It’s a while since I shared travel tales but in the latter part of this year I traversed the length of England. Dear reader, please sit back and enjoy the narrative for at best I may raise a smile and at worst, you’ll know where not to stay in the UK.

A woman travelling alone can encounter a variety of difficulties and a careful balance must be sought to find a hotel that is reasonable… and safe. In June as Forte Medical prepared to relaunch after three grisly years, our factory unexpectedly went into Administration. Any entrepreneur or businessperson will understand the difficulties this presented, but with customary zeal and ambition we have prevailed. Our ongoing success requires promotion of the business involving occasional travel. I invite you now to join my encounters with a few hotels.

Let’s start in Coventry, where the company was invited to accept the National Product Innovation Award from the estimable Bladder and Bowel UK – an honour we were thrilled to receive. The Royal Court Hotel and Spa looked like a pretty decent place at a reasonable price; the critical detail I missed however, was the owning brand of Britannia Hotels. Oh dear. You can read about their Manchester premises in Tales from a Travelling (Female) Business Executive. Reader, I should have known better.

The friendly reception staff provided the key to my Superior Room, a modestly sized and even more modestly furnished room, imbued with the scent of many, many former guests. I returned to reception to query the Superior description; the manager was adamant that this was one of their best Superior rooms.

If that’s a superior room, I quipped … then I’m Sophia Loren. Unmoved, he offered apparently better accommodation should I decide to stay an extra night. I politely declined and settled instead for a free pass to the “Spa”. This comprised a shabby tiled area, with small steam room and sauna separated by a chipped, faded jacuzzi bubbling with suspiciously opaque water and occupied by six well-upholstered gentlemen enjoying a good old natter. Well at least they were having a nice time.

The grim, stale public areas of this hotel led me to the threshold of the formal restaurant, where I was accosted by a diffident woman who, on establishing that I was dining solo wordlessly took my elbow and steered me into the adjoining Bar announcing to staff She’s on ‘er own, she’ll eat with you. Speechless and stunned I watched 100 new guests disgorge from two coaches from which they were apparently enjoyng a Tour of The Midlands. Then I watched them head towards the Bar.

I quickly found a couple who welcomed me to their tiny table, both charming folk, as appalled as I at the state of the place. A 20-minute wait to order barfood found me behind a woman loudly ordering white wine. Around 250ml of said liquid was carefully measured into a glass. Glaring at the bar tender, the woman slowly ran her finger across the rim of the vessel, tapped it loudly with the edge of a long luminous nail and declared with not a little menace: I. SAID. A. LARGE. GLASS. The very young, alarmed server filled her vessel to the rim; she walked away, pleased with her pint of Pinot.

Things did get better further North where I was due to deliver a lecture. Come with me to the Earl of Doncaster, a very reasonable “Art Deco” establishment, within which every surface spangles and sparkles, abundant with flounces and flourishes. Not quite the modernist ideal of choice, but never mind the froufrou, it was fun and my room here excellent – clean, odour-free and blessed with good cotton bedding.  I ate appetising food within a vast dining room, attended to with gentle diligence by the Maitre d / waiter / bar tender, a kindly gentleman who made me feel very special, pampered – and not alone. Good work, Earl of Doncaster!

A week later arranging travel to a healthcare event, faithful Expedia provided me with a very reasonable room at the Leeds Marriott, designed for the High End Travelling Executive. The five-star luxe factor flowed into hotel restaurant, Gino D’Acampo. It was Sunday and Sunday is pasta day … Bingo! Soon, a substantial plate of seafood tagliatelle was en route with a glass of something crisp and white on the side. Reader, this dish was utterly, indescribably sublime; the price commensurately eyewatering … ma, che diamine! when it comes to pasta, you get what you pay for. Leeds is a beautiful City and I regret not having time to weave and wander my way around its sandstone streets but with business travel, purpose lies elsewhere.

The following week, I booked a room at the Tyneside Copthorne Hotel in Newcastle and within seconds received two grumpy emails, the first telling me how much I must pay for parking and the high fine should I forget to pay and the second, advising that smoking was prohibited and dire consequence would arise if that rule was broken. I emailed the Manager: I am quite accustomed to being told off, but usually only when I’ve done something wrong. These emails are all very well but surely they should begin with “Thank you for choosing us for your stay”?

The Manager responded with alacrity: We’ve outsourced the booking system and I didn’t know this was happening, I’m so sorry. Thank you for letting me know. I’ve upgraded your room.

In Newcastle I was due to attend a Small Claims Hearing to put right the actions of an “investment professional” who has targeted and defrauded around 60 small businesses and individuals and who continues to weave a rich tapestry of ongoing fraud and theft, generating substantial unearned income. The story will be shared when all is said and done, but right now let me tell you about the beauty of this Great Northern City.

If you are quick and lucky, the railway approach to Newcastle may reveal The Angel of the North, the sensational, spectacular and striking statue by Anthony Gormley, impressive when viewed on the page. In real life however and even from a distance, it is a thing of immense beauty and grace.

The taking of breath is something to which the Newcastle visitor must become accustomed; the scale of the River Tyne, the architecture and buildings is immense. The Tyne begins its journey just south of the Scottish border, briefly running parallel to Hadrian’s Wall; it flows through the Pennines, east to Northumberland, playfully dividing Gateshead and Newcastle before moving on to the North Sea. My sunny pre-breakfast morning walk along the Tyne was a joy and from the Millennium Bridge gazing at the immense power of this river, I wondered at the stories it might tell … if it could speak.

Desipte revelling in the unexpected luxury of a vaulted top-floor suite with spectacular views and tempted to stay a little longer, there really was no time to explore this noble city. A return visit is on the cards and maybe then I can truly appreciate its grandeur.

The last hotel to which you must be introduced was encountered not for work but for house-hunting on the South Coast, where HH and I will be moving soon. With viewings spread over a couple of days, we had the good fortune to land a room at Brighton’s Sea Spray. A series of townhouses make up this wonderful hotel where the meaning and intent of the word hospitality underpins the ethos of the place and everyone who works there.

Our late arrival was met by a cheerful night porter; opening the door to our gorgeous room we found a bottle of chilled Prosecco on a table by the window through which – oh joy! – there … there was the sea. As we hunkered down, the pleasure of luxe bedding embraced us while beyond our duvet the autumn chill was abated not only by extra covers, but an electric under blanket, something I’ve never encountered in any hotel, big or small.

Sea Spray breakfast is legendary; every review cites the quality of the morning spread, for a spread it is, putting hotels corporate or private to shame. We spoke to guests who return again and again because apart from being so wonderfuly located and served on every level by a devoted team, the breakfast here is so good. The Sea Spray also boasts a separate Spa where guests or locals will find beauty treatments and a hot tub … well, it so happens our new home is a short walk from Sea Spray so my mani-pedi-pamper-needs are already met.

Our move to Brighton is imminent and there is much packing to be done … excitement builds as after 40 years a Londoner, I prepare to go Home to the seaside town where I grew up. When we’re settled, I’ll send you a postcard.

Meanwhile … thank you for joining me on my travels.

© Giovanna Forte 2024.