In Coventry and Sheffield...

It's amazing how one's attitude can switch so quickly, determined, of course, by the turn of events. I was sitting on the 1243 London Euston to Coventry train. Ultimately, it was going much further than Coventry; it was going to Edinburgh, the long way, as opposed to the shorter route along the East Coast Line from King's Cross.

The fact that I was only travelling as far as Coventry depressed me slightly as there's nothing better than a long train journey to clear your head, relax, read a book and generally find peace with the world. I was only going as far as Coventry and yes, the expected joke, the one about being sent to Coventry, came up a couple of times in the office before I departed.

View from room 203, Cutlers Hotel, Sheffield

There was only one stop between me and my destination and that was Milton Keynes. To this day, I've never seen the concrete cows that are supposedly grazing in a field somewhere close the railway station.

The journey time to Coventry was roughly one hour. In fact, if we're going to be pedantic about it, 59 minutes, but being as it was lunch time and I'm one of those people who simply can't go without three meals a day – breakfast, lunch and dinner – I was starting to wish the buffet (or 'shop' as it's called by those running it) would get a move-on and open its doors, metaphorically speaking. I say 'metaphorically speaking' because there are no doors to open. The 'shop' is part of the train carriage and no doors separate it from the paying passengers.

The train departed Euston roughly on time, but the staff faffed about, loading up shelves with biscuits and bags of crisps, and told me and another impatient, hungry person that an announcement would be made when the 'shop' finally opened. I was starving. In fact, I was looking forward to my cheese and ham sandwich and one of those small bottles of red wine that are always available on trains and planes.

I was fortunate in one respect: my seat on board the train was no more than a metre or two from the 'shop' so when the announcement was made, I was first in the queue. It was then, as I took full advantage of the free croissant on offer, that I realised a potential problem lurked. The problem was the use of credit cards and the unfortunate fact that the machines into which the credit cards are inserted often don't work.

If the credit card machine didn't work it meant that I would have to starve until dinner time. This awful fact dawned on me as the girl behind the counter inserted my credit card and we all waited patiently for something to happen. I've been in this position on Virgin trains many times before and whenever it happens I normally say something like, "Well, I don't have any cash on me, so you'll have to take it all back." Sadly, that's exactly what they do and I end up having to go without. But not today! "Goo buck to yoor sit luv and ill bring yoor cart tover to yoo," said the girl and so I returned to my seat. She eventually brought me the device just in case I was worried about her cloning my card – a thoughtful girl. I sat there watching the machine as it tried in vain to process my details.

It got better. I explained how I wouldn't make a start on my sandwich until the card connected with wherever these sort of transactions are ratified, but she assured me that if the connection wasn't made, it was Virgin's fault and not mine and that, effectively, lunch was on them. This is what happened and I later waltzed off the train at Coventry having enjoyed a free lunch. They say there's no such thing as a free lunch, but I've found that in my world, a free lunch is often forthcoming in some way or other and here was solid proof! There was a skip in my step as I found a taxi and was whisked off to my business appointment. The thought going round in my head was simple: I was up, I was ahead of the game! I had, in some small way, socked it to The Man - and all because The Man's computer systems had failed him.

Later I took a train to the recently renovated Birmingham New Street in order to connect with yet another Edinburgh-bound train, which would take me to Sheffield, my final destination for the night.

A brief word about Birmingham New Street station: it looks amazing, but it's quite a confusing place. Emerging from one platform, I found myself in a kind of pen, cut off from other platforms and hemmed in by ticket barriers. I had to reach platform 8a for my connecting train, but getting there meant going through one set of barriers and then another. Once on the platform, however, everything looked very familiar, only slightly more sleek than I remembered it.

The 1703 train departed nine seconds late, not that I was counting, and at 1818 I arrived in Sheffield, having enjoyed a Belgian chocolate chip cookie and another one of those small bottles of red wine – this time purchased with cash. "Would you like to buy three bottles for £10?" the trolley dolly asked me, but I informed her that, sadly, I wasn't on board for the trip to Edinburgh, I was going to Sheffield, so the one bottle would suffice. I must stress that I don't need alcohol to travel on a train, it's just very pleasant to drink a glass of red wine while gazing out of the window or reading a book.

Room 203, Cutlers Hotel, Sheffield

A short cab journey brought me to my hotel – the Best Western Cutlers Hotel on George Street. My taxi driver for the short ride was in an upbeat mood as he was about to hit the gym and then go home. "Sheffield's a great city, man, I wouldn't live anywhere else," he said in a manner unfitting for South Yorkshire. He went on to explain how it was a fairly low-cost place to be based. We parted company amicably (I always have a good relationship with taxi drivers) and soon I was checked in to my room (room 203 on the second floor).

The room was fine: a huge bed (two singles pushed together) a decent bathroom with proper taps – none of that designer rubbish offered by so many hotels, but proper taps with 'hot' and 'cold' written on them AND a plug on the end of a chain. Perfect! I wouldn't have to spend hours working out which was hot and which was cold and I wouldn't need a degree in mechanical engineering to figure out how to depress the plug and stop the water leaving the sink.

