In Agatha Christie’s At Bertram’s Hotel, the author describes a hotel that is still run as good hotels were years ago: plenty of smart, polite and attentive staff; roaring fires; comfortable rooms and armchairs; excellent food; an absolute delight to visit. Our experience with staying at the Victoria Hotel in Sidmouth, Devonshire last month almost mirrored Christie’s book, but, although the fictional Bertram’s Hotel is later revealed to be too good to be true, I am pleased to report that there is no sinister side to The Victoria at all. It really was good.
The hotel is an impressive red-brick Edwardian building built on five floors at the beginning of the 20th century on Sidmouth’s seafront. The extensive gardens, tennis courts, corner towers, balconies and covered portico project an image of an empire long gone, but – thankfully – this is not reflected in the fabric and decor of the establishment. Unlike similar places, where the standard of service, decoration or repair have so often been allowed to fade, the Victoria proved to be immaculate inside and out, and very efficient. Ray, the concierge, resplendent in his uniform with top hat, welcomed us at the entrance; comfortable sofas and armchairs were scattered throughout the warm lobby and the lounge, where picture windows offered a fine view of a rather turgid sea and a wind-swept Lyme Bay; staff hovered unobtrusively, but were alert and quick to bring refreshment or help with luggage as requested. We were delighted to discover, on checking in, that we had been given an upgrade and our room on the first floor included a balcony overlooking the sea, a double en suite bathroom, two large armchairs and plenty of space. A vast curved alcove on one wall housed the defunct central fireplace (now disguised by a television), with fitted wardrobes on either side, beautifully crafted in the original yew. A large fitted chest of drawers on one side, also in yew, complemented the whole outfit. The door to the bathroom led to a walk-in shower and washbasin, but there was a further door that led into an inner chamber containing a bath, washbasin and WC. The external doors and windows were all double-glazed UPVC and were very effective at sealing the room against the brisk Force 4 wind that was blowing outside and the roar of the surf on the beach. The room had a small fridge containing fresh milk for making tea or coffee, which we thought was a nice touch, and fresh flowers decorated the side table. We later explored the hotel and discovered that it had an impressive spa and indoor swimming pool in the basement (exclusive for hotel guests) and a large outdoor pool in the rear garden, complete with bridge that gave it a Venetian flavour. The outdoor pool had poolside-suites for larger families, and there were tennis courts and a putting green: plenty to do for all generations. Contrary to my earlier belief, the hotel did take children and I imagine it would be fairly bustling in the summer, but October was definitely off-season and our fellow guests were somewhat, how can I put this, at the senior end of the human age spectrum. Later, we dined in a fine dining room, entertained by a quartet every night, gentlemen diners encouraged to dress in jacket and tie (I only noticed two Bohemian and anarchist dissenters during our stay, and glared at them every evening). The food was excellent. I think a great deal of the hotel’s success was down to the fact that it was part of a small chain of hotels that was family-owned and that the management team were omnipresent, alert, attentive and efficient, yet discreet.
Oh dear. I have just re-read that paragraph and have realised that it sounds like a publicity brochure for Brend Hotels. No, I do not get a discount for writing this, though the chance would be a fine thing (I write with a nom de plume). The hotel and our stay there really were that good. Just to offset the glowing report and to prove that not everything was absolutely perfect (few things are for les Shacklepins), I can comment that our room would have benefitted from having fresh coffee and a cafetière instead of the mundane instant coffee that did not fit with the luxury of the hotel; the breakfast coffee was bland and tasteless; each two-seater dining room table was linked to a sister table, but separated by a frosted glass partition – no doubt to maximise space, but restricting one’s view and making the dining experience somewhat claustrophobic; finally, having taken the trouble to bring a selection of ties for the stay, and advising a friend who joined us on one night to dress accordingly, I was disappointed that the hotel did not enforce the smart dress rule – it did offer an alternative, informal, dining room, or the loan of jackets and ties to the sartorially challenged, so there was no excuse. Otherwise, though, pretty good. Of course our half-board stay of three nights did cost us a bob or two, but we thought it was worth it and Jane – in particular – enjoyed the break from cooking.
