A Stay Away

Last week we had a night away in Rotherham's only boutique Hotel while attending a fundraiser for Grimm and Co. This is the review I posted on Trip Advisor. Trying to be a good read while also warning people of the experience. Trip Advisor dont like reviews that are "not relevant to your stay" so they asked me to edit it. I did, but thought the real thing deserved a wider audience Hotel Review: The George Wright Boutique Hotel, Rotherham Three stars for effort, two for execution, and one for the bath on a plinth. As the patron of a children’s charity based in Rotherham—my home town—I occasionally return to support local events, and recently found myself back for a gala dinner in aid of children’s literacy. And where better to stay than Rotherham’s sole stab at central boutique accommodation: The George Wright Hotel, tucked coyly behind the High Street as though slightly ashamed of itself. The first challenge is simply getting in. The main entrance is a narrow alleyway, the kind you’d avoid after 6pm unless you’re either exceptionally brave or particularly in need of boutique lodging. The other entrance, less menacing but no more welcoming, lies hidden behind a car park and a patio that looks like it’s waiting for a summer that never comes. Doors are festooned with handwritten notices and mobile numbers—presumably to summon staff from another realm. Or just Wakefield. Eventually, a cheerful young woman emerges and checks me in via a system best described as “vibes-based.” She doesn’t ask my name. Just seems to sense I’m the one she’s expecting. It’s flattering, in a way, like being recognised in your local, but with a slight edge of “we weren’t really expecting guests.” My lodgings for the evening: the Presidential Suite. Quite what president is due to drop by remains unclear—certainly not one with back problems or a strong sense of interior design. The room is large. Very large. The kind of large where furniture gives up halfway across. There’s a claw-footed, roll-top bath perched on a raised plinth in the bedroom, which gives the effect of a bathing Roman empress with nowhere to put her towel. It’s not in the bathroom, you understand. Just out there, lounging seductively next to the bed like a faintly risqué aunt. The bathroom proper contains a decent walk-in shower, though any actual bath-time accoutrements are scattered around the room like a toiletry treasure hunt. Towels? By the bed. Conditioner? Possibly under a mirrored armchair. It’s like a game. Of Cluedo. And then there are the chairs. Two of them. Immense, silver velour armchairs that look like something salvaged from Liberace’s caravan, tucked round a corner of the room and pointed solemnly at the door, as though awaiting the imminent arrival of the President himself. They don’t face the television, which—of course—is mounted high on the wall above the bed. The only way to watch it is to lie completely flat on your back, like a convalescent or a hostage. The decor is… Zara Home by way of overzealous loyalty card. Mirrored side tables, plush-but-slightly-nervous furnishings, and above the bed, a chandelier that looks like it might drop down and try to sell you Tupperware. I’ve stayed here before and recognised several of the pieces like old acquaintances you’re not thrilled to see again. It doesn’t feel finished. It doesn’t even feel like it’s started. Lighting is sparse—only one bedside light, and plugs are located at the furthest possible point from anything that might need plugging in. There’s Wi-Fi, sort of, and a kettle that’s clearly seen things. The staff, when located, are unfailingly friendly and vaguely startled to see you. As if they’ve wandered into the building themselves and decided to help out. There’s something endearingly improvised about it all, like a pop-up hotel that just never popped down. After the gala dinner, we returned to the hotel expecting the warm embrace of a boutique welcome. Instead, we found the building completely locked and in darkness—like something from a forgotten chapter of The Woman in Black. After some time spent milling about in the cold, someone eventually came downstairs to let us in, and again, there was that faint note of surprise. As if our return had not been factored into the evening’s plan. Breakfast the next morning provides the final surreal touch. The restaurant is a scrappy, cobbled-together space—half café, half field kitchen—with a sense that something more useful might be stored there if only they weren’t serving eggs. The breakfast display is, without question, one of the most unappetising I’ve encountered in any hotel across the world—its cheerless trays wilting gently under the weight of their own disappointment. There is no oat milk, no almond, no soya. The concept of dietary alternatives seems to have passed this place by entirely. And then comes the cooked breakfast, served on large, rectangular plates—presumably because Zara Home had run out of round ones. It looks much better than it tastes, which is faint praise, as it doesn’t look especially alive. And perhaps that sums up the whole experience. This hotel is something to somebody, somewhere. It may even be a joke. A concept. A kind of long-form performance art. But it’s certainly not for the guests. There are other options—Premier Inn, Travelodge—all with more predictability, fewer surprises, and significantly fewer velvet chairs. But none are central. And that’s the rub: Rotherham needs a good town centre hotel. It’s trying, in so many ways, to bring people in, to welcome them, to be proud again. The George Wright Hotel could be part of that. Could even be the heart of it. But at the moment, it’s more like a charming understudy, gamely taking the stage, under-rehearsed and in the wrong costume. And while I wouldn’t wish Donald Trump a night in the Presidential Suite, I might send him here for the bath alone. There’s something quietly redemptive about a bath on a plinth.