article_snippet: Don't worry, this isn't rubbish,' says the weary young woman who shows me to a room on the first floor above the kitchen extractor - even though only two other people are staying.
article_snippet: She is not referring to the room, but to the eight bulging black plastic bin bags - 'it's just sheets and stuff.'
article_snippet: You might think sheets and stuff could be stored elsewhere.
article_snippet: But then, on seeing the room, I have my doubts.
article_snippet: The window frame has been painted recently, but no one has bothered to scrape off the drips stuck to the panes; three dull watercolours hang on the walls; the small desk is battered and bruised; and the bedside lights are those infuriating ones that only come on when you tap the bedside lights.
article_snippet: Things are more convivial downstairs.
article_snippet: The panelled bar, with its saddles on the walls, open fires (not lit) and exposed timber beams provide some atmosphere, but the best part is the dining room up a short flight of stairs, with its mish-mash of tables and chairs, some of which are lovely antique jobs.
article_snippet: I get talking in the morning to the 'sheets and stuff' member of staff, and I like her no-nonsense honesty. '
highlights_snippet: However, this little retreat feels less like a hotel, more a converted pub .
  