MEMOIRS OF A HOTEL CRITIC
In my two decades travelling the world as a hotel critic I’ve regularly had to pinch myself in order to quite believe the lucky life I’ve fallen into (though I promise you, it does entail hard work too). For many years my column was weekly and I would make forays from London to review several hotels in, say, Scotland, Wales or the West Country, scooting each day from one to the next. There have been highs, of course, but also a few lows.
On one occasion I borrowed my son’s soft top to drive the entire length of the M4 — from west London to southwest Wales. It rained — hard. I tried to put the hood up. It wouldn’t work and I arrived at the hotel drenched from head to foot.
One thing I’ve learnt is that the best hoteliers stay cool when critics call. At one hotel in Cornwall they got wind I was a critic and quickly moved a couple’s unpacked bags from the best room while they were out. But the couple still had their key. They went to the room, unlocked the door and found me, stark naked, in their bedroom.
At another hotel, years ago, an unctuous manager insisted on taking my flimsy overnight bag. I resisted; it broke and about a dozen tampons scattered across the marble floor, which he had no alternative but to pick up one by one.
Elsewhere, a similarly enthusiastic manager offered to show me, on a whim, the shiny new kitchen, much to the horror of the head chef. That’s because he had blown up a photograph of me, complete with devil’s horns and fangs and stuck it on the wall by the pass so the wary staff could recognise me in the restaurant.
One thing I mourn is that as groups and brands take the place of independents, eccentric British hoteliers are becoming as rare as a moment of sanity at Fawlty Towers.
My earliest hotel memory involves an English couple who owned the long-gone Pension Miravista in Cala Ratjada, Mallorca. I clearly remember a shouting match coming from the kitchen, and then the proprietor rushing into the dining room, tearing up a passport. His wife followed, brandishing a carving knife. Chairs flew, guests had to intervene. Then they kissed and made up and peace descended. Similar eruptions happened regularly, and yet my parents went back four years running, for the Miravista had charm, location and, crucially, character.
Sadly, character could not survive at Knoll House, in Studland, Dorset, where I found strict meal times, fruit juice for starters and trifle for pudding. “We like routine,” the owner told me. “And by the way, we’ll never have those newfangled trouser presses,” he added, at least a decade after the last trouser press had died and gone to hotel heaven. Knoll House is now in new hands.
Hoteliers should also remember that it’s a bad move to judge a critic by her clothes. I thought I was looking pretty presentable for my visit to the five-star 45 Park Lane in London, sister hotel to The
Dorchester, but as I got off a bus trundling my own suitcase, the doorman, used to glitzy ladies stepping out of limousines, had a different opinion.
“What address are you looking for?” he asked me as I attempted to enter. “I think you have the wrong one.”
“I’m looking for 45 Park Lane,” I replied. “I believe I am staying in your new penthouse suite. If you would let me pass, that would be very kind.”
Sweet revenge. — © The Telegraph
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