We're Not Complainers ... But ...

 

 

This trip has been planned for months.   A sumptuous five course lunch aboard the luxurious Belmond British Pullman, weaving our way around the garden of England and all the while, stimulating those little grey cells as we attempt to solve a murder most horrid.   

 

But that’s tomorrow.  Today, the hotel.  

 

We arrive at Kings Cross surprisingly well lubricated thanks to our first class LNER carriage.   Given the tube strike, we have pre-booked a taxi to take us to the hotel.   No need as it turns out.   Hundreds of London cabbies are lined up like industrious ants eager to whizz weary travellers to their journey’s end.

 

‘Where’re you from, ladies?’

‘Scarborough.’

‘Scarborough?  Where’s that?’

‘North Yorkshire.  On the east coast.’

‘Near Huddersfield?’

‘Near enough.’

 

Paula and I have stayed at this hotel before.  First time for Mum.   It is a beautiful, five-star hotel, the rear of which conveniently adjoins Victoria Station, thus making the trip from room to the Pullman platform all the more civilised.  Particularly when one is dressed to the nines and sporting killer heels.  

 

The palatial hotel lobby is worthy of visiting royalty.  Its lavish staircase sweeps elegantly upwards leading to an ornate gallery adorned with classical statuettes and elaborate cornices.  The entire cast of Only Fools and Horses could swing easily from the immense and sparkling chandelier dangling from the exalted ceiling.

 

We check in.  It takes a while.  We learn the hotel re-opened only yesterday, having been closed since November.   We assume for refurbishment, as it all looks rather marvellous.  

Unfortunately, the cocktail bar Paula and I remember well from our previous visit, despite the alcohol we consumed, is not yet ready.   Shame.  Not to worry, there’s another bar.  And restaurant.

 

Paula, the appointed leader of our party, orders a small breakfast to be delivered to our rooms at 8.00 am.  She explains we are embarking on the British Pullman and indulging in a five-course lunch; therefore a full breakfast would be just plain greedy.  Coffee, tea, juice and toast will suffice, whilst we get ready for the main event.

 

‘Shall I get them to add a couple of pastries?’ says our helpful receptionist.

 

Go on then. 

 

Unpacked and refreshed, we gather in the beautifully appointed, exceedingly comfortable bar for pre-dinner drinks.  

 

Politeness is one of Mum’s many exemplary qualities.  She would have kept silent a tad longer.  Not so Paula and me.  We do our best, but after an hour and a half, we can stand it no longer.

 

‘This bloody music is driving me mad.’

‘What is it anyway?  House?  Garage music?’

‘Belongs in the sodding shed if you ask me.’

‘Bit bloody loud.’

‘I’m glad you said that,’ says Mum.  ‘I thought it was just me.’

 

OK, I accept, me and sis were born in the fifties, Mum a little sooner.  There aren’t many patrons in the bar and the only people under forty are the staff.   

 

When we can no longer tolerate being beaten on the temple with a lump hammer, we have to say something.

 

Any chance of changing the music?  Background music?  Any background at all other than this?  Tamla?  Rat Pack?  Sixties to noughties and everything in between?  Slade’s Noddy Holder screaming ‘Come on Feel the Noize?’  Something equally melodious?

 

No.  Not possible.  The playlist is beamed along intergalactic rays directly from Mars and cannot be changed. 

 

The volume then!  There must be a volume button?  

 

We then discover this is also the restaurant.  We are to eat here?   Amid this racket?   Perhaps there’s a dance floor.  We could book a table right in the centre of it.

 

Paula demands the concierge find us a restaurant nearby – a relaxing restaurant – not a bloody disco.  He obliges.  The Ivy is a mere ten-minute walk.  They have nothing for the next for two hours.  Mum’s starving and I’m contemplating biting the waiter.   We have no choice.

 

Miraculously, the volume is turned down to just about bearable whilst we eat our starter, but creeps back up to deafening once the main arrives.  Paula hasn’t brought enough omeprazole to combat the indigestion she already has; Mum looks like she might cry and I’m toying with the wisdom of slicing off my ears.  

 

We can’t eat.  We grab the wine and flee to Mum’s room to drink instead.

 

Never mind, we say, the following morning.  This trip is all about today.  The Belmond British Pullman.

 

Eight o’clock.  No breakfast.  Give it till half-past.   Half-past.  Still no breakfast.  Paula phones reception.  A miscommunication.  Obviously.  Ordering breakfast is a complex matter for a five-star hotel such as this.

 

A very nervous waiter arrives at ten minutes past nine.  It’s not his fault.  We’re nice to him.  It may be difficult to believe but we three are not normally given to complaining.

 

So, the coffee is cold.  And I mean cold.  Not tepid.  Not aired.  Clap cold.  There is no tea.  The toast is not toast.  The bread has been held under a lightbulb for a couple of minutes and can still be folded in half.  (I take photographs with my phone to prove it.) There is juice and a couple of pastries.  Hurrah!

 

‘We’re not paying for that!’ we bark, in true Yorkshire style.

 

Paula explains as such to the shocked receptionist in a manner ensuring there is no possibility of miscommunication.

 

All is well once we‘re seated in our luxurious carriage on the Pullman.  Silver cutlery, delicate china and exquisite glassware are precisely arranged upon the crisp white table linen.  The scent of fresh flowers permeates the cabin, along with tantalising aromas filtering from a kitchen where the chef probably knows how to make toast.   

 

This is not an environment where one places one’s napkin upon one’s own knee or deigns to pour one’s own champagne.  This is the responsibility of the carriage’s personal steward, smartly bedecked in finest Pullman livery, whose very reason for being is to indulge the whims of us Poirot-esque murder mystery detectives.

 

The disruption caused by the tube strike means the train is an hour late leaving Victoria.  We don’t mind.  We have champagne.  And hors d’oeuvres.

 

The next five hours is a delight of the senses.   Exquisite food in taste and presentation befitting of the most outstanding professional MasterChef Champion, accompanied by entertaining scenes depicting a murder most foul. 

 

And … no music.  Nothing but the occasional clink of champagne glasses and the subdued murmur of polite conversation.

 

Bliss!

 

All too soon we must leave the train and return to the hotel.   What to do?  Do we venture to the bar?  No.  We can hear the music belting from the bar but opt to remain in the lobby where a settee and two armchairs are arranged next to a radiator of gargantuan proportions, more than well equipped to heat this cavernous but chilly foyer.    It’s off.  

 

I wander down the lengthy corridor from foyer to bar where I’m obliged to shout my order three times to the barman until he hears what I’m saying.  Must be my unintelligible Yorkshire accent and the peculiar way I articulate ‘bottle of pinot.’  Couldn’t possibly be the uproar.   

 

Different playlist tonight, astonishingly.  In fact, the music would have been more than acceptable had they not played garaged-up versions of the likes of Fleetwood Mac, Van Morrison and even Dolly Parton.  I mean, how can you spoil that kind of talent?  

 

Anyway, Paula asks the concierge to arrange for a taxi to take us to Kings Cross the following morning and also books breakfast in the restaurant, not the room, for 8.00 am.

 

The next day, as we walk through Reception towards the restaurant, we are informed the taxi has cancelled.  

 

We make our way to the restaurant for breakfast.  No booking. 

 

Yet another miscommunication.

 

Much more of this and we’ll be sufficiently provoked to write a letter!

 

*****