The Fleece at Ruleholme

I had booked us in at an inn/restaurant that had been highlighted on a major restaurant review site for our last night in England. This was meant to be at the end of a day of leisurely driving (all nice easy-peasy motorway), where we’d arrive at 4pm, in time to enjoy the sunset as we went for a walk around the village. Did I mention the flat tyre? The brutal traffic? The endless rain? This was not a day that was going in my favour.

The first clue as to how my day might end came after I left a message at the hotel explaining that I’d had a flat tyre and would be late for my dinner reservation. I’ve had dealings with posh restaurants before – they do not like it when reservations are missed – I know of several in Toronto and in London (England) who will charge your credit card if you miss your time slot. So I was braced when I got a phone call back from the hotel. It was a very concerned receptionist, worried about my safety and telling me not to give another thought to the reservations; they’d have a table waiting whenever I arrived. Okaaay . . .

The drive still took longer than I had anticipated and it was late when we walked in the door. Anna jumped up from her desk, concerned for my wellbeing and happy to see us, took Scout’s leash, and conducted us to our room. She was most apologetic because the room I had been assigned was no longer available (the guests the night before had spilled a cup of coffee all over the rug), so they’d had to put us in a room with a frayed carpet. (The fraying was negligible at best – I wouldn’t have noticed it had they not mentioned it.) To make it up to me (!?!) they had arranged that my breakfast the next morning would be on the house. Okaaay . . .

She advised me that there were still plenty of diners so I wouldn’t be solo and therefore not to feel rushed, and my table was waiting with a water dish for the dog whenever we were ready. My meal was delish: beef tartare, then duck with crab apple gravy, with a lovely wine, and Scout was thoroughly fawned over. The next morning the staff again apologised for the state of the carpet, and the manager had arranged for a sausage for Scout for breakfast. Okaaay . . .

I have absolutely no idea if anyone reading this will ever be travelling through the Cumbria region of England (the Scottish/English border), but if so, stay at The Fleece at Ruleholme. Trust me.

*Oh, and yes, that is a kipper on my breakfast plate.