The Hopping Hare is on the outskirts of Northampton in a Brookside-type estate. It does not look like much, but then Northampton isn’t an obvious choice for a short break.
Actually there’s more to Northampton than you might think. For starters, the Shoe Museum in the centre of town is a fascinating diversion, if only as a reminder of when we actually made things. And there’s some history: Thomas Becket, the Archbishop of Canterbury, stood trial at Northampton Castle in 1164 after falling out with Henry II, and Princess Diana is buried at nearby Althorp.
Hopping bad: The Hopping Hare did not meet the Inspector’s standards
The welcome is warm, the lager cool and the place, though not hopping, is doing good business. There is plenty of bar space, with more comfortable seating near the entrance, a restaurant annexe and outside terrace.
I’m handed a plastic key and told to keep it away from my mobile phone ‘otherwise it will wipe off all the information’. But it’s not clear what information. ‘Do you mean it will wipe off all the information on my mobile?’ I ask. ‘No, the information on the room key.’
The room is dreary. And unloved. Small things matter and small things are missing here. I think guests should be given a new roll of loo paper, rather than sharing with the last occupant, don’t you?
And it would help to get a pillow with some feathers in it. There’s garish wallpaper behind the bed and a trendy, albeit outdated, high headboard, but the bed itself is hard and mean.
The atmosphere at dinner is better than the food. My tasteless pan-fried sea bass starter with tempura squid sits on some wet spinach, pretending to be a bisque, and the lamb with curly kale and cauliflower puree is so dull that I order an extra bowl of chips for comfort.
When I ask for ketchup, a waitress has to walk the restaurant plank. ‘Sorry, but we seem to have run out of ketchup,’ she says. No! Like the Greek government has run out of money, like the England football team have run out of ideas.
Thank goodness for the couple in the corner having a slap-up feast, he on the pints, she on the white wine. Just before their puddings arrive he takes both her hands in his and says something that makes her very happy. We’re leaving in the morning, perhaps.
Breakfast is a disaster; no fresh fruit, no yogurt, no newspapers. Even the menu and paper napkin are stained. A pot of stewed coffee sits on a warming plate. I ask for an espresso and have to pay extra for it.
The ‘light breakfast’ option is billed as ‘scrambled egg on toasted muffin with crispy bacon’. What arrives is a white, powdery substance plonked on a barely toasted bread roll and a couple of rashers of waxen bacon.
The Hopping Hare makes me hopping mad.
Travel Facts
The Hopping Hare
18 Hopping Hill Gardens
Duston
Northants
NN5 6PF
01694 580090
www.hoppinghare.co.uk
Doubles from 75
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