a small stone wall bearing an elegant sign, “South Down Hotel.” There were five stars printed below it, as well as the name of a restaurant and the logo of the Michelin Guide.

“Are you serious? Here?” Helen felt like a child on an unexpected outing to a theme park. She and Werner had always kept their vacations simple. Camping in France—“cramping,” Sara called it—or cute little guesthouses on the Adriatic coast. They hardly ever stayed in fancy hotels.

The driveway crossed a neatly mowed lawn and curved around in front of the portico of the impressive building. A uniformed older man stepped out through the entrance.