The Private Hotel

On a high sedimentary cliff overlooking a small fishing town in north Devon, England, there stood a rather unique hotel. It was built in the 1880s, which made it something of a parvenue in comparison to its shoreline neighbours, some of which could remember, within their walls, witches dragged from their rooms, the hooves of Cromwell’s horses, and various and sundry drumbeats of early-modern history. The town church, and several buildings adjoining it, had been around since the Second Crusade. The town pub was built in the reign of Henry VII and had been dispensing ale, without interruption, ever since.  

These buildings had their charms. They had been painted a thousand times, and visitors came from all over the world to marvel at their quaintness, (although it was undeniably harder to live in them then it was to stand outside and admire them). But the hotel on the cliff was the star of the exhibition, for it was high-Victorian-gothic, with turrets, slate roofs, gargoyles and the blooming magnificence of wisteria in June. But of the owner, little was known.  

Well, this story can go nowhere without an introduction, so let me oblige you. The owner of the hotel on the sedimentary cliff is called Paul Darwin - no relation. He is not a recluse in the usual misanthropic sense of the word - he is the owner of an hotel, after all, but he is severely, chronically and critically photosensitive. He does not have to sit in the dark - soft, electric light is fine, and he wears bespoke glasses which enable him to write his stories and watch films and television. He is a normal man, young and handsome, with an unfortunate condition.  

He was blessed enough to have inherited a large sum of money from his parents, but the sum total of that legacy is dwarfed by what he makes in a year writing children’s books. Paul Darwin is, in fact, the most successful writer in history. His books are made into movies, and with the subsequent merchandising, the millions just keep rolling. In order to assuage the public’s abiding curiosity, Paul uses an old friend as his literary stunt double. The entire world believes that Paul Darwin is a jocular ginger-haired fellow who sometimes appears for interview and gives a very good account of himself. These public appearances are kept to a minimum, and the friend is paid a small fortune to keep schtum. The only people who know who the real writer is are his agent and a handful of his staff, who are also well remunerated following the signing of an NDA. Writing is the profession most easy to disguise, and the seasonal staff, the waiters and so forth, have no idea what he gets up to in the daylight hours.  

And seasonal staff they truly are, for this hotel opens on the first day of June, when the wisteria is in high bloom, and closes in the middle of September, when in the UK the chances of a fresh burst of heat begin to diminish. You might find this arrangement acceptable until I tell you that, in addition to photosensitivity, Paul Darwin cannot stand the heat. He hates the summer, he dreads it: not just because it is too bright for too long, thus curtailing his activities, but because he finds it stifling, wearying, draining and utterly unhelpful to creative writing. Or indeed, to thinking at all.  

Some years ago, whilst browsing various social media platforms, he came to realise that the world was split into two types: those who love the summer, (the majority), and those who, like him, detest it and are made to hide it like a dirty secret - as though hating the summer were something to be ashamed of. It is wearisome to be constantly told by the media and the weathermen that there’s a heatwave coming and how bloody marvellous it is! At last! Get out the barbecues! (and forget the flat-dwellers). Paul Darwin is aware that other countries are hotter. The Australians are particularly quick to laugh when it gets over 25°C and a small number of Brits begin to complain, but we Brits who dislike the heat would never dream of living there, so that’s that. In addition to spiders that are big enough to go to work, it is just too damned hot, and they are welcome to it.  

So given his dislike of heat, and his clinical difficulty with light, one might wonder why Paul Darwin chooses to open the doors of his hotel in the one season he hates the most. But it is precisely why he hates the summer that he chooses to open then. Because his clientele feel the same. The only way you can book one of the twenty-five well-appointed rooms in this hotel is by word of mouth, and his waiting-list is long. He has, quite simply, exploited a gap in the market.  

In addition to his photosensitive clients, (many of whom stay for free), Paul has a steady flow of healthy summer-haters through his doors. Many of them are northern Europeans but by no means all. He has guests from the sub-continent, the Middle East and Africa who are absurdly grateful for the respite from the intense heat of their own countries. Guests are particularly happy (smug) at the announcement of a heatwave, because they had chosen, by lucky chance, the very best time to be there They enjoy the bar, the chess, the indoor and outdoor pools and the exceptional cuisine. The temperature is kept at a constant 15°C and every need is catered for. Each room, each public space, is sound-proofed so that the photosensitive clients can sleep during the day and enjoy the long, cool evenings, and all in all, the hotel on the limestone cliff is a roaring, and very private, success.  

*

In the town down below, things were not going as well.  

Several months earlier, the townspeople had been subjected to council elections, which only came about every four years but which felt more frequent. The outcome was that, out of nothing more than a feckless sense of boredom, a majority of the electorate voted in an entirely different party to run their affairs. A change can often do a consumptive good, but it rarely works in politics. Within a week, the honeymoon was over.  

The town’s verges, which had always been neatly mown, had quickly run to wasteland. And because no one could see through the thickets, dog-owners stopped picking up after their animals, litter was casually thrown, footballs went missing, small children went missing, and many minor collisions occurred because drivers could not see through the tall grass when pulling out. The new councillors called this re-wilding.  

