Fudge, my three-year-old cavapoo, is convinced there is a hedgehog in Room 151. We’re staying in 152, and whenever we pass the next room, Fudge stops to scratch and sniff the door, growl-whimpering in a tone that says: “Small, possibly spiky animal inside.” It’s not out of the question. The staff of the Kimpton Fitzroy hotel in Bloomsbury — a grade II listed 19th-century grande dame overlooking Russell Square — tell me they’ve had at least five pet hedgehogs staying here. Hamsters like to visit too.
Welcome to the weird world of the petcation. In a survey in June, a third of dog owners said they wouldn’t stay at a hotel if they couldn’t bring their beloved pooch along. My wife, Mary, and I don’t quite fall into that camp, but we were craving a weekend break. This place not only takes pets but boasts about how well they are looked after, so . . . here we are. Romantic getaway with hound. I’d imagined the Kimpton Fitzroy might be full of dusty dowagers cradling coiffed poodles. But behind its grand colonnaded terracotta façade it’s full of young, funky folk — only a few with pets.
A recent, mischievous survey by the Grand Brighton and Richmond Hill Hotel found that 69 per cent of Brits would rather go on holiday with their pet than with their other half. I spy a forlorn hipster slumped in a chair whose girlfriend is kissing a bichon frise. Poor bloke. Then I realise that while I’ve been checking in, Mary has taken Fudge for a sunny afternoon stroll in Russell Square. In the hotel’s casual Burr & Co café/ restaurant, Just the Two of Us by Bill Withers is playing.
One of the few corners of the hotel where dogs are not welcome is Fitz’s, the wood-panelled cocktail bar, so I suggest we go there for an aperitif and leave Fudge to get acquainted with our room (big comfy double bed and three-piece suite to roll on; freestanding bath tub to sniff around; rainforest shower room to do whatever dogs might do in rainforest shower rooms; giant mirror for barking at reflection) — and the room service menu.
Ap-PET-isers, it’s called, with added hyphenation and capitalisation in case the penny fails to drop. Fudge has a choice of either the Bloomsbury Bark (beef, sweet potato, carrots, broccoli, kale) or Pawesome Pooch (salmon, quinoa, broccoli, green peas, kale, fennel, mint).
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They have options for cats, rabbits and hamsters, and two of the dishes — the Kimpton Spiker (chicken, apple, banana, green beans, squash) and the Prickleberry (beef, blueberries, raspberries, melon, tomatoes) — have been concocted with hedgehogs in mind.
Fudge is a fan of salmon, but the kitchen tells me they’re all out, so beef it is — delivered in pub-roast-dinner-sized slabs alongside mountains of veg in a huge bowl. That should keep him busy for a while.
In Fitz’s, polka-dotted by the light bouncing off a giant stationary disco ball, Mary and I order negronis and talk about the days when we used to go to bars — and what Fudge might be getting up to. Earlier he’d tried to cock his leg against the neighbour’s door — perhaps to show Spiker who was boss. Where else might he mark his territory?
“Do you think it’ll be OK?” Mary says.
“The dog?”
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“No, the room.”
“It’ll be fine . . . Drink up.”
Back in the room, Fudge has devoured the beef and turned his nose up at the veg. (Does anyone’s dog eat kale?) Being the well-trained hound he is, there has been no leg cocking, but we decide to give him another run out in Russell Square, where he is fussed over by some students. Then we move on to phase two of the evening and bring him to Burr & Co, where a DJ is spinning housey tunes.
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We find a table in a far corner, where the volume is most doggy friendly. I have the £14 ragu pappardelle, Mary has the £15 Burr-ger (more “geddit?” hyphenation). It’s a relaxed, diner-like affair, the food is good if nowt special — but the wine is flowing and we’re having a laugh with a couple at the next table who have (fortunately) taken a shine to Fudge.
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It’s fun, if a little confusing: I had envisaged something posher, given how palatial the hotel feels elsewhere. The Palm Court — the luxurious heart of the Kimpton Fitzroy, all chandeliers and towering foliage — has been taken over by a wedding. (One ceremony here in August featured the couple’s pet pug as the ring bearer, I’m told.)
“Would Fudge like beef or salmon?” the waiter asks. You haven’t got any salmon, I tell him. He checks. Still no salmon. Fudge, being a dog, remains none the wiser.
In September the restaurateur brothers Chris and Jeff Galvin opened a 100-cover bar and grill at the hotel, which has upped the culinary ante — though dogs aren’t allowed. It’s the right call, because really, if you’re going out for a proper dinner, bringing a dog is just embarrassing.
After food we take a night-time city walk, Fudge exploring a new world of scent. He sleeps on the sofa. On Sunday mornings the hotel offers a free Bloomsbury walking tour, which dogs are welcome to join. But we prefer to lie in and have a late breakfast (perfectly cooked poached eggs at Burr & Co; a sausage for Fudge).
An estimated 3.2 million Brits have acquired pets since the pandemic started. I suspect more and more hotels will be marketing petcations such as this one. For city breakers who can’t bear to be parted from their animals — or worse, those who got a pet during lockdown and are considering giving it up now their old busier lives are back — this place offers a solution and hope. And hedgehogs.
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James Palmer was a guest of the Kimpton Fitzroy. The Kimpton Pet-Kation package starts at £309, including a B&B double for two humans and one pet and a meal from the ap-PET-isers menu (kimptonfitzroy london.com)
