Driving into the leafy East Yorkshire town of Beverley, we clatter over a cattle grid, then past the racecourse into a smart Georgian market town. I am accompanied by Sophie, my partner, a woman who spent many years inspecting hotels, with clipboard in hand. She has never lost the skills. “Remember,” I hear myself say. “Try and enjoy yourself.” She gives me that look, the one that says, I’ll do what has to be done.
We both like Beverley, a cluster of architectural gems around a market square. When Henry V came to town after Agincourt, it took three days to get all the muck out of the market, but these days it is spotlessly neat and tidy. Almost uniquely in modern Britain there is only one empty shop, something of an achievement in itself, and the rest look satisfyingly prosperous. The medieval minster is the big draw, and a worthy one too, filled with grotesque carvings, soaring columns and ancient artefacts. Nearby stands the house where Mary Wollstonecraft spent some of her early teenage years, a fact only rediscovered in early 2018. There’s a plaque on the facade (it’s at 2 Highgate).
The Beverley Arms, where we are headed, is an imposing Georgian pile with another Wollstonecraft connection: part of it was once home to her schoolfriend Jane Arden, whose father influenced the writer with his liberal ideas. Opposite is 12th-century St Mary’s, almost as impressive as the Minster with its flying buttresses and impressive wooden ceilings.
The Beverley Arms has undergone a two-year, £6.5m renovation project. The downstairs area is now a seamless flow of lounges, bar, restaurant and dining areas. Colour schemes are respectful to the heritage, but the paintings skip through a riot of colour, even spilling out of their frames. The first thing I notice is that the bar serves hand-pulled beers, including Thwaites (which owns the place) and Wainwrights. The first thing Sophie notices is the old ladies. “They’ve got their coats on,” she says, nodding at a brace of couples in corners. “It’s not warm enough.” And being Sophie, she tells the manager, who assures her that the building team are, even now, attempting to sort the underfloor heating problem. Judging by the numbers of hi-vis jackets, they are taking it very seriously indeed.
I like the bedroom. The country inn style may not be particularly adventurous but the bed is magnetically comfortable, the soft subdued colours easy on the eye, and there are some books. I pick up a Bill Bryson and settle on the sofa with a homemade biscuit from the tray and a pot of tea. I like hotels that provide tea pots, good biscuits, books and sofas.
Sophie prowls with her invisible clipboard. “Hmm! No shower cap or phone.” She examines the one picture on the bedroom walls: a naïf line drawing of a mouse, artfully incomplete. “They must have run out of the colourful stuff from downstairs. This one isn’t even finished.” I’m wishing there were a few more biscuits.
We go down for dinner. It is a large open-plan area with tiled floor and a mix of cane chairs and plaid sofas. The cosier section is next to the old brick kitchen arches, all now scrubbed and decorated with lamps and copper pans.
The menu is clearly aimed at me, an omnivore, not Sophie, a vegetarian. Despite my own dietary preferences I do sometimes wonder why UK menus are so carnivorous when more than a quarter of home evening meals are now vegetarian or vegan. We go for the mediterranean moussaka and the pan-fried cod washed down with a bottle of Running Duck sauvignon, product of the excellent Stellar Winery in South Africa. (They have great social values and also happen to make some of the best wine on the planet – organic too. It’s good to see them on the list.) Food portions must be good because I agree to share a sticky toffee pudding, an agreement that I instantly regret on tasting the delicious dessert. Over coffee I become philosophical and vow always to eat a full portion.
One of the bizarre things about hotel stays for me is that you eat a big dinner, go to bed, get up, then eat again. At home I’d never manage that. But here? The scrambled eggs are perfectly cooked. Sophie gets them to turn off Radio Two and fellow breakfasters at the next table applaud. I think she’s happy now: she has made a positive contribution. As for me, I loved it.
• Accommodation was provided by the Beverley Arms, doubles from £105 B&B
Ask a local
Lee Karen Stow, Beverley-based journalist and documentary photographer
• Coffee
Tucked away from sight, Poma in St Mary’s Arcade is great for a robust flat white Italian coffee or Italian gelato ice cream in dreamy creamy flavours of pomegranate, purple plum, almond and coconut.
• Drink
The legend that is Nellie’s (The White Horse) pub looks nothing like a pub from the outside – bending whitewashed walls, doorway opposite St Mary’s Church. Inside on uneven flagged floors and low ceilings are nooks of cosy rooms with real fires and always someone to chinwag with. Candlelit quiz nights are a popular attraction..
• Eat
Five minutes away from the market square hub, Michelin-starred The Westwood is a fine dining stalwart in these parts (mains – such as steamed Shetland mussels – from £15.95, steaks from £25.50).
