"Look, even that bungalow is on with Hamptons," says D at the upmarket For Sale board. Oh yes, we are in no doubt Royal Berkshire is posh long before reaching the electric gates at Sanctum on the Green, the new, country outpost of Sanctum Soho (which opened last year in central London, billed as the capital's first rock'n'roll hotel). Iron Maiden's manager, Andy Taylor, a partner in Sanctum Soho, also happens to own the freehold of this attractive former coaching inn near Windsor. The location might not sound very rock'n'roll, but this is exactly the sort of area favoured by musicians. Big houses at prices to keep out the hoi polloi, proximity to Heathrow, handy for the M40 into London.
Sanctum on the Green has nine bedrooms, one treatment room, restaurant, outside wedding licence and someone's Harley-Davidson in the car park. We pull up next to it then have to cross the pool area (bizarrely) to reach reception. D's room is ready, mine not quite, says the receptionist. Someone on our side of the desk (whom I mistake for a guest) explains they are short-staffed today. Good job we've only come from the M4, not Madison Square Garden.
We ditch bags in D's poolside deluxe double. Bath in an alcove ("Cobweb down there," she says peering behind it), separate loo and shower, and a sexy blend of greys, and black velour. All for an un-glitzy £160 a night (considering B&Bs now charge similar rates).
Sun-lounging. Tea and a latte arrive unembellished by treats. "Kitchen's there," says D, waving a hand behind her. "They've spotted we don't need fattening up." A chef slip-slops past in his Crocs. Back and forth. The woman with the inside track on housekeeping pops outside to talk into her mobile.
"Proper coffee – not a Starbucks' milkshake," remarks D just as manager Steve – owner of the Harley, it turns out – offers to take me to my room. He shows me a perfect, walled outside eating area en route and chats about his passion for cigars (he's done his best, with an outside stone fireplace and heaters, to create somewhere civilised to partake).
My upstairs room overlooks the old cricket green, has a shower with mood lighting, faux French furnishings, leatherette walls the colour of old gold, the clearest TV instructions ever and, like D's, a diamante door handle.
Down in the bar, we graze on the freshest olives from Puglia (brought by Giovanni the Italian barman, waiter and star-turn coffee maker), then move to a table overlooking lavender bushes and the walled patio.
Love this setting, though food is a bit hit and miss. Starters – grilled squid, rocket and chilli oak-smoked salmon, and quinoa, pomegranate, avocado and pink grapefruit salad are stunning, but a main of poached chicken breast with truffle and Earl Grey broth comes on sliced new potatoes instead of mash as per the menu. At breakfast, in the sunny conservatory, my omelette is fluffy perfection and fruit smoothie delicious but D says her maple-cured bacon is "not the best I've had on tour with you". I reckon these are mere teething troubles, but our single biggest moan is that the day-to-day running is not as unobtrusive as it ought to be. As if to underline the point, our peace at breakfast is suddenly shattered. A gardener walks past the conservatory window, blithely revving his hedge-trimmer.