About English Hotels

It's always a suprise when you meet your hotel room for the first time; forget the picture in the brochure—if that room exists it’s reserved for royalty.

After a gruelling flight intended for extremely tiny double-jointed people, we were so grateful for separate beds and our own bathroom that we didn’t mind having to suck in our breath and turn sideways to pass one another.


The bath posed another problem; there was a wonderfully deep tub but the only person who could get in intact while grasping the safety rail had to be at least six foot six.

This bathroom was a study in narrow and in order to reach one’s clothes, one places the tiny, by now soggy bath mat on the floor and scootches the feet slowly to the opposite end to the toilet, where the clothes are out of shower spray range.


The hotel provided a free continental breakfast and I’m not sure why that word “continental” should take the rap. We appreciated it though after taking a good look at meal prices.


What the hotel considered superfluous were wash cloths (I mean, those ears have got to be cleaned people), a piece of soap any larger than a gumdrop, Kleenex and ice machines (so sue me). They did provide, though, scented toilet paper and we considered whether a rash would ensue. So far so good.

Each of us was given a magnetized card to open the door. In order to turn on the lights you slip the card into a special slot beside the door and then turn on the light switches. When my pal went out one night to visit the Internet café she forgot about this system as she pulled out the card to take with her on her way out the door. I sat there in the dark, book in hand, wondering where I had put my card. I finally groped my way to my knapsack and found the elusive little thing, figuring I’d at least get a blog out of this.

There is the stench of smokers in the corridors everywhere although to their credit the staff gave us a non-smoking room so that didn’t smell.

I solved the ice dilemma for my evening martini. It would be too pricey to call room service just for ice so we walked two blocks to MacDonald’s and ordered a soft drink with lots and lots of ice. One person sipped and gulped as we raced the precious cargo raced back to the hotel. Much cheaper, and frankly a martini without ice is like ingesting a lethal weapon.

There was a civilized kettle in the room and I had brought my tea bags with me (fennel tea—not in large supply in the world.)

The staff was pleasant and helpful and we noticed that the constant tour groups moving through seemed to develop deep friendships with lots of hugging. Perhaps they were just grateful they hadn’t got lost.

The hotel was situated in a central spot where we could walk to Kensington Palace or the tube and in my daughter’s opinion, Buckingham Palace was a gentle stroll away instead of an energy-sapping, Mount Everest ordeal.

We had a ball.