Hotel du Vin York

‘I think the Farrow & Ball colours have taken on a more sophisticated edge,’ says Mr Smith, running his hand along the wall.

We’re checking into the new Hotel du Vin in York, one of a proliferation of new properties from the upmarket hotel chain that have sprung up over the past six months, and Mr Smith can’t stop comparing it to our first HdV experience in Brighton, some four years ago. We’re both keen, truth be told, to see whether the original boutique brand has grown up – I know we certainly have.

We are delighted, then, to find, on arrival, a gorgeous, newly renovated Georgian building, immediately recognisable as a Hotel du Vin. So far, so good. Inside, we are greeted with a reassuringly friendly Yorkshire welcome and, post check-in, are led up a grand staircase dominated by a huge twinkling chandelier (which on closer inspection turns out to be made entirely of wine glasses). Walls are painted in neutrals and deep greens.

The bold interiors – ‘a definite nod to a more opulent, seductive look,’ according to Mr Smith – continues in our room. All HdV boxes are ticked: there are period features galore, including beautiful Georgian sash windows and an original fireplace; a sumptuous velvet armchair and matching window dressings; and a free-standing, roll-top bath and an enormous walk-in shower. Even the statement wallpaper manages to cover just the right amount of wall space, making it interesting rather than overbearing. We spend the next few minutes calculating how long we would be able to stay here if we sold our house, took the money and didn’t tell our mortgage lender. Six years, seven months and 19 days, if you’re interested – so long as we shared a breakfast each morning.

If I was being pernickety, the discernably more corporate tone to the in-room messages, made me a little nostalgic for the ever-so-slightly wonky ‘small hotel’ feel of our earlier experience, but when these missives are urging us to get light-fingered with the smellies and, to Mr Smith’s delight, a backscrubber, it seems churlish to take umbrage. Mr Smith, a journalist, has a lasting enthusiasm for freebies, matched only by his childlike delight at what he terms ‘nick nacks’ in the minibar – surely we’ve grown out of the jelly beans, chocolate peanuts and beer combo by now, dear?

Apparently not. Mr Smith, by now turning the swivelling flatscreen TV this way and that, declares the room ‘perfect’, and settles down to watch back-to-back episodes of Entourage from, alternately, a horizontal position on the bed or in the bath. It takes all of my energy to get us both out of the room. We venture outside to discover a hip grotto at the back of the building, which seems the ideal spot for summer cocktails, not to mention a creative solution to the smoking ban.

Neither of us are smokers, though, so we seek sanctuary in the warm and cosy library, which seems specifically designed for nodding off over your Dickens. But the smell from the next-door wine-tasting room, stuffed with vintages from many of the world’s best vineyards, soon has us both on our feet, and we head straight to the bar to pore over the long list of oenophile-friendly treats. The welcoming and knowledgeable head barman soon sorts us out with a glass or two, and we settle back on our comfortable stools to watch our fellow guests quaff everything from Armagnac to Zinfandel. The atmosphere is extremely convivial and, as we find out later on our way to bed, the bar buzzes long past the witching hour.

The restaurant, a smart bistro in which French-influenced dishes are perfectly complemented by an impressive wine list, more than lives up to the rosy memories we have of our Hotel du Vin trip four years ago. Service is spot on, and the sommelier quickly locates one of our favourite bottles of Côtes de Provence. We’re even more impressed when, at the end of the meal, a plate of petits fours arrives, with ‘happy birthday’ written on the top in chocolate sauce. Somewhat confused – neither of us are celebrating our birthday – we accept the congratulations and eat the delicious biscuits. Eventually we work out that we had originally booked to come here on my big day, and the computerised booking system has obviously exported the note about this when we changed the date. As booking errors go, it’s a pretty wonderful one.  

Waking up to the papers and continental breakfast in bed the next morning is made more memorable by what Mr Smith describes as ‘a triumph of muesli and berry compote’. Having ‘monsooned’ in the shower, we head into town to see what York has to offer. Neither of us have been to this charming, fortified mediaeval city before, and we quickly find ourselves in a mini shopping paradise. Most of our afternoon is lost to the city’s retail delights, and from the moment that music-mad Mr Smith pops into a quaint-looking record store – with the words, ‘I’ll just be five minutes; you go ahead and I’ll catch you up’ – to the time I emerge with armfuls of bags from the boutiques on Stonegate and Low Petergate, our credit cards are constantly warmed. We’ll be coming back next time we find ourselves in the north. You’ve got to love a place which has a street called Whip-Ma-Whop-Ma-Gate…

On the way back to the hotel, we walk past the famous York Minster, parts of which date back to the eighth century, and we both stop for a few minutes to gawp at its soaring gothic towers. York’s Hotel du Vin may be a mere whippersnapper in comparison, but the boutique brand it represents in this beautiful, cobble-laned city is certainly aging well. If only I could say the same about this Mr and Mrs Smith.