"Past the chocolate factory and the crematorium stands Middlethorpe Hall." As directions to country house hotels go, they do not get much odder than that.
As my mother and I speed from the railway station, first following the old city wall and then regiments of York's brick terraces, the taxi radio crackles into life. Two dead bodies have today been found in a bedsit above the Oven Gloves bakery, the news says. The police will not disclose much more than that. They don't know the names of these people, who are now just corpses. Or indeed, what sex they were.
"They are probably too badly decomposed," my mum remarks in a matter-of-fact manner. "It will take a postmortem to establish that. It must have been the smell that got someone's attention."
My mother, you might have gathered, is a big fan of crime drama.
It is 6pm and already the night is inky. We turn down a narrow road and Middlethorpe Hall stands proudly lit. It is regular, house-shaped, as if drawn by a child. There is a big front door in the middle and evenly spaced sash windows, all glowing from within. Inside it is warm and plush. Through the hallway there is a chequerboard floor and the base of a cantilevered oak staircase. Oil paintings of plump aristocrats adorn the walls.
When it was built, in 1699, Middlethorpe Hall was in the heart of the country. Now York almost embraces it. It is near the racecourse and a mere £6 taxi trip from the train station; but inside you feel further away. The majestic curtains are ruffled, the drawing room sofas are floral, and the atmosphere is hushed. It immediately recalls the world of Jane Austen's heroines. Or, at least, it does for me.
Surveying the scene, Mum remarks approvingly: "It would be a great place for a murder."
Great.
The William III house was home to the Terry family - they of the chocolate, whose nearby factory is now owned by Kraft - as well as the diarist Lady Mary Wortley Montagu. In 1713, she described it as "a pritty place [sic]". In the 1970s it was York's top nightclub - or possibly niteclub - Brummels. How times change.
Our twin room, which is not big but perfectly adequate, is in the main house. Most rooms are in what used to be the stables. We can take the stairs or the lift. As the lift is the size of Rumpelstiltskin's wardrobe, we take the former. (We later discover that taking the lift is akin to the medieval punishment of being walled-in. "Don't worry if we get stuck," Mum says. "I have some Murray Mints in my bag.") Middlethorpe is not all that accessible to wheelchair users and only welcomes children over eight years of age.
Its restoration by Historic Houses Hotels, also owners of Llandudno's Bodysgallen and Hartwell House in Buckinghamshire, has been determined and historically accurate. While the spa offers the usual facilities (facials, manicures, massages and mud wraps, as well as a swimming pool), it is situated within a listed building that, from the outside, still looks like two little cottages. Rather inconveniently, though, the cottages are across the road from the hotel.
Certainly, Middlethorpe has been designed to appeal to wealthy, older guests - as well as Yorkshire's nouveau riche, who seem to confuse formality with classiness. Room service (steak and chips: £11.80) stops at 9.45pm and the books on our shelf include The Day of the Jackal and Mary Renault's The King Must Die. There is no Babington breeziness or Cowley Manor chic here. The room's television is a rickety old set boasting channels from BBC1 to Channel Five.
Before dinner - for which gentlemen are requested to wear a jacket - drinks beckon in the drawing room. We do not know it yet but outside, dominating the south lawn, stands a mighty cedar of Lebanon. It towers like a fairy tale tree, vast branches held around its trunk like feathered fans from a Busby Berkeley musical. The tree was planted in 1684 and it is almost worth coming just to see it. I don't suppose you're allowed to climb it.
The gardens are very well cared for: we will explore them on the pleasingly parky Sunday morning - our breath cloudy and hands stuffed deeply in pockets. The lawn is as neat and bouncy as Axminster. The formal gardens are separated by groomed hedges and walls. They are strangely reminiscent of 1980s pop videos: you half expect Kate Bush to appear from behind a hedge before scampering off; or Tony Hadley to wander round in a long wool coat bemoaning the epistemological and ontological uncertainty surrounding his broken heart.
"It is a bit like a cemetery," says Mum.
But back to dinner. We are presented with the menu and we are impressed. First courses range from roast sweetbreads to smoked salmon, terrine of duck and foie gras to pave of salmon. The main course choices include sea bass, monkfish, pork, rabbit, beef and partridge. Vegetarians can choose from tian of provencal vegetables, gnocchi, risotto or cappuccino of puy lentils. After ordering in the drawing room we are soon informed, "Chef is ready for you now" and dutifully troop through to dine. (It is assumed we are also ready for Chef).
We sit beside a couple who have just been presented with their desserts. My mum's eyes light up. "Can we just cut to the chase?" she asks, ogling the woman's pudding, an assiette of Middlethorpe desserts. Pineapple terrine, chocolate fondant, apple vanilla creme brulee and chestnut mousse: everything is there in miniature. I am half tempted to concur and skip the savoury stuff.
When it comes, of course, we are glad we did not. Our first courses - smoked haddock for her and puy lentil cappuccino for me - are delicious and only surpassed by the main: beef daube with parsnips, creamed potato and parsley oil. It is one of the nicest things I have ever tasted. It is not, my mum assures me later as she tucks into her pineapple terrine with coconut cream, as heavenly as her dessert. Meanwhile, I have chosen from the decent cheeseboard and not been disappointed.
The service is formal, a little too formal. Charming waiters express their thanks when they set down and remove dishes. I do not really like that level of obsequious solemnity, but it fits the feel of the wood-panelled, murmur-filled dining room. It is not that Middlethorpe Hall is suffocatingly stuffy, but it definitely has its moments. Moments when you might like to take deep breaths. Or possibly get out an oxygen tank.
The three-course dinner is £37.95 and four courses cost £46.50. Wine starts from around £21 though if you fancy pushing the boat out there is always the Chateau d'Yquem 1983 premier cru superieure for £380. Pinot Grigio comes in at £26, red Rioja at £25. A bottle of Cristal costs £160. So Solid Crew should be fine if they pitch up. But only if they are dressed appropriately, one presumes.
Replete, we retire to bed. My mum, most likely, dreams of Miss Marple.
Way to go
Room rates start from £109 for a single bedroom off the courtyard. A deluxe twin bedded room in the main house costs £115 per person per night. A deluxe suite in the main house costs £360.
Prices include free use of the spa swimming pool but not treatments. Breakfast starts at £11.50.
Middlethorpe Hall Hotel, Restaurant and Spa, Bishopthorpe Road, York, YO23 2GB. Tel: 01904 641241
· Middlethorpe Hall also offers packages for York race days in May, June and August. See www.middlethorpe.com.
