My room wasn’t just a room; it was a sanctuary of unnecessary luxury. The bed had so many pillows I could build a fort and declare independence. The duvet was fluffier than my cat after a grooming session, and I swear it whispered, “Cancel your plans.” I obeyed.
There was a massive TV, but who needs Netflix when you can stare at the rain outside your window while sipping tea from a proper china cup? Surprising fact: The hotel was originally a 19th-century cotton mill, which explains the name. So technically, I was sleeping in a building that once housed workers making fabric. Now it houses people making bad decisions about second helpings at breakfast.
