The Daily Telegraph - Saturday - Travel
Slieve Donard Not all it’s craic’d up to be
American investment in this coastal pile in Northern Ireland has created an odd hybrid, says Sherelle Jacobs
I have always admired Northern Ireland from afar. Fast drivers, with a famous penchant for crisp sandwiches, the Northern Irish have a certain metal about them – so I have long harboured an inkling that a trip across the Irish Sea would prove good craic. Plus, Game of Thrones has made the province, with its foaming cliffs and ghoulish woodlands, something of a quirky bucket-list destination. But would I go there on a weekend break?
With flights to Belfast no pricier than a train from London to Scotland, freshly revamped “destination” resort Slieve Donard – priced on a par with many established country hotels in England’s north – is trying to lure us mainlanders. After taking over one of Northern Ireland’s most famous hotels, a Nashville-based real estate investment firm has reportedly pumped £16 million into this coastal pile at the foot of the Mourne Mountains, which glower above the seaside town of Newcastle. While its UK hotel brand Marine & Lawn specialises in hotels next to world-class golf courses, it aims to offer a Disney festival of high-end fun for all interests and ages.
The result at Slieve Donard is an intriguing clash of styles from both sides of the Atlantic. Think The Great Gatsby meets Rebecca. Its outer shell remains awesome and forbidding, a Victorian fuss of Corinthian columns, dormers and red-brick towers leering over the ocean. Inside, it is a riot of fringed lampshades, brash wallpaper, oversized indoor foliage and glistening chandeliers.
Slieve Donard still has something of the Irish hunting lodge about it, the shadows of mounted deer heads making wicked shapes in the crackle of the 19th-century fireplaces. Still, the American twang is a little on the strong side. I got my first hint of it when I eased into one of the supersized tartan armchairs in the rip-roaring Wolf Bar. The most eye-catching drink was a sickly lemon cheesecake number, with limoncello and cream (“keep adding Prosecco, see the magic happen” the menu oozes) and I was unsurprised to see an all-year chocolate orange Christmas cocktail on the menu. Looking around me, though, the golfers were chugging Guinness and ale. I ordered the Irish Toffee Sour – “Sticky Toffee With a Kick”, apparently, though the Irish Kirker whiskey in the mix made it feel more appropriate.
From then on, my trip on the Nashville-to-Newcastle rollercoaster made me feel slightly queasy. Walking around the hotel, I noticed that the sea views from the ground floor were ruined by the giant hotel car park between the main building and the beach. It struck me as odd that a hotel group would splash millions on beautifying a beachside property, only to squander its fabulous location with such an eyesore. The Americans do like their “parking lots”.
Rooms are snazzy, with dark sage walls and midnight blue ceilings, frilled Chesterfield furnishings and retro phones. The butcher-tiled bathrooms with rain showers are as trendy as at any London boutique pad. On settling into my room, however, I began to spot imperfections in the service. The robes were missing from the hook in the bathroom; I requested sweetener for my tea tray but housekeeping never came.
The wilting olive trees in the Mediterranean-inspired brasserie, JJ Farrall’s, should have been a sign. While devouring a delicious bouillabaisse starter (thick and pungent with a fleshy mullet island in the middle), I noticed how disengaged the waiters were. My halibut – melting on the fork, served with a stonking curried sauce and paired surprisingly well with a bowl of colcannon (traditional mash flecked with bacon) – was plonked down with an absent-minded “there you go” by a member of staff who seemed to have no idea what he was serving. My salted caramel tart came without a spoon. More waiters made an appearance at my table than on the set of any Broadway musical.
It was only in the hotel’s Percy French pub, where the waitress greeted me like an old friend, that I found the Northern Irish hospitality I was seeking. The ESPA spa was a much stronger offering, with a sauna and hot tub looking out onto the Mourne Mountains.
With the hotel so hit-and-miss, the question is whether the location alone makes it worth the trip, particularly for mainlanders. England has prettier coastal towns than Newcastle, but the craggy, windswept scenery was a stirring contrast to England’s smooth green hills. Swirling with smoke, the Mourne Mountains – a favourite with hikers – are on the hotel’s doorstep and, from afar, are not unlike something you would see in Congo or Rwanda.
Slieve Donard has the potential to become one of the most coveted hotels in the United Kingdom, not just Northern Ireland. First, however, it will have to demolish that ugly car park and seriously upgrade its service.
Double rooms from £165 per night including breakfast.