Robert Hardman

FROM our window table I had vaguely noticed a small cluster of people in the distance looking at something. It was only after lunch that a waiter informed me that they had been watching a cow giving birth. Having just polished off a large slab of beef, I was rather glad that I had not been paying much attention. I am not particu- larly squeamish but I do not want to see both ends of the bovine existence simulta- neously, one out of a window and the other on a plate.

Still, it was remarkable that this James Herriot moment was taking place in Rich- mond — not Richmond, Yorkshire, but Richmond, Surrey. Here, just 20 minutes from the Royal Albert Hall, a brisk walk from the turnstiles of Twickenham, was a cow having a calf. What next? The Chiswick and Brentford Hunt galloping across the horizon? Wild pigs? We had come for Sunday lunch at the Petersham Hotel because we wanted to get out of London but did not have enough time. The food was meant to be good but the view was meant to be remarkable. You can find a good Sunday lunch in many places across London but it is hard to escape the fact that you are in London. You either end up in a restaurant with no view or you end up in one with a view that says 'London'.

For something plausibly rural, you usual- ly have to drive well beyond the M25. But there is always the odd little oasis of rus in urbe if you know where to look. The Peter- sham Hotel is just such a place.

The bar and restaurant, which is called Nightingales, are perched on a hill and look across Petersham Meadows to the river as it meanders down to Richmond and on into Boat Race territory. It could be the Severn or the Wye drifting through a market town, but it really is the Thames. The cows which graze in the fields are not only real but serve a genuine agricultur- al purpose. I had assumed, cynically, that they were some sort of twee stunt laid on by the local council to create an ambience of bogus rusticity, but the hotel staff assured me that they really did belong to a working farm. The sun was streaming through the win- dows as we mulled over a traditional Sun- day-lunch menu with a few brunch touches. The clientele was vintage Sunday lunch, too. The place was packed with tweedy, middle- aged chums fresh from church or golf, fami- lies with well-scrubbed children on best behaviour for beaming grandmothers, and the odd, self-consciously exotic couple wearing sunglasses and designer casuals.

The sunglasses turned out to be essential. As the afternoon sun swung round to the west, it came blazing straight through the windows. In the absence of sliding glass, an awning or effective air-conditioning, we suddenly became rather hot.

My friend, Fionnuala, was in the mood for brunch rather than lunch and started with eggs Benedict on a bed of rocket. She left half of it, finding it 'rather mediocre'. Since runny eggs and rocket are both high on my list of don't likes, I took her word for it.

The other starters from a three-course set menu for £25 were a chicken liver par- fait, soup, a vegetarian salad and a prawn cocktail. I decided that now was as good a time as any for my first prawn cocktail of the 21st century. As a dish, it is as boring to order as it is to prepare but, what the hell, I felt like prawns. At least this was not the traditional British prawn cocktail of a few watery shrimplets smothered in that fluorescent muck known as 'Sauce Marie Rose' (who was Marie Rose and did anyone ask her first?). This was an American prawn cock- tail: two huge prawns on fresh lettuce and, somewhere down below, a sparing amount of a light dressing. It was, well, fine.

`What was she wearing when she sacked you?' I followed with the roast beef which was the other side of medium from the medi- um-rare that I had requested but a decent cut. Far better was the enormous Yorkshire pudding which came with it, horseradish sauce the consistency of clotted cream, and a huge bowl of deliciously oily veg with a faint touch of garlic.

Continuing her brunching theme, Fion- nuala went for the seared salmon with risotto in a delicate bisque sauce. She found it a huge improvement on the eggs and left nothing this time.

Neither of us felt much like pudding but we were happy to pick at a plate of cheese as, through our sunglasses, we watched the world go by down below and polished off a nice bottle of £15.50 Cotes du Rh6ne Villages.

Apparently, the place was built as a hotel in 1865 to cater to Victorians who came to admire the same view, and not much has changed. An imposing piece of what was known as 'Italian Gothic', the Petersham has character rather than beau- ty. The staff, an attentive lot, are proud of the fact that it boasts the largest unsup- ported staircase in England. From the ceiling at the top, grand 19th-century paintings by the Italian Renaissance greats look down.

Despite recent renovations, the dining- room has a slightly dated — as opposed to faded — look which I found rather endear- ing and may have something to do with the fact that it is privately owned by a family called the Dares. I hope they resist any temptation to rip out the browns and beiges and transform the place into just another textbook luxury hotel.

Until recently, the England rugby team always used to stay in the Petersham before Twickenham internationals, practising their line-outs on the lawns and running around among the cows. The players have now moved on because they wanted state-of- the-art gym facilities and lots of executive conference space. That, I think, tells us as much about the spirit of modern rugby as it does about the Petersham.

The hotel is evidently not averse to change. Every table carried a card promot- ing the newly appointed head chef with the words: 'Andy John — 21st-century chef . . . the standards of the past and the taste of the present.'

The 21st-century chef was not on duty on the day we went, which may explain the presence of the prawn cocktail. Its days may be numbered once he gets going. In the meantime, the Petersham offers an enjoyable reminder of the 20th century and a magnificent view of the 19th.

The Petersham Hotel Richmond, Surrey; tel: 020 8939 1084. Lunch and dinner daily (except Sunday). Set lunch: £14.50 for two courses, daily; £25 for three courses, Sunday.

Robert Hardman is a columnist and corre- spondent for the Daily Telegraph.