We had visited Sidmouth before, when we stayed with our friends Selina and Thomas, who moved there some years ago. We had also visited the Victoria for lunch a few times when we met some other old friends holidaying there. The town rose to prominence during the early 19th century when bathing in the sea (now called ‘wild swimming’) became popular. Royalty were frequent visitors, and traces of their visits may be found on the many heritage plaques decorating the historical buildings throughout the town. One terrace of buildings hosted relatives of the late Tzar of Russia for a short while. There is no harbour or pier, only a long shingle beach and the very small estuary of the River Sid that gives the town its name. To the east and west, cliffs rise up steeply to form part of the Jurassic Coast and the South West Coastal Path. The small town (pop. c12,500) comprises a good mix of independent shops, coffee bars, cafés, restaurants and hotels, all in the best possible taste. Unusually for a modern British seaside town, there is no ‘tat’, or none that I saw; visiting Sidmouth is like stepping back in time, but in a nice way. When Jane and I visited the sky was grey, the rain was a permanent threat and an occasional reality, and the onshore wind was blowing a hooley; spindrift whipped off the offshore breakers, the sea churned up the shallows into a brown stain, and the seafront was dominated by the constant noise of breaking waves on a shingle beach. In typical English fashion, hardy folk – mostly over 60 – paraded up and down the promenade, heads and backs bent, hats firmly on their heads, walking sticks deployed, clearly determined to enjoy themselves no matter what (“mustn’t grumble…”). After the obligatory battle along the promenade, Jane and I explored the inner parts of the town and were very impressed by the range and quality of the architecture. We found little streets with tiny individual cottages decorated by filigree woodwork and beautiful gardens, almost as if lifted out of a book by Tolkien; we found fine Georgian terraces with their own promenade like Royal York Crescent in Bristol; we found grand, unspoilt houses originally built for the gentry but now hotels or public buildings; and we found some lovely places to live, built in the 1930s style and totally beyond what we could ever afford. There used to be a railway station in Sidmouth, but it was closed in the Beeching cuts of the 1960s. In the mid 1800s, the good burghers of Sidmouth apparently insisted that the railway station be built away from the centre of town because they did not want to encourage the visit of hoi polloi from London – or anywhere else, for that matter; Sidmouth was for royalty, for people of class. Yes, we decided, Sidmouth would be a very good place to live if only we could get rid of the tourists and – of course – if we could afford it.
After Sidmouth we moved on to Plymouth to stay with our old friends Benjamin and Margery, who were too slow to come up with an excuse as to why we could not stay. We wanted to catch up on the news of the family and the general state of affairs in the city where I once lived and was based in for ten years. We also wanted to complete our traditional homage to the shrine of Plymouth Gin Distillery, the oldest working distillery in England and maker of my favourite tipple. We headed for the distillery first, driving through heavy traffic and even heavier torrential rain, to play that fun game known to all electric vehicle (EV) owners: hunt the charging point. This is a super game that only EV owners can play: you start with a certain amount of electricity in your car battery – let us say something small, like 10% of its capacity – then you spend your time using up that 10% driving around in circles in an unfamiliar town or city, looking for EV charging points listed on the GPS or an app, but actually not existing. The winner is the one who manages to find a point and plug in before the battery dies, though several marks are lost if the driver loses his temper with his navigator in the process. Jane and I drove round and round The Citadel in Plymouth three times and twice through The Barbican (scattering tourists in all directions) seeking an EV charge point. We transited two carparks and missed one No Entry sign; we passed Plymouth Hoe twice. Nope: not there. In the end, we drove on to Millbay Docks, Plymouth’s commercial ferry port, and – lo – there stood the jewel in the city’s crown (well, it was to me): four EV charging points, all unoccupied, in a free and empty carpark. It was like finding an oasis in the desert. The analogy ended there, however, for the rain was pouring down in sheets, the wind was whipping it horizontally, and I did not have the correct app on my iPhone to operate the EV chargers. Oh, yes, and just to add to it all, I was getting desperate to pass water. As mentioned in blog Blog 100, you need a special card, or an app on your iPhone, to access most EV charge points though a few will accept a credit card direct. I currently have twenty eight apps on my mobile phone for this purpose and the list is growing. The EV chargers in Millbay Docks needed yet another app, which I had to download, then register an account, then familiarise myself with. Imagine, if you will then, the pouring rain on a grey October day, the wind buffeting the car, a short-tempered fellow plugging in an electric cable, while crossing his legs and being unable to get a new app to work on his iPhone, and you will get the general picture. Fortunately for Jane, I had dispatched her across the road to a nearby dockside café The Dock, advising her not to speak to any rough sailors offering to show her a golden rivet on the way. I joined her later, soaked, spitting blood, tripping over a door sill and generally prepared to rip someone’s head off; but I was immediately calmed by the ambience and views from the café, which served a very good coffee and sandwich. Outside, the wind and rain continued, boats in the nearby marina heaved up and down, and Plymouth Sound was obscured by squalls but, behold, all was calm in my inner soul (after I had found the Gents’ lavatory). We never did get to Plymouth Gin that day – we returned on the morrow when it wasn’t raining. No, we had had enough of the weather: we repaired to our accommodation with Benjamin and Margery.