WiFi was free, there was a flatscreen television on the wall – after dinner with a colleague in Bill's near Millennium Square I watched the BBC news – and then, after a broken night (I rarely sleep well in hotels) I went to the breakfast room, which was located in the basement. I'm so glad I didn't have dinner here in the hotel's restaurant because it completely lacked atmosphere and, because of this, there was nobody else dining there. Bill's had a bit of much-needed hubbub about it, and by that I mean other diners, people, music, laughter, everything that my hotel restaurant lacked.

I was hoping that breakfast would deliver something special, but it didn't. For a start the room was horribly bright and white and there were 'trendy' distressed park benches and tables and a meagre self-service option at the far end of the room. Brightness of this magnitude simply doesn't work in a hotel breakfast room, in my opinion. It was like being in the garden furniture section of a large garden centre and not an ideal place to enjoy the first meal of the day.

Boxed cereal, tinned fruit and a banana-flavoured yoghurt: that was the offering in front of me, but a waitress eventually appeared and took my order from a small menu on the table: scrambled egg, toast and fried mushrooms. I'm not keen on fried mushrooms. I don't mind them raw in a salad or as part of, say, a cheese salad sandwich, but fried: ugh! Greasy and slippery mushrooms. Not nice.

The most irksome thing about the breakfast was a dirty cereal bowl. Without my glasses on I mistook the dried food stuck on the inside of the bowl for some kind of logo – how foolish and stupid am I? – but it turned out to be dried food. Unfortunately I had already tipped my bran flakes into the bowl and added the milk, so I persevered, but vowed to check everything else that came my way. Fortunately it was a one-off mistake, but it made me feel doubly relieved that I had opted for Bill's last night and not the hotel restaurant.

Rright now, rather than use my own lap top in the room, I am sitting at a wooden table just off the main staircase using the hotel's computer (a PC). Other than the aforementioned dirty bowl, the Cutlers Hotel was pleasant. I get the feeling that it was once an office building, and not a purpose-built hotel, as the main staircase screamed 'office block'. There's a large stained glass window that runs from the top to the bottom of the main stairwell and a carpet matching the window's design.

This isn't a 'grand hotel' but it's fairly pleasant, and bang in the centre of Sheffield. Despite its central location, it's quiet and peaceful and 'off the beaten track' but only minutes on foot from the Crucible Theatre and Millennium Square where all the decent restaurants are to be found: Cosmo, Smoke Barbecue, Piccolino's, Cafe Rouge, Brown's, Pizza Express and, of course, Bill's.

A brief word about Bill's. I remember visiting the first ever outlet in Lewes, East Sussex, back in the days when Bill's was simply an independent restaurant – circa 2010. I went there with Miles Jenner, head brewer and managing director of Harveys of Lewes, a fantastic, traditional brewer of fine English cask ales (my description, not theirs). Harveys of Lewes brews a beer specifically for Bill's – or it did back in 2010. The outlet in Lewes, East Sussex, was everything one might expect from an independent restaurant: pine tables and a traditional but quirky menu catering for all needs and meal occasions. I was surprised to hear that expansion was on the cards for Bill's, but a few months, possibly a couple of years later, I visited Bill's in Leamington Spa and then yesterday here in Sheffield, and all was well. Last night I ordered roast chicken with sweet potato fries and a couple of glasses of Merlot, rounded off with a light pecan pie and a cup of tea. My colleague enjoyed a rack of ribs. Why they thought I would be capable (alone) of drinking a huge pot of tea just before bedtime I don't know, but I do know that it contributed in some small way to my broken night's sleep. That comment about 'catering for all needs and meal occasions' rung true of the Sheffield Bill's as, in addition to dinner there were lunch and, indeed, breakfast offerings on the menu.

My colleague paid the bill, which was £54, but it was well worth it as the service was excellent, the atmosphere convivial and the food spot on the money.

I have another business appointment, but not until noon, so it's time to take a stroll around Sheffield, weather permitting. But first I need to tidy up my room and check out.

In Edinburgh...

I haven't been to Edinburgh for a long while; in fact, I can't remember when I was last in this great city, it was certainly a long time ago. One thing, however, was noticeable by its absence: a bike share scheme. Now, there's the phrase, 'bike share scheme'. I no longer have to put 'Boris bikes' in quotes because the whole Boris bike thing is just that: a bike share scheme.

King's Cross Station – a vast improvement on the old concourse.

Anyway, never saw any bike share scheme in operation in Edinburgh and I walked from Mansfield Traquair to my hotel on the other side of the city beyond Tollcross. Oddly, while on the train from King's Cross, I did see what looked like a bike share scheme on Alnmouth railway station as the train pulled out. I know Alnmouth fairly well, having travelled there back in the mid-90s to interview a fire eater, and it's a pretty remote place, albeit a fantastic place (if you like that kind of desolation, like I do) and it's not the sort of place you'd expect to find a bike share scheme as once you're outside of the town there's nothing but rural country lanes.

