When I arrive at the real-life Basil Fawlty's 'hotel of horrors', a sign tells ... trends now
She places a concerned hand on my shoulder, looks deep into my eyes and asks, softly: 'Are you ok?'
These are the haunting words of one local resident when I tell her I am staying at the infamous Minster Garth Guest House in the idyllic market town of Beverley, East Yorkshire.
The Grade-II listed Georgian property has been dubbed the 'hotel of horrors' by local residents, and reading the reviews on TripAdvisor, it's not difficult to see why.
'Please do not book.'
'Don't give this awful place your money.'
'Do not go here, it's worse than dreadful.'
The Daily Mail's Fred Kelly stayed a night in the 'house of horrors' and had to contend with a loud argument and a car screeching off while staying in Room 10
But after a decade of scathing reviews and a catalogue of heated altercations with his own guests, has eccentric 60-year-old proprietor John Dixon Hart finally softened his manner as he claims?
Early indications suggested not. Just days before the Mail checked in, Hart was seen raising his middle finger at photographers as walked into Hull Crown Court, having pleaded guilty to six offences of misleading commercial practices.
In a brown felt top hat, well-worn three-piece suit, shirt with a winged collar and overcoat, and carrying what appeared to be a metal cane, Mr Hart was given a nine-month suspended sentence and 20 days' enforced rehabilitation, to help with his alcohol-fuelled misbehaviour.
The court heard that Mr Hart had described one female guest as a 'c***' and called another woman a 'f****** letch' and a 'sponger'.
Judge Mark Barry said he was 'absolutely staggered' there were any guests at all and likened Hart to a real-life 'Basil Fawlty', the hapless hotelier with an explosive temper made famous by John Cleese's beloved sitcom. Hart welcomed the comparison, describing Fawlty as 'wonderful and hilarious'.
In the face of previous setbacks, Hart has remained resolute. As far back as 2017, he was fined £7,000 for falsely advertising the property as a four-star hotel.
There was obvious damp on the ceiling and walls by the window, probably caused by a leak, and the door handle to the bathroom was caked in a dark brown colour — could it be dried blood?
Later the same year, he again made the news when he put up a sign outside the front door proclaiming: 'Women not Welcome'.
He later clarified that women would be allowed to stay as it is their legal right, but they would not be explicitly welcome because: 'I don't really like women. I just don't speak to them or look at them.'
And then in August last year, Mr Hart served one month of a 22-week sentence for public order and harassment offences.
So perhaps you can forgive me for being somewhat apprehensive as I arrived at the Minster Garth Guest House on Monday evening.
The windows refused to fully close, while dead woodlice lined the sills
Just how dismal was this hotel, in the very heart of Beverley, one of the North's most popular and tourist-friendly towns?
After making a reservation online for £40 (considerably less than the train fare from London), I receive a message (as I later learn, from none other than Hart himself) with a mobile number to text for an entry keycode and my room number.
It quickly becomes clear there is no reception at the guest house, no staff and no one to call should I run into trouble.
Entering the hotel from a side door I come upon a small foyer with a host of leaflets for local attractions including Playdale Farm Park and Sea Life Scarborough.
Trying to find his room, without the help of any staff, Fred found a staircase leading from the ground floor which featured a 5ft canvas made with images of Audrey Hepburn
A sign on the wall proclaims: 'ring buzzer for assistance'. But where there should be a buzzer, there is nothing more than a broken, empty bracket. I check my phone: no signal. The door slams shut behind me.
To the left, say the signs, are rooms 2 & 3, with rooms 4 to 9 upstairs. So where was room 10, my promised boudoir for the evening?
I follow a narrow staircase and enter an unmarked door, falling into a closet of hastily folded laundry.
Backtracking, I make my way down a second staircase to the ground floor, past three 5ft canvases eerily all featuring collages of Audrey Hepburn. I stop to admire her, just for a moment. She smiles back at me seductively, like a siren luring a foolish sailor to the rocks — and his doom.
Eventually, I find Room 10. A code-dial box unlocks my key. I turn it in the door and, fearing the worst, push it gently open.
At first glance, it is a far cry from the online warnings of mouse droppings, broken window panes and the stench of stale tobacco.
Mr Hart has evidently got his house in order.
But on closer inspection, I uncover unwelcome surprises. Lifting up the duvet, I found two stains — ominously circular.
I begin to understand why one lady near the train station had advised me to invest in a sleeping bag.
Guests can enjoy the outdoor area while sitting in an old folding camping chair with a plant pot ashtray conveniently placed next to it
A long strand of hair lies on the pillow; mould festers on the ceiling beside the windows which — despite my most vigorous efforts — refuse to fully close.