You know, of all the top hotels in the world, the Coral Sands in the Bahamas, the Grand Park Kodhipparu in the Maldives, The Ritz in London… none can compare with staying with good friends and enjoying their hospitality. We settled in rapidly, the wine flowed, and Margery produced a delicious chicken dish – seemingly without effort. The conversation never stopped as we caught up on the latest news. All went well until I raised an interesting topic that I had read in The Times a few days previously regarding a campaign by some women demanding that all women’s sanitary products should be issued free. Never one to be backward in coming forward on topical subjects, I voiced the authoritative opinion that nothing was ever ‘free’: someone, namely all the rest of the population who pay taxes, would have to pay for it. Why, I posited, should the tax-paying public pay for sanitary products for all women between the ages of, say, twelve and fifty, when many could afford to buy the items themselves? Should men have free razor blades too?
Well, let me tell you, this was like Guy Fawkes Night when you light the blue touch paper and retire immediately. A lively discussion followed, during which Margery put forward sound cogent reasons why the proposal should be endorsed (the sanitary products, not the razor blades), supported in her view by a rather treacherous Jane and a very large cake slice, the latter dangerously close to my left ear. Benjamin, presumably from experience, very wisely kept out of it and helped himself to another glass of wine. In the end I was convinced by Margery’s arguments, which were founded on logic and the properties of stainless steel, and I conceded that she was quite right. Gosh, you can’t beat a good hearty discussion among friends.
I still think men should get free razor blades though.
What?
On the next evening we all went out for dinner at Bistro Pierre in Royal William Yard, Plymouth. Bistrot Pierre is a small chain of English restaurants that offers good French-style food at a very fair price, and they used to have a restaurant in our nearest Big City that we often frequented. In my naval days, Royal William Yard in Plymouth was a working naval victualling yard dating from Nelson’s time, but the Ministry of Defence sold the estate some years ago and it it now a thriving enclosed restaurant/night club/apartment complex – all located in the ancient buildings. The idea sounds good, but the reality not quite so. We rolled up at 1900 in the pitch dark and could not, initially find a parking place in the crowded walled complex. When we eventually found one, we joined a queue to pay for parking at a nearby machine – at seven o’clock at night. Apparently the Plymouth parking wardens are renowned for their zeal and never sleep. We then groped our way to the restaurant, guided mainly by the stars: the girls stumbling along in their high heels and the men apparently leading confidently, but actually following everyone else. Bistrot Pierre, set in what was – essentially – the ground floor of a vast 18th century warehouse, was heaving and deafening. To add to the general clamour, our table was next to a large group of maybe ten people, all jabbering and shouting at once; I think it was someone’s birthday. The noise level was so bad that I actually tore off part of my serviette and stuffed bits in my ears. Our waitress was working very hard (as I say, the place was packed) and the food was all right, but the enjoyment of a meal is dictated by several factors other than the quality of the food: ambience, conversation, relaxation, people-watching. With the exception of the latter, all failed. We were glad to get out of there – the peace outside was absolute bliss. Never again.
Well, I suppose I have to write about some current affairs in the UK though things are happening so fast that I am in danger of losing several prime ministers between blogs. Rishi Sunak is now our new prime minister and we can, I hope, heave a sigh of relief for a period of stability and calm. I must be the only person in the country who feels sorry for Liz Truss, the shortest-serving UK prime minister in history, with a tenure of 49 days. As I wrote in an earlier blog, Truss made no secret of what her policies would be during her election campaign for leadership of the Conservative Party, yet Conservative MPs put her name forward for Stage 2 of the process when party members voted for her in preference to Sunak. When she became prime minister she did what she said she would, the financial markets went bananas, sterling plunged, and she was forced to resign. Now the woman is pilloried as if she were the devil incarnate. It reminds me of the scene at the first Easter when one moment it was “Hosanna in the highest” and the next day it was “Crucify, crucify”. My take is this: there is a human being at the receiving end of all this abuse; have a bit of compassion. She meant well, she thought she had support for her policies and she did her best. We all make mistakes – including those people who voted for her.
The culinary policies of the Shacklepins have moved on and we now subscribe to an outfit called Hello Fresh. I expect you have already heard of the concept – Jane and I are always behind the curve of popular social practice. Just in case you are unfamiliar with the idea, however, I will explain it. Hello Fresh (there are other companies that do the same thing) is, essentially, cooking by numbers. You pay so much a week for whatever number of days’ worth of food and whatever number of people to feed, and the company selects random meals for you – sending you the ingredients for each meal and the instructions on how to prepare them. You can have a totally random choice or you can filter the field to ‘just vegetarian’, ‘just fish’ or whatever. You can also override the random selection and substitute your own alternatives from a list supplied. Jane had been aware of the company for some time, but had dismissed it with a snort of derision, just as Rembrandt might have dismissed a gift of a ‘Paint by Numbers’ set: she was perfectly capable of cooking on her own, thank you. However, the task that Jane hates the most (after ironing) is deciding on the menu for the week; she loves cooking, but she hates deciding what to cook. Hello Fresh gets round that problem by randomly producing the menus for the week, with the added bonus of producing the ingredients too. We only have Hello Fresh meals for three days a week, but the load on her shoulders seems lighter already – the more so for the fact that I have been taking an interest and helping with the cooking every time. The meals work out at £5.08 per person per meal, which I think is not too bad a price, and every meal we have had so far has been delicious. So there you are: an interesting alternative to cooking, especially if you are single or your children have abandoned you, like ours.
