Why I'd be the best hotel inspector, if Michelin Keys have a vacancy going

Earlier this week, the inaugural UK and Ireland Michelin Keys were announced.

These are the hotel equivalent of a star for restaurants, with ratings of one (a very special stay), two (an exceptional stay) or three keys (an extraordinary stay).

There aren’t any huge surprises, when it comes to the Scottish winners. No Fawlty Towers-esque experience slipped under the radar.

Of course, our Scottish grand dame, The Gleneagles Hotel in Auchterarder, was the only venue to bag a top three key rating. Then, the marginally less plush - according to them, anyway - The Balmoral and Braemar’s The Fife Arms each got two, with 12 hotels being awarded one key.

Gleneagles Hotel | Adobe

These included 100 Princes Street, Prestonfield and Gleneagles Townhouse in Edinburgh, The Grandtully Hotel at Ballintaggart, Glenapp Castle, Cromlix, Foyers Lodge Loch Ness and Kinloch Lodge on the Isle of Skye.

All gorgeous places, which were judged on criteria including location, architecture, quality, value and personality. I’d love that judging job, as a total hotel-ophile.

I’m a fan of the whole experience, from check-in and admiring the lobby, to leaping into a bouncy bed that’s not covered in discarded clothes and books.

The tea and coffee tray! Big fluffy towels! At home, I only own prehistoric grey ones that mortify me when I hang them out to dry in the back garden.

I’m sure I can feel the revolted eyes glaring down from surrounding tenement windows. The Scottish comedian, Limmy, did a whole sketch on that, and I felt seen.

In contrast to my sandpapery versions, which only move the damp around, hotel towels are like being buffed by Persian kitten paws.

And, yes, I do steal hotel toiletries, and sometimes a shower cap and a sewing kit, too. I remember a friend asking me if you’re allowed to keep the dressing gowns. The answer is no.

Perhaps I’ve seen too many episodes of Four in a Bed or The Hotel Inspector, but I really want to swan around all of these places, with my clipboard, Sharpie and a packet of gold stars.

Mind you, the Michelin Keys are judged by anonymous experts, and that might blow my cover.

I’d be too tempted to eat breakfast, while penning obviously florid notes about the sausage quality, crispy-ness of bacon and if a poached egg yolk was runny-centred.

How I love a hotel brekkie. At home, it’s just two Bixies, which are Lidl’s cut price Weetabix dupe.

I’ll top them with a few blueberries, though more often than not, a couple of those will have gone mouldy and grown white beards like Papa Smurf.

When a buffet is available to me, I do the full three or four-course morning meal - fruit, nuts and Bircher’s muesli, then smoked salmon and scrambled eggs, all rounded off by croissants and toast with marmalade and maybe a mini pain au chocolat. Plus apple juice, a cappuccino and a cup of tea. If they’re doing a smoothie of the day, count me in.

At my last hotel stay - the gorgeous Fairmont in St Andrews - I outdid myself by adding sausage and hash brown to my usual repertoire.

Of course, if I was a hotel inspector, I wouldn’t just stuff my face. I am a professional sort.

I’d be quite talented at snagging duties. If anyone is going to notice a chipped skirting board, a dusty curtain swag, or a broken hair-dryer, it’s moi. That’s despite the fact that my own home is a total dump.

It’s the theatre of hotels that appeals to me. The idea that a guest is on set and, behind the scenes, in offices and kitchens, there are hospitality people who are bringing the fantasy to life.

At Gleneagles, especially, the staff are what make it such an experience. They’re helpful and enthusiastic, and can deal with any idiot who can’t work the air-con in their room.

I’m one of those and usually spend about 30 minutes trying to switch the telly on, too.

I feel their pain, as hospitality is a tough gig. I don’t know how they keep smiling, when people are often so irritating and spoiled, like the White Lotus characters.

I hope I’m not like that. I don’t think so, as I’m usually too full of appreciative wonder.

When I was a kid, as a self-catering sort of family, we very rarely stayed in hotels, so doing so was a total joyous treat. We only did it a couple of times.

I still remember a thrilling night at a bed and breakfast, The Rock Inn, in Blackwaterfoot on Arran. I must’ve been about eight, and, as my mum and dad were in the bar, my sister and I crept down there in our nighties, post bedtime.

There was live music and a man serenaded us with his guitar. It was the best moment of my life.

My twenties were full of hostels and rubbish hotels. In the days before Travelodge or Premier Inn, I stayed at a very cheap hotel in London’s pre-gentrified King’s Cross, with a boyfriend in tow. The bath was stained orange and the sheets were manky.

When we got back one night, there was someone smoking crack on the doorstep. It definitely wasn’t Gleneagles.

I also once spent about a month in a hostel/hotel in San Francisco. The showers were grotesque and there was an ant infestation in the kitchen. I still enjoyed my stay. At least the doors had locks on them.

But now, I’m very much in my comfortable hotel era.

If there’s a part-time vacancy going for a Michelin Key reviewer, count me in. I promise I’ll attempt to go incognito.