King Street Townhouse

I can tell that Mr Smith and I are thinking the same thing. We’re smiling at the bath tub at the foot of our bed. A shapely, come-hither number fronted by a elegant smattering of Islamic-inspired tiles, it’s clearly designed for one thing: long, romantic soaks à deux. ‘Do we want bubbles?,’ Mr Smith asks, before pouring in some Espa bath oil; yes, indeed. 

Rain is tumbling down, the bath tap is giving out the odd friendly gurgle, and as I slide into the deliciously warm water, I decide that evenings are rarely much more romantic. Mr Smith eagerly clambers in. Then, sheepishly, he leans over the side of the bath to where he’s strategically positioned a TV remote and giggles as Robert Downey Jr, in full Iron Man kit, springs into view. ‘OMG, we can watch TV from the bath!’, he cries out, totally thrilled. My pretend dismay doesn’t last long: it’s a brilliant touch.

King Street Townhouse in Manchester is one of those hotels that specialises in the unexpected and thoughtful. Set bang in the middle of the most salubrious part of Manchester, King Street Townhouse is the kind of grand, distinguished Victorian building that makes the most discerning stop and think, ‘wowsers’. Even Mr Smith, a picky architect, is impressed.

I push open the sturdy wooden doors of the entrance. I have stepped into an old bank, the impressive dark-wood panelling and high ceilings transporting me to my favourite scene in Mary Poppins. ‘If you invest your tuppence / Wisely in the bank…’ I hum.

We’re taken to a room on the third floor. If Mr Smith is the arbiter of buildings, I like to think I’m the expert on interiors. It’s a smart, tasteful, refined room: painted duck-egg blue, there’s an oatmeal carpet, built-in shelves, directional lighting, a dinky antique table and a wonderfully large wooden bed with subtle Aztec-print cushions. On the wall is a pretty framed drawing of a bee, to remind us we’re in Manchester. And then I spot that there’s a whole second room, with a high-backed beige sofa and sturdy desk, that leads onto a massive bathroom with two basins and an oversize walk-in shower.

The room is definitely to my liking. ‘But are you sure it’s the one we booked?’ I ask the receptionist. ‘It’s a free upgrade.’ he tells us. That’s the first nice touch. The second is the plate of buttery shortbread biscuits Mr Smith is now gobbling. The third is the late check-out on Sundays – everyone likes a weekend lie-in.

The following morning, it’s still drizzling. Manchester’s cotton industry apparently thrived on this damp climate that kept the threads moist, so you have to embrace it. However, I’ve failed to bring a waterproof. A young receptionist comes to my aid, handing me the biggest umbrella I’ve ever held. ‘Just bring it back.’ he says, holding out his hand for a fist-pump. That’s the fourth unexpected touch: we may be in formal surroundings, but the staff are personable and unstuffy. 

Dry, and pleased with my loan, we spend the morning walking the narrow lanes of the hip Northern Quarter. Playing at being locals, we jump on a bus headed for the freshly face-lifted Whitworth Art Gallery on the other side of town. ‘This bus will cost you £5, that one £1.’ says the driver, pointing to another bus ahead. Good service. 

For much of the time, as we pass by impressive red-stone buildings, popping into boutiques, I feel as if I’m in New York. The King Street Townhouse restaurant-come-diner has the same effect with its red-leather banquettes and booths, long wooden bar and lighting. It’s quietly buzzing, as we sit down for an excellent three-course dinner, and slightly raucous – in a good way – by the time we leave. Padding our way upstairs, we spot a mezzanine lounge with plush sofas and a decorous air. Perfect for a nightcap.

The best feature of the hotel is the spa, set high on the 7th floor of the house. Dressing gowns removed, Mr Smith and I plunge into a rooftop infinity pool. The view is superlative: gables and chimneys break up the skyline and Manchester’s iconic bell tower feels close enough to flick water on. Not that we try.  I find the button to switch on the bubbles and we bob around happily for a good half hour. Next we visit the steam room before having a lie-down in the chalet-style relaxation room with another floor-to-ceiling vista and jugs of mint and cucumber water. I realise I’ve napped off when I’m woken up by another guest crying out, ‘It’s aaamaazing.’ I couldn’t agree more: Mr Banks would proclaim this tuppence well invested.

Thoroughly refreshed, we return to our room and I run a second bath, but this time, I hide the TV remote before Mr Smith can find it.