We are back in Greenwich Mean Time or, to give it its proper name, Universal Time Co-ordinated (UTC). I won’t be changing my terminology, despite the fact that UTC came into being in 1972. Right on queue, the biannual arguments are banging back and forth regarding whether we should just stick to one time system all year, preferably British Summer Time/Greenwich Mean Time (delete according to preference). I declare for the GMT camp for the simple reason that at 12 o’clock noon GMT the sun is at its zenith in Greenwich, that is to say true noon according to the sun. The downside of moving to GMT, as we do every late October, is – of course – that dusk comes earlier (typically 1630 in southern England at the moment) though sunrise is earlier too (typically 0715 at present). Although we are a small country, the variations in sunrise and sunset north to south, east to west, do cause some problems (children returning from school in the dark, for example), but there is a very simple solution that the objectors of time change seem not to have considered: why not simply change the office and school start and finish times, as required? I look forward to my nomination for an MBE.
“Three different socks, two pairs of knickers and one pair of underpants!”
Thus spoke my dear wife, holding up the items like trophies as she stomped down the pontoon to return to the boat one morning.
Sipping my habitual cup of pre-breakfast espresso on the quarterdeck of APPLETON RUM, I eyed her tolerantly, and smiled.
“And good morning to you, too, dear,” I said.
She clambered onboard.
“God, you’re hopeless”, she huffed. “I can’t trust you to do anything.”
With that, she scuttled down below, still clutching her smalls.
I had been detailed off the previous evening to leave the warmth and comfort of the boat and battle my way up the 300m pontoon in the howling wind and rain to the marina facilities building, there to collect our laundry which had been tumble-drying for the last two hours. Jane did not want to go because the wind might disarray her carefully coiffured hair, newly fashioned after our evening shower. Suitably attired, I had completed the task only to find, during the mistress’s subsequent audit, that several odd items were missing from the bundle I brought back. She stated her intention of revisiting the laundry the next morning and searching the machines. The result, I have just described.
“Ho hum”, I thought,“I won’t be given that job again then.” I finished my coffee philosophically and repaired below for my bacon butty.
Yes, we completed a final week on the boat in the run up to winter. As expected, the weather was not the best and we only managed to leave the berth once in a very stormy week. There were some sunny intervals, but mostly the wind was above Force 3, surging APPLETON RUM against her pontoon, snatching at her warps and creaking her fenders. I can get under way under such conditions (and have done), but there is not a lot of pleasure in cruising in high winds in a motor yacht, even in the river. We did complete one important job, however, namely to top up the boat’s fuel tanks for the winter – a task necessary in order to minimise condensation and, hence, water contamination in the fuel. This would be the first time we had used the marina’s new self-service fuel pontoon, and I approached it with some trepidation. Wow! What a job that was. The tide was ebbing strongly and water was roaring around the fuel pontoon in a raging torrent as I edged APPLETON RUM alongside. However, my trusty fo’c’sle officer, Jane, is a well-practised hand at lassoing cleats and she secured the head rope after only one throw. Nevertheless, I found I needed two head ropes, a back spring and a doubled up breast to secure the boat safely. You have no idea what I am talking about have you? Translation for landlubbers: the boat needed lots of ropes to tie her up and hold her steady against the strong current. Anyway, in went the diesel, round and round went the gauge on the pump like the depth gauge in a suicidal submarine, down and down went my bank balance. Finally, we were full, £500 had disappeared from my assets and we were all set for winter. I thanked my lucky stars that our fuel tanks had been only one third empty. What did I say in my last blog about ‘Bring On Another Thousand?’
So here we are, Guy Fawkes Night and that ghastly American import, Halloween, out of the way with a clear run to Christmas: 49 days to go. Although mid afternoon, it is as black as your hat outside, the rain is coming down in stair rods, the wind is sweeping in from the west, and we are snuggled down in our little nest here in Melbury. England: where better a place to live? Well, 12,000 Albanian immigrants seem to think so, so it must be true.
I feel the urge for a sherry coming on. Turn that light out! Don’t you know there’s an energy crisis?
6 November 2022
"A Very Vintage Chap..." 