Batty Langley's

Fresh new luxury hotels on a Saturday evening – the very thought!

I decided to stay ‘in town’ one night after going to the theatre with my friend Sam. How very spontaneously ‘London’ – one of the very reasons I live in such a city, no?  But as much as I adore my adopted city, I rarely do the very things that attracted me to it in the first place.  

We went to see Cat On A Hot Tin Roof on its final night. I spent most of the play staring at Sienna Miller’s body wondering how the hell she got it like that. The other time was spent hoping for another shower scene with Jack O’Connell (I like to think I am young, rather than just immature). After its finale, and the breathless applause that followed, I suddenly thought that, actually, I’d rather be headed back home to Mr Smith, our three dogs and our very comfy bed, rather than spending the night on my tod in the Big Smoke.

But still, I got in my car, programmed in Batty Langley’s to the sat-nav and glided (I drive a Tesla) the few miles to Shoreditch from the West End. I’m not a huge fan of East London – mainly because I think I’m way too West London for it – but once I am there, every time without fail, I love it and think: ‘Why don’t I do this more often?’ The sort of thought you have when you exercise once every 18 months.  

I’d Googled the hotel and it looked right up my strasse: quirky, charming, fresh and named after a madcap 18th-century garden designer and writer best known for a book called Ancient Architecture, Restored, and Improved (and for being locked up in Newgate Prison). As I got closer I was surrounded by towering buildings along the A10.  How could a charming hotel possibly be squeezed in here?

But then I swept left into Folgate Street and lo, there it was on my right, exactly as it promised. Old world-y, charming, cosy and welcoming me in.

I popped inside to be welcomed at reception and one of the first things the sweet lass asked me was ‘Where did you park?’  

‘Right out the front,’ I said proudly.  

‘In the resident’s bay?’ she queried gently.  

Ah.  

So, I set my alarm to make sure I could hot-foot it out in time to ruin the warden’s morning and was taken upstairs to my first floor junior suite – an upgrade! Yes! – called the Peter Merzean room. A quick Google told me he was the ‘King of Spitalfields’ – well Peter, I am happy to be your Jean (Queen) for the night.

After a tour of the room, during which I tried to listen to all the tips (in reality I’m just listening out for the WiFi code like everyone else), I eyed the high bed lustily. I could tell just by the look of it that we were talking layers here: mattress toppers, sheets, duvets, blankets, throws, the whole heavy, heavenly works.  

And indeed we were, but first: the bathroom. I’m a big bathroom fan. I love space, a great shower, a bath (even though I rarely get in one), and nice big vanity. Just wandering in and out of this one was a joy. Back and forth to the bedroom I went, with the odd lean into the sweet little sitting room (I wouldn’t use it, but how lovely to have it).  

After 10 minutes of trying to work out the shower I eventually called reception and asked the lovely lady to pop back up. I knew it was ‘pilot error’ and checked and rechecked about 10 times before I finally gave in and called. Of course, the very second she walked into the bathroom the hot water started flowing. I knew it was going to happen, we both did, but she smiled ruefully all the same and said ‘Yes, it can be hard to read sometimes…’ and scuttled back downstairs.

I settled in for a gloriously hot shower with side jets and everything. It was a joy. A few final loving glances at the precious tiles surrounding the vanity and a wondrous look at the old fashioned loo with the worryingly high chain (I did a quick check – yes I could reach it) and into bed I rolled for a delightful eight hours.

I woke to my alarm and happily waited for breakfast to be served to me in bed. An enormous helping of muesli, yoghurt and fruit so beautifully presented that I forgot myself and scoffed the lot before I could take a photo. You’ll have to go yourself to see it, but trust me it’s worth it.  Somehow I managed to restrain myself from ordering a bacon buttie, too. You know that saying? Something about not wanting to regret all the foods you could have eaten? Well, reader, I regret it.

I took another delicious shower, said goodbye to one of the most comfortable beds I have ever slept in, took a final stroll around the suite, peeked inside the wardrobe again just to check if it really was wallpapered inside (yes it was) and said goodbye to a suite I could most happily live in. Perfect, compact, homey.

It’s a friendly and warm place, that Batty Langley’s. I will go back, and when I do I’ll do exactly what I did the first time: swaddle myself in luxury.