Notices began to appear from the Council. BE KIND! they urged. And then:  REPORT YOUR NEIGHBOUR If you have been offended by anything a neighbour or colleague has said to you, call this number. Your calls will be treated in confidence.  

No more jokes were told in the pub. The football team disbanded because they kept losing their footballs and if they did retrieve them, they and the ball were inevitably covered in shit. People stopped talking to their neighbours about anything except the weather. Yes, isn’t it hot! Marvellous! We’re thinking of having a barbecue this afternoon. Please tell us if the smoke offends you …

Along the high street, which ran adjacent to the sea, the Council removed the sensible straight line down the centre of the road with a wavy one. This was, apparently, to encourage concentration when driving. Cycle lanes in the colours of the rainbow made it difficult for the townsfolk to cross the road in the wake of the pelotons they encouraged. Horses were spooked by the gaudy stripes. Cameras suddenly appeared everywhere, and they announced the closure of the much-loved library on the same day it was made known that a Diversity Officer had been appointed at a salary far in excess of the Library’s annual outgoings. Next year’s Council Tax would have to go up. Considerably.  

A popular cafe on the promenade was closed down following a hygiene inspection, despite its many awards for hygiene. In its place, the Council approved a Climate Change Cafe, where concerned locals could indulge their received hysteria over a skinny latte with soy milk. The school dinner ladies were ordered to produce vegan menus only. Packed lunches were carefully monitored.  

*

At the second General Council Meeting, the Diversity Officer made noises about the hotel on the cliff. There was no opposition because they had all been voted out, and in the absence of anything better do do, it was decided that the hotel must be visited to check its inclusivity policy.   

The morning they chose for this unannounced visit threatened to deteriorate into a 32°C afternoon, (ooh luverly!) At the time of their arrival, the mercury was rising. The guests were looking forward to a swim, (indoor or outdoor), and a pleasant lunch. An important international football match was scheduled in the common room, and the Englishmen were anticipating getting drunk beforehand to save time. Paul Darwin was sleeping, having spent most of the night on the terrace and enjoying the company of his guests in the cool, dark blessed night. The blackout shutters were firmly drawn.

In the reception area, a small delegation, (the Diversity Officer and two more), arrived at the gleaming desk, blinking in the dulled light and shivering slightly from the marked drop in temperature. They demanded to speak to the proprietor. The receptionist, an Englishman with a French knack for his role, told them it was out of the question. Without leave, the contingent broke away from the desk and began looking at the ground floor rooms, all of which were shuttered and lit by soft lamps. Their minds, (warped by this strange mental virus from which hardier people seemed immune), came to the conclusion that something nefarious was going on at the hotel on the cliff. They imagined children and slaves, experiments in eugenics, or at least a training camp for subversives. Such flights of fancy led to a meeting with the local police and a decision to obtain a search warrant which would legitimise a raid on the premises the following day.  

*

My, my. What a mess. At dawn the hotel was raided amid a barrage of excitable shouts from the constabulary. The entrance door hinges had withstood the ‘big red key’ but the door itself remained stubbornly open, emitting threads of light which were increasing with each degree the sun gained on the horizon. Guests were plucked from their beds, shutters were torn open, and all mobile phones and other devices were seized.  

When the receptionist arrived at 7.30, he was met with a wall of distressed voices and a hotel invaded by stringent, midsummer light. The healthy guests were outraged, but their protests sounded of nothing more than a discordant babble. Those with photosensitivity, (and Paul Darwin was amongst them), were desperately trying to shield themselves from the light, but the visual effect of their efforts made them look like cringing degenerates, mortified and ashamed that they had been caught out in their evil crimes.  

It seemed as though all the stages of Dante’s Inferno had visited the common room at once.  

*

If this story has a hero, it is our receptionist. With withering disdain, and as succinctly as possible, he explained the purpose of the hotel, the reason for the closed shutters, and the absolute necessity for the photosensitive guests to be taken to hospital immediately. There lesions must be treated, and their eyesight tested.  

He then went to the media. The Diversity Officer resigned immediately and went to her mother’s in Dagenham. The many strands of the story, which struck a chord with so many people, travelled the globe. The following morning, the entire council resigned and by-elections were held. The old councillors were returned: the grass was cut, the notices came down, and the Climate Change Cafe was closed. An unknown benefactor bestowed the library, and the straight lines returned to the coastal road. The rainbow markings went where rainbows go.  

Paul Darwin released his friend from his obligations, and held a series of media interviews, during which he explained the business model, and in passing, that he was the best-selling author. All around the world, (except Iceland and Finland), similar hotels began to appear. Conversations about the weather became more balanced. It was almost socially acceptable to say you hated the season without some Aussie piping up ‘you think this is hot?’

But the most noticeable change which occurred after the events I have described, were the weather reports, which from henceforth, went something like this:

Well, there’s a heatwave on the way, folks. For those of you who like it, don’t forget the suncream and have a good time. Stay out of the water. And for those who don’t like it, don’t worry. It will all be over by Wednesday.