If you've been landed with organising the hen do, you know the shape of the problem. Twenty people, twenty budgets, three who can't do that weekend, two who don't drink, and a bride who said "nothing mad" while clearly meaning "something". The Belfast default — a block of hotel rooms and a table booked somewhere on Saturday night — splits the group across floors, costs more per head than anyone expects once taxis and bar prices are counted, and gives you about four hours where everyone is actually together. One house solves it. Nine bedrooms, every one en suite, so nobody is queuing for a bathroom and nobody ends up on a pull-out bed feeling like the afterthought. That single detail is what most hen weekends get wrong. There's a licensed bar you stock yourselves, which means supermarket prices instead of bar prices and is comfortably the biggest saving of the weekend. The dining room sits open to the bar with everyone around one table, and that's where the night actually happens. Two hot tubs and a barrel sauna in an acre of grounds, and a snug for anyone who has peaked by eleven.