I had a spoiling lunch at this splendid Edinburgh 23-year-old hotel restaurant

It’s lovely to be back at this plush retreat

Edinburgh five-star hotel Prestonfield’s restaurant is named Rhubarb as the estate was the first place in Scotland, back in the 18th-century, to cultivate the fruit.

I suppose it’s lucky that it didn’t grow the first mengelwurzels, cotton candy grapes, snake gourds or luffas.

Those snozzcumber-esque names would not do justice to a gloriously chintzy place like this.

There’s always a Capital buzz over new openings like Ottolenghi, but sometimes I want to cleave to the never-changing places, where you feel like you’re entering an opulent old money sort of otherworld. I really appreciate this sort of fantasy, now that I’ve been stricken with the winter glooms.

It didn’t even matter that we were probably the only guests who’d got the 14 bus here, rather than drawing up in a Jag.

At least, to elevate our experience, Raven - their moody snaggle-toothed mascot and local cat extraordinaire - was waiting for us at the entrance, and even let me boop his nose without his tail lashing too much. Apparently, their peacock, Colin, was hiding up in his tree, as it was too windy. No beak booping allowed.

We took our table-by-the-window in the quiet restaurant space and gazed out at the grounds, while the occasional leaf boffed against the window.

At Sunday lunch, you can do the set menu at two courses for £35, three for £45; the six course tasting menu for £100, or the roast beef for £29.50. However, we went for the full a la carte, which is pricey but YOLO.

I tried the neat little tea-cured sea trout (£21), served as a chervil-topped stub, with dobs of wasabi gel on top and creamy gelatine pearls served as a ring around the outside, like cockle shells circling a sandcastle. The accompanying orange ponzu sauce was poured over the top by our server, for a bit of theatre.

My other half went for the St Bride’s guinea fowl mousseline (£19), which featured pieces of meat that were covered in this thick, earthily rich and tarragon-spotted mousse, with a hedgehoggy thatch of black truffle. It came with a selection of fleshy foraged mushrooms, and a glossy jus gras to make us feel that winter isn’t so bad after all.

This was followed by his roast halibut (£46), which was such a pretty plateful, you could put the lot in a vase and have it as a table centrepiece. The pale fish was lightly burnished on top, and dotted with three piles of Oscietra caviar and nasturtium petals. On the side, there was a tweezered-on arrangement of baby leeks, confit ratte potato slices, and sea purslane sprigs, with a lake of butter sauce in the middle. Lovely.

While he swabbed up the rest of the magnolia-hued sauce with our sourdough bread, I tackled the roast Lammermuir partridge crown (£45). It’s been a while since I’ve seen this meat on a menu, so I couldn’t say no, especially since there was bread sauce - whoopee! - on the side. It wasn’t the usual lumpy gloop, but an elevated creamy version, on a separate plate along with a tear-drop-shaped sea-salted croquette of dauphine potato. As well as the game crown, there was also a galantine of meat, and pear ketchup, which was more like an amber-hued fruity gel.

It’s been a while since I’ve done a fine-dining style menu, so this was rather special, like finding a cashmere sweater at the back of your otherwise acrylic wardrobe.

The luxurious theme was continued with pudding.

My sea buckthorn (£14) option was a plank that consisted of a crispy and crackly biscuity base under a white and tangy vanilla yogurt mousse, a bright orange sea buckthorn gel, then the snappiest and finest layer of Noalya Peru 65 per cent chocolate, with a Post-It-note-coloured scoop of orange sorbet on the side.

He’d gone for the burnt honey mascarpone panna cotta (£14), which was served in a glass and looked a bit like a Victorian terrarium, with its breakfasty addition of quartered figs, thyme sprigs, leaf-shaped tuile biscuit, walnut praline and other delights.

We lingered over the remains of our cocktails (£20 each) - my signature Rhubarb Patch with their home-made rhubarb cordial, gin, aquafaba, lemon juice and vermouth, and his Jimmy Carter oak martini, so named after the tree that was planted on this estate by the eponymous US president - and felt reluctant to go.

I even get excited to go to the loo here, because they’re so pink, gorgeous and flirty - the Paula Yates of bathrooms.

So, the best thing about Prestonfield House is that it feels like an escape from reality. The real world is outside those wrought iron gates.

It’s always good to know that it’s always here if I need it again this winter, even if a warm hello from my pals Raven and Colin isn’t always guaranteed.