I’ve always been a girl who likes the finer things in life, especially when it comes to holidays. Isolated beaches with sand as soft as icing sugar, chocolates on the pillow when the maid turns down the bed, and champagne with my strawberries as I relax in a bath of foamy bubbles.

So when I married a man with agricultural leanings, I had little idea of the disastrous effect it would have on my travel plans.

Known to smug city friends as “The Rustic”, my farming husband doesn’t do luxury.

When it comes to getting away from it all, he’s more Ray Mears than Raymond Blanc.

Where my idea of a night spent looking at stars is checking into a hotel with five gold ones twinkling over the lobby, his is lying outside on a bed made out of sticks, sucking on a beetle.

While I litter the house with pictures of thatched cabanas suspended over gin-clear oceans, he circles ‘back to basics’ holidays, where showers are made from buckets attached to lengths of rope.

Our summer trips over the past few years have been spent in tents erected in howling gales on remote farmsites, where the only nod to luxury are my Chanel wellies, caked in mud after the 20th trek across three fields to get to the loo.

So this year, I told him.

“Enough is enough,” I sobbed, as he started telling me how thrilling it would be to spend a week in a snow hole in Scotland, “I need a hotel. I need sheets. I need LONDON!”

And so it was that we found The Cavendish, a four-star oasis in the heart of Piccadilly, nestling comfortably among the exclusive gentlemen’s boutiques of Jermyn Street and right behind the reassuringly expensive, soft green walls of Fortnum & Mason.

Dark memories of rain-sodden pastures started to fade the minute we entered the cool marble lobby with its backdrop of brilliant fuchsia light. And by the time we were settling into our smart, modern bedroom, with its flatscreen TV, huge inviting bed and sparkling Villeroy and Boch bathroom stuffed with scented goodies, I’d almost forgotten portaloos even existed.

Tempted by the splendid views across London for which the hotel is famed, we decided to head out to explore, and were unpacked and in the exclusive boutiques of Mayfair in the time it took me to check the balance on The Rustic’s credit card.

Plunging in and out of the twinkling arcades, I pretended not to hear him asking hopefully if there was a Millets in the vicinity.

Eventually, I took pity on him and promised him a drink. Obviously, this was not to be in a pub, but in the Cavendish’s elegant wine bar, with its funky red and turquoise seating and endless list of stunning cocktails.

It would be easy to work your way through them all, but if you’re having dinner in the hotel’s restaurant, you need to be sure you’re able to savour every mouthful of David Britton’s award-winning food.

The Cavendish specialises in seasonal British fare, marrying traditional favourites with more contemporary dishes complemented by an excellent wine list.

With dishes like Dorset lobster fishcakes with battered prawns, and roast Devon Rose chicken breast with black truffle mousse, it’s not hard to over-indulge, but make sure you leave room for the divine puddings, which feature sticky tart tatins and English favourites like treacle sponge.

Although the hotel is just a semibreve away from the heart of London’s theatre district, I was grateful the only walking I had to do after such a feast was to the lift that whisked us up to our room.

Next day, I persuaded The Rustic to allow me one last treat of afternoon tea in the hotel lounge, where we sank into sumptuous sofas and fell with delight on a wonderful array of sandwiches, warm scones and delicate pastries.

It was with not a little pang of regret that I left the bright capital to return to our dark country lane, where street lights are considered an unnecessary flight of fancy.

Soon after, I was sitting at the kitchen table lost in memories of our decadent weekend, when The Rustic burst through the door brandishing a leaflet about holidays spent living on a raft in Sweden.

“I know you like your luxury,” he said, as he thumbed through the brochure with shining eyes, “so I found a raft we can build ourselves. You might even be able to take your own sheets!”

The Cavendish London, 81 Jermyn Street Visit: thecavendishlondon.com Tel: 020 7930 2111 Weekend room rates start at £158 including breakfast and VAT. Weekday “room only” rates start at £178 excluding VAT.