ONE NIGHT AT THE NORBRECK HOTEL
Before our daughter sadly died on December 23rd 2012, due to the fact that her cancer was terminal, her trade union, Unison, which she had been a member of for many years during her work in the National Health Service, kindly paid for a week’s holiday by the sea for her and husband Ivan.
The holiday, unfortunately, had to be taken before April. Despite his new status as a widower, Ivan decided he would honour Unison’s generosity and take that week’s holiday, which was a coach company package deal in Scarborough. The week, Monday to Friday, would be spent at the grand-looking Norbreck Hotel which stands with its superior views above Scarborough’s North Bay. What follows in my musings here must not be regarded as a complete criticism of the Norbreck. Yes, it is a trifle run-down, but the rooms were clean and comfortable, and the staff were some of the nicest hostelry employees it has ever been my pleasure to experience over four decades of travel. As to the cuisine, there’s another subject …
On the Monday, Ivan was picked up by the Shearing’s coach from Mansfield at 7.30 am. It was cold, wet and foggy, and he didn’t arrive in Scarborough until early in the afternoon. At 9pm that night he phoned me. There was a lonely element of desperation in his voice. What he had to say reminded me of that despondent utterance by Richard E. Grant in the classic movie, Withnail and I ; “We’ve gone on holiday by mistake…” Wendy and I knew Ivan would be lonely. We had decided to book a room at the Norbreck mid-week to offer a bit of much-needed support. What Ivan hadn’t expected was that his fellow holiday makers would all be at least 20 years older than him. The weather stayed abysmal. He took a walk down town but found most places closed. He was eager for us to arrive and puncture the gloom.
Wendy and I drove up on the Wednesday and arrived just after mid-day. The staff were brilliant and we were relieved to be able to sit down in the bar for a pint, to relax. When we ventured out in the afternoon, in search of that North Yorkshire staple, fish and chips, we found no such establishments open. There was a small café specialising in fishy fare; we pushed open the door and stepped into the welcome warmth only to have a voice bark at us from the kitchen “We’re closing!” Thus we ended up damp and dispirited in a small café where they served Steak pie, chips and Scampi. It was OK, but not what we’d been hankering after. We looked for a cashpoint but couldn’t find one, then we saw, of all things, a Casino(!), which, despite the post-apocalyptic deadness of the surrounding streets, was open. I went in and asked if they had a cashpoint, and they did - surprisingly, a free one. We needed some cash back at the hotel. Although Ivan’s holiday deal included some drinks vouchers, I’d discovered that the Norbreck bar charged £3.40 for a pint of Carling … and there were we, thinking we were miles away from London prices. We retired to our rooms on the second and first floors via the lift, a vintage conveyance circa 1949 with its original sliding trellis door. We felt like extras in an episode of Poirot.
The killer blows began that night. After we’d all had a nap for a couple of hours, we met in the restaurant for ‘dinner’. The service was brisk and efficient, the food less impressive. Look, we’re not gourmets, and our culinary expectations don’t extend far beyond Come Dine With Me. However; I went for the ‘Chef’s Special’ - chicken curry. The curry had the colour of one of Crown Emulsion’s beige range, and steaming in a heap alongside it was a glutinous white globule which at first reminded me of congealed wallpaper paste. What was this, I mused; some form of starch product or even potato? This over-stewed blob turned out to be rice, boiled to the consistency of Evostik. The chocolate pudding which followed was struggling through a pale brown gumminess pretending to be chocolate sauce (or anaemic custard with a deep tan). But when you’re hungry, you eat. We left the restaurant and ambled into the bar lounge ready for the night’s ‘entertainment’. Records were playing and the gathered elderly bon vivants sat around the tables, bingo cards and pens at the ready. As each record from the 1950s/early 1960s played itself out, I began to wonder how this geriatric playlist had been assembled. Now in my 70th year, I seem to recall that those decades had some pretty good exciting, rockin’ records in the charts. However, this approximation of hospital radio had ensured that the likes of Little Richard, Elvis, Chuck Berry, Jerry Lee Lewis or Fats Domino would not be allowed to rub shoulders with the anodyne output of Bobby Vinton, Pat Boone or Petula Clark. In fact the most exciting disk, which must have wrecked the batteries on the pacemakers in the room, was Telstarby the Tornadoes.
Then came our gently jovial host for the evening, the lugubrious and oddly-named Daniel Defoe, resplendent in a green jacket and equally suspect trousers. “We’re all having a great time, aren’t we?” I recall from my days as a sales executive that such utterances are known as ‘Questions of agreement’. Naturally, the gathering mumbled back in the affirmative. Our bargain Basement Bruce Forsyth told us over and over what a great and genial crowd we were, and how welcome we would all feel. Nothing wrong in this. The man had his job to do, and he was fulfilling his task accordingly. Then came ‘Daniel’s Quiz’, 20 questions, and the winner would receive ‘a bottle of bubbly’. Danny boy then risked the risqué … “Be careful ladies ... watch how you answer this … question three, what are the arms of an octopus called?” Muffled gentile sniggers, and somewhere across the room a croaky voice mentioned the inevitable “Testicles.” Oh, my sides were splitting.
We passed on the bingo and Ivan gave me a look across the half-finished pints which translated as “Kill me … now…” Indeed, He actually spoke these words a few seconds later. We were about to experience the high point of the night, a professed comedian/impressionist, but by 9.20 pm we had lost the will to live. We drained our glasses and went to bed.
At least breakfast was OK. There was even porridge available - or it may have been the rice left over from the night before, but I had a plateful and it was definitely oaty. The ‘full English’ had all the elements of the dish, apart from the designation ‘full’. Miniscule sausages and scant portions of bacon, but we enjoyed it none the less, and there was plenty of toast and coffee. Despite what I’m writing here, I would definitely stay at the Norbreck again. It’s a nice place and it does have a very nice staff. Perhaps they could take a little extra notice of what they’re doing in the kitchen - watch a few editions of Jamie Oliver or Masterchef. Maybe the snide detraction I’m indulging in here wouldn’t crop up if this particular week hadn’t been dominated by the out-of-season, don’t-frighten-the-horses senior coach travellers. I don’t know.
Although it was only Thursday, Ivan wanted to go home, so we checked out. Had Sarah lived to be there, I’m sure she would have wanted to go home, too. I thought the deal the Norbreck offered us, which makes my criticism appear unfair, was amazing - Wendy and I had stayed in a nice room, had two meals, and the cost for it all was a mere £30. I doubt we’d ever experience such a bargain again. I’ll bet that on a warm summer’s day, with a much more mixed, family clientele, that the Norbreck can smile across the impressive expanse of North Bay with justified pride. It’s just a pity that, like all cuddly creatures, it was in hibernation when we were there. As for Mr. Defoe, look, Danny, your act is right for your audience, and you can hold a tune, but buy yourself a copy of The Complete NME Singles Guide and check out the charts for the 50s and 60s. Remind us old folk that we gave the world more than Venus in Blue Jeans, Tommy Steele or Paul Anka. We used to rock and many of us still do..