All pumped up for refinement in Cheltenham

“HURRY! I can hear footsteps,” I dived at my partner, tugging at his sleeve, nearly making his phone drop out of his hand halfway through a sneaky shot of the crystal chandelier dangling from the Pittville Pump Room’s dramatic domed ceiling.

My exhilaration at breaking the rules as we rushed past the deserted reception desk up the stairwell to the forbidden first floor had quickly descended into full-blown terror. Would baton-wielding guards swoop in and arrest us for trespassing? Probably not, but I’ve never been cool under pressure.

An electrician hanging a disco ball in the ornate grand hall peered down from his ladder, gave us the once-over and carried on setting up for the imminent wedding without a word. This, of course, was the reason for the famous Pump Room’s unexpected closure – but there were no signs saying no entry and, although the door was not technically ajar, neither was it locked.

But the sound of footsteps sent us hurtling down the stairs – my partner unhelpfully whistling the theme tune to Mission Impossible, his phone cocked like a revolver for effect, mocking my paranoia.

By the time we reached the safety of the surrounding parkland my heart was in my throat.

You may wonder what had possessed us to ‘break in’ to one of Cheltenham’s biggest tourist attractions on a sunny Saturday morning. Well, it was all part of an extremely fraught plan to prove we were responsible adults - cultured, educated - and put paid to our (well my) old philistine ways once and for all.

You see, as a doe-eyed reporter stuck in the Gloucestershire wilderness, I had little to amuse myself but to chat to an old lady who, every Sunday without fail, would leisurely dig up flowers from the borders of the estate agent next door. So I found myself driving to nearby Cheltenham most weekends, seeking adventures and culture. Of course, being 21, something always stood in the way of this promised enlightenment – usually H&M and the lure of a clotted cream-slathered scone at Huffkins bakery.

Try as I might, for two years I managed to avoid the museum and art gallery, Pittville Pump Room and pretty much every area of cultural or architectural interest beyond the High Street.

But this time was going to be different. We had planned a romantic getaway to expunge two years of wasted opportunities.

It had all started respectably enough with a night at the Cheltenham Park Hotel and Spa.

The grand home certainly measured up to our lofty expectations of a typical Cotswold manor house with its chequered marble foyer, framed imposing pillars and curved oak staircase.

The spacious room and labyrinthine corridors offered more cornicing, Italian-inspired flair reminiscent of its Edwardian heyday and a large bow window overlooking the vast grounds.

With multi-coloured retro furnishings vying for attention with the original features, it made for an intriguing blend of traditional touches and kitsch.

We wasted no time in reporting to the buzzing Lakeside restaurant, for a dinner of rare steak for my partner and melt-in-the mouth duck breast on a bed of sweet potatoes and tangy pickled melon ribbons for me.

The starters of pate and brioche and main polished off, I made short shrift of my molten sticky toffee pudding drizzled in thick syrup. The chocolate pot on the other side of the table was all but licked clean.

Back in our room by a reasonable and rather grown-up 11.30pm, despite the lure of the bar, we drifted off to sleep when came the real test of our maturity – a raucous party next door.

We weighed our options until, at 1am, instead of facing our problem head on and marching over to demand that they to keep it down, we resorted to a cowardly plan B. We called reception and snitched.

We made the most of our time silently protesting at the impromptu shindig (and patiently waiting for the receptionist to trot along and give them a good scolding), perusing the potted history of the hotel on our bedside tables.

Formerly known as Lilley Brook, it was built as a country seat in the 19th century. Its owner, Yorkshire merchant Thomas Thornley, died childless and the pile was passed to his cousin’s daughter, Mary, who married debonair Etonian and one-time soldier Herbert Owen Lord. As he had no need to trifle himself with an actual job, he split his time between his duties as one of the original directors of the Cheltenham Racecourse Company, master of the Cotswold Hunt, and member of three distinguished London clubs.

When the family sold up in 1921 and settled in a ‘modest’ residence in Badminton, the big house was promptly turned into the 40-bedroom Lilley Brooke Hotel.

During the Second World War it was temporarily commandeered by the US 6th Armoured Division, whose personnel were billeted throughout the region in the run-up to the D-Day landings. In 1995, it was renamed Cheltenham Park Hotel, erasing any trace of its illustrious ancestry.

It seems the drone of our voices reading the pamphlet out loud lulled them to sleep, or perhaps they ran out of gin – either way the din finally stopped, saving the night receptionist a lengthy trip down the warren-like network of corridors.

The old me would have spent Sunday morning lazing about in front of the TV, probably with friends Tim Lovejoy and Simon Rimmer for company.

But determined to show my slothful self was ancient news, I woke bright and early and headed to the spa for a swim and an invigorating steam – like a bona fide adult. In some sort of cosmic joke perhaps, I arrived just in time for the health centre’s children’s swimming lesson. Well, at least the parents fringing the pool were grown-up enough.

After a restorative fry-up we drove a couple of miles into the heart of Regency Cheltenham.

First stop: the Pump Room. Of course we hadn’t accounted for the start of the wedding season but we had come too far to back out.

Running through the park like fugitives after our brief intrusion, we caught our breath and strolled back into the town centre, determined to tick a few more sights off our list.

History has a way of repeating itself, though, and we were soon side-tracked by the mouth-watering smell of baked pastries drifting from Huffkins. A cheese scone and scrummy lardy cake later, we stumbled out of the tea rooms, barely able to put one foot in front of the other let alone drag ourselves through an art gallery.

Feeling horribly lacking and decidedly unsophisticated, we dawdled towards the car park and drove home, where we proceeded to slump in front of the television.

“At least I made it as far as the Pump Room this time,” I thought to myself, still sluggish from the unwise combo of fry-up breakfast and cheese scone brunch.

I could see my mother berating my eight-year-old self for having “eyes bigger than your stomach”. This growing up business is exhausting.

TRAVEL FACTS

• Cheltenham Park Hotel, Cirencester Road, Charlton Kings, Cheltenham, GL53 8EA.
• 01242 222021
• www.cheltenhampark-hotel.co.uk.
• Marion stayed in a premium room with breakfast and dinner for two included for £189.