England as it never was

We recently spent a few days in Buxton, Derbyshire, where we stayed in a wonderfully traditional English guesthouse and generally felt as though we’d travelled back in time. This very proper spa town has a long history of genteel people visiting to take the waters to ease their various ailments, including Mary Queen of Scots, who reputedly suffered from arthritis. Mary was held as a prisoner in Derbyshire for 15 years under orders from Elizabeth I, who wanted her kept out of sight and far away from the Catholic plotters who believed that Mary, not Elizabeth, was the rightful heir to the English throne. However, those were brutal times and I imagine things could have been worse. Mary’s jailers were George Talbot, 6^th Earl of Shrewsbury, and his wife, Bess of Hardwick, and she was held variously at Chatsworth, Wingfield Manor and the Old Hotel at Buxton, which doesn’t sound like such a severe hardship to me. Although I have to admit that things did go downhill after that.

You’ll be surprised to learn that the Duke and Duchess of Devonshire did not insist that we spend a few days with them at Chatsworth (no doubt they were out of town) and so instead we stayed in a charming place that overlooked the lake in Buxton’s Pavilion Gardens, in what we thought was a bed and breakfast, but turned out to be a guesthouse. I don’t really know the difference, although it sounds a little grander than a B&B, but much smaller and more personal than a hotel. Large hotels can definitely have their appeal, particularly the breakfast buffets, but in many cases they lack local character and you feel as though you could be anywhere in the world.

Our guesthouse could only have been in England. It was full of sedate people aged 40+, with the emphasis on the plus. We all quietly went about our business: ate our breakfasts promptly and neatly, not taking or asking for more than we needed; no-one raised their voices or laughed immoderately; no loud banging on the door was heard after midnight because someone had misplaced their key in drunken confusion; all bags were packed and bills were paid by 9.55 to comply with the 10am checkout time. Decorum reigned.

I’ve stayed in lots of hotels, motels, bed-and-breakfasts, inns, pubs and hostels around the world, but nothing else has quite the atmosphere of a privately-owned English guesthouse. Ours was exquisitely preserved in a time that perhaps never existed, but we all hope did. The owners were polite, helpful and friendly (but not obtrusively). Naturally, a full cooked English breakfast was on offer and although time does move on and vegetarian sausages were on the menu, hash browns, those American interlopers, were definitely not. The tall sash windows were lavishly dressed with swag curtains, the hall carpets were embellished with fleur de lis and old copper bed warmers adorned the walls. It was a perfect escapist fantasy of Englishness, made complete when we noticed Paddington Bear taking his ease in one of the large and inviting winged armchairs. All seemed right with the world.