How making your husband sleep in a 'snore room' can save your marriage: ELIZABETH MCKINSTRY on the joys of separate rooms 

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The weekend had been planned as a romantic break in beautiful Oxford, the city of dreaming spires. But on my part there was neither dreaming nor even a second’s sleep.

On the first night in our hotel, the heavy snoring of my husband Leo started as soon as his head hit the pillow. Within seconds, the full blast of the noise was echoing around the room, as if the trombone section of the London Philharmonic Orchestra were rehearsing by our bedside.

The sound was so loud that I was worried I might receive a call of complaint from the night porter or a knock on the door from an irate guest.

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Elizabeth McKinstry has found the less turbulent solution to her husband's snoring is to sleep in separate rooms

After hours of this mounting frustration and alarm, the morning finally arrived. ‘Did you sleep OK?’ said Leo breezily when he woke up, oblivious to the auditory torment he had inflicted.

On the second night of our stay I retreated to the bathroom where, with a pillow, duvet and towels, I tried to construct a makeshift bed in the tub. But it was no use: waves of nocturnal thunder still crashed through the walls.

This has been the story of much of our 20-year marriage. There have long been three people in our relationship: me, Leo and the explosive ‘Captain Snorehead’, as I call him.

Trying to escape the Captain’s racket, I have been forced to seek refuge with my bedding in corridors, landings, bathrooms and dressing rooms.

But in our own home we have found a less turbulent solution by sleeping in separate rooms on separate floors. It is a practice we have followed for more than ten years, though I was intrigued to learn over the weekend that this approach is becoming ever more fashionable.

According to a study by the British Sleep Council, one in six couples sleep apart, with most in separate rooms.

Apparently, the extra bedroom is often jocularly named by estate agents ‘the snoring room’, a description which in my experience is all too apt.

Our marriage has never been entirely free from rumblings in the night, for Leo comes from a distinguished line of powerful snorers. His father Robert, an otherwise modest, self-effacing gentleman, was a champion sleep-buster whose tremendous reverberations shook the fixtures of his Belfast home and forced Leo’s mother — like me — to seek alternative arrangements outside the marital double bed.

But in our early years together, Leo’s snoring was not nearly as bad as it is now. If he started to erupt — usually when he was lying on his back — all I would have to do was to tap him on the shoulder and, without waking, he would just shift position. At once the noise would stop.

But gradually, this ceased to work. As it grew in volume and violence, the snoring could no longer be quelled just by changing sides. So more drastic action was required; the moment the first snuffles started, he would be asked to take up residence in the spare bedroom, which quickly became known as ‘the hutch of shame’, reflecting Leo’s guilt.

Separate rooms might have been the answer at home, but they did not deal with the snoring problem when we were away.

Though — unlike Leo — I like to travel, I increasingly began to dread trips away, not just holidays abroad but even overnight stays, since they would invariably involve insomnia and exhaustion.

I’ll never forget how one long-planned break in Tuscany was almost ruined by my crippling sleeplessness.

Visits to friends were soon out of the question, partly because of my fear of inevitable tiredness, partly because of my desire to avoid inflicting Leo’s cacophony on others.

To escape husband's snoring women have been forced to seek refuge in corridors, landings, bathrooms and dressing rooms (file picture)

This meant we would drive home to Kent from even the most remote destinations, including central Wales and even, on one occasion, Middlesbrough.

Eventually we adopted the tactic we follow at home: separate quarters. That generally meant booking an apartment or two bedrooms.

While this allowed me to get some sleep, it had the downside of being expensive. It could also lead to moments of embarrassment. On a recent visit to a hotel in Cheshire, we were checking in when a look of puzzlement spread across the face of the porter.

‘You’ve got separate rooms, but the same name. If you don’t mind me asking, are you married?’

‘Yes we are, but only for 18 years. We don’t want to jump into anything too hastily,’ I replied.

This summer, for the first time in almost a decade, we took the adventurous step of staying with warm-hearted friends in Essex. But that was because, fully aware of my predicament, they allowed us to have separate bedrooms in their beautiful country home.

I was reluctant to put them to this hassle but, with typical generosity, they insisted.

Mind you, the husband saw the funny side. ‘If this does not work, I have erected a tent for Leo in a distant field,’ he declared.

But separate rooms are not always foolproof. Late last autumn, we stayed in a French chateau in a remote part of Brittany.

In such surroundings, I thought I would be safe from the somnolent growls of Leo. Not a bit of it.

The walls were surprisingly thin and, soon after midnight, I heard the familiar, discordant tune being played through his throat and nose. That was the end of any chance of sleep for me. Nor are neighbours spared the ordeal. One of them told us that on a hot summer early morning, standing in his garden, he could hear Leo roaring through an open window.

In an attempt to re-establish normality, we have tried various solutions over the years for Leo’s problem, including strips across his nose, plastic contraptions in his mouth, soothing music, nasal sprays, mouth gargles and throat drops.

Nothing has had the slightest impact. Friends sometimes suggest Leo should have an operation on his nose, but again, there is no guarantee that would be effective.

Booking into a hotel recently, we were explaining to the proprietor that we needed separate rooms because of my husband’s snoring.

‘Perhaps I should have the operation,’ said Leo.

Good night sleep: Elizabeth McKinstry no longer feels tired and resentful of her husband (file picture)

The proprietor replied with some vehemence: ‘No, don’t ever do that. I had exactly your problem. I had the surgery and have never been the same since. I still snore, but now I have constant headaches.’

Not exactly a ringing endorsement for such a step.

So we just continue to muddle along on separate nocturnal paths. Apart from all the logistical difficulties, the expense and restrictions on travel, this has the big downside of losing the cosy companionship of the one I love next to me at night.

In the early days of our marriage, I enjoyed my husband’s peaceful, reassuring, comforting presence, and I miss it now, especially if I have a bad dream or feel insecure.

But there are advantages to separate rooms. One obvious point is that I feel far more refreshed in the morning, since my nights are no longer accompanied by a cross between a tornado and the Hallelujah chorus.

The absence of Leo also means there is never any struggle for the duvet nor any fights over the right temperature in the bedroom.

As a light sleeper, I have my own rhythms, which are very different to Leo’s.

I like to go to bed much earlier and have complete darkness, while he is happy to stay up past 1am, then fling open the curtains when he finally makes it to his bedroom.

Moreover, I am also mistress of my own domain, keeping my bedroom exactly the way I want it, while Leo — not exactly the tidiest of men — always brings an air of mild chaos to every place he inhabits.

I was disturbed recently, when changing the sheets on his bed, to find beneath the duvet a pair of socks, the latest edition of Private Eye magazine, an empty can of Carlsberg Special Brew and a copy of Michael Heseltine’s autobiography.

Still, despite all this, we have grown so used to our routine that I would not want to change it.

I have never felt any anger at Leo, only at his very audible habit, which is not his fault. And despite the sympathy of others, I have not found our unorthodox life a bar to intimacy or mutual devotion.

Indeed, it might be seen as a recipe for keeping romance alive.

What could have been a cause of real friction in our marriage has been avoided by the simple expedient of changing rooms.

Instead of feeling tired and resentful the next day, I can genuinely greet my husband with the words: ‘Good morning, darling, nice to see you again.’

And he can ask with a truly clear conscience: ‘Did you sleep well?’