I don’t love shipping crates.
It’s Proustian, I guess — only where old Proust had madeleines and misty memories of summers past, I have 15 years working in Shoreditch. Fifteen years of corrugated steel, £12 souvlaki wraps and awkward conversations about career progression over warm bottles of Mythos. Which is why, when I found myself stepping out of the back of a Volvo in the pouring rain, looking up at a black shipping crate with “Fifty Two” emblazoned across it, my heart did not sing. Which is a shame as Rudding Park, in which the restaurant sits, is an absolutely bloody gorgeous spa hotel, fit to bursting with a glorious sense of Yorkshire welcome and generosity. Posh done proper.
