My hostess? A banjo-playing prostitute

Exotic Lady Meux brought glamour, several Whistler portraits, and a Christopher Wren masterpiece to Maureen Lipman’s favorite hotel

Just before lockdown, I went on holiday. Three and a half days in an activities hotel in Cheshunt, Hertfordshire, about 45 minutes’ drive from home. Not what you’d call ‘long haul’.

My last holiday was four years ago. My partner had had a hip replacement and I had the super bright idea of jetting to St Lucia to a spectacular hotel in lush, tropical settings.

Tripadvisor omitted to tell me that in St Lucia it rains every morning, for hours. Lounging chairs get sodden, ground surfaces get glassy and the member of the couple on aluminum crutches gets crabby. The other one spends a week crouching with her arms extended, like a tennis player on the receiving end of Serena Williams’s first serve, waiting to catch him.

Since then, I have stayed busy in London and Manchester, crocheting hats in front of Celebrity Gogglebox with Gyles Brandreth, manning the corner shop in Coronation Street, calling out Comrade Corbyn and getting elevated to Damehood – you know the sort of thing.

Here, suddenly, was a whole week free.

Birch is a concept hotel. I do like a concept. Or rather I liked what was missing from the concept. No TVs in the rooms, no telephones, and no kettle. No pool, hot-stone therapy or jacuzzi.

Instead, I was offered ‘activities’. For a bit of extra dosh, Birch promised me glass-blowing, plate-painting, pottery classes, bread-making, and cool yoga. There would be a music room, restaurants, guided walks, and – the deal-maker – a Roberts radio in my chamber.