So, no bikes to ride, but then again this was one of those packed trips consisting mainly of spending two days sitting down in a conference – a conference held in a church, which was a pleasant change from the usual conference hotel. As I mentioned, I managed a long walk from the church (Mansfield Traquair) back to my hotel (see review below, which is also published on TripAdvisor) but that was about it.

Room 37, the Bruntsfield Hotel, Edinburgh...

I messed up a bit on the train front, proving that it pays to actually read itineraries properly when you get sent them; I should have been on the 1300hrs train going out (and left my house at the right time to catch it) but when I pulled my tickets from the envelope in which they'd been sent, I clocked the time as 1530hrs (the time of my return journey from Edinburgh the following day). So, thinking I had time to kill, I had lunch at Prezzo and only realised my mistake when I found somebody else supposedly occupying my reserved seat. Then I clicked and later had to pay a hefty excess fare of £73. Why? Because I had a Super Off Peak Return and the train I was on didn't accept them – I had two options: pay the money or wait on Peterborough station for four hours, which would have gotten me in to Edinburgh some time after midnight. I paid up and made sure that I didn't make any more silly mistakes.

Incidentally, King's Cross has changed dramatically since I was last there – and I mean dramatically. The dowdy old concourse of old has been replaced by something truly amazing with plenty of decent coffee shops and restaurants and a futuristic ceiling (see photograph above).

The view from room 37 of the Bruntsfield Hotel, Edinburgh

I love the train journey from King's Cross to Edinburgh as once you pass Newcastle the scenery gets pretty dramatic. First you spy Alnmouth, a kind of poor man's Berwick-upon-Tweed and then, of course, Berwick itself before the train runs along the cliff tops and you get some fantastic moody views of the North Sea and the crashing waves as they roll in. I love it and I will always find it truly inspiring.

Edinburgh hasn't changed a great deal, which is good. I took a taxi to the Bruntsfield Hotel, had dinner and went to bed and then, after the conference two days later, I headed back to London, managing, somehow, to miss the tube drivers' strike and sailing along the Victoria Line to Victoria where I picked up a train to Sanderstead and home.

Here's my review of the Bruntsfield Hotel, Edinburgh, which you can also find on Trip Advisor.

The Bruntsfield Hotel, Edinburgh

One of the worst things about reviewing anything, be it a book, a film, a restaurant or a hotel (perhaps that should be ‘an hotel’) is that there is a tendency to feel that you can’t simply say something was good. Unfortunately, there is always that urge to add something negative, possibly for the sake of authenticity or, perhaps, simply to show that you’re hard and won’t take any nonsense, you’re not easily bought.



Well, that’s how I felt about the Bruntsfield Hotel before I’d even visited the place – although, if the truth be known, I knew it would be good before I checked in for the simple reason that I have stayed here before, back in the angst-ridden early 90s. And that’s why I’m here again because whenever I think of Edinburgh, I think of the Bruntsfield Hotel and walking along Princes Street towards Glenogle Street and Henderson’s and Bert’s Bar. I don’t even know if those establishments are still there, but I don’t think I could stay anywhere else in this great city than the Bruntsfield.



The reason I was going to add something negative was down to an email I received from the hotel once I’d booked a room on-line. They sent me an email saying that, for an extra £20, I could get a larger room with some fruit in it or, for £25, a bottle of wine and some hand-made canapés. Well, nice try, but when I think about how many oranges I could buy with £20 or how, for £25, I could get two decent bottles of red wine and have change for a copy of the Economist, I simply ignored what amounted to an opportunist marketing ploy. How was I to know that the larger room I was being offered was any bigger than the room I would have got without paying extra? Not that I should have adopted that attitude; they were, after all, just doing their job.



So, I travelled by train from King’s Cross, took a cab to the Bruntsfield and, as expected, it is still the most wonderful hotel in Edinburgh: the staff are friendly – so much so that I looked forward to passing the time of day with whoever was on the reception desk. Room 37 was excellent and the food in the Bisque restaurant was absolutely fantastic. After a day in a conference on the other side of town I was looking forward to dinner, a glass or two of wine, some dessert and, of course, a good book (go and buy Lean on Pete by Willy Vlautin, it’s fantastic).

I’ve been here for two nights. For dinner the first night I enjoyed chicken breast stuffed with haggis, mashed potato and carrots; the following evening it was venison,pheasant and duck stew with mashed potato and brocolli and I really wished I had another night here – with my family – or maybe a week. The problem, however, as always, was loneliness (it gets to me after a day or two).

The Bruntsfield, however, is such a homely, comfortable hotel and, fortunately, it lacks the anonymity of some of the bigger chain hotels I've stayed in. What's more, everything works, nothing niggles and I couldn’t recommend it more highly. When a hotel has that ‘home from home’ feeling about it, you know you’re on to a winner.

Breakfast was good too: plenty of choice and just nice and pleasant and perfect to wake up to.



One bugbear: the WiFi. It’s very slow. That needs to be addressed. Everything else is absolutely first class. Well done, Bruntsfield people. Keep up the good work. As Arne once said, “I’ll be back.”