Forget the drawn-out check-in with a bellhop who judges your luggage. At the Fishergate, you get a pleasant robot at the reception desk who asks, “Booking name?” in a way that suggests they’ve heard every excuse in the book. You’ll answer, they’ll hand you a keycard, and you’ll be in your room before you’ve even finished your yawn from the car.
There’s no faff. No confusing concierge. It’s the hotel equivalent of a “no fuss, no muss” policy. One time, I was so tired, I accidentally tried to open the fire exit. The receptionist just gave me a patient smile and pointed to the lifts. That’s the vibe. Everyone’s seen it all, and they just want you to get to your hypoallergenic pillow.
