Sound familiar? It should do. This was the source of inspiration for Sir Arthur Conan Doyle to write about the infamous hound. Local legend told of a dog-like beast tormenting the local area. Doyle pitted Sherlock Holmes against the hound in one of the greatest mysteries ever written.
When the opportunity to stay in the very same house that the great writer himself frequently visited, I couldn't pass it up.
I was headed to Hay-on-Wye for the literary festival and so needed lodging for the night. Baskerville Hall Hotel looked the perfect fit. I must make it known that I don't think the great author stayed in quite the same level of accommodation as I did. The building was once owned by friends of his, and I'm sure in those times, it was much more opulent. That's not to say it's bad looking now, just that not a lot seems to have changed since then. Since World War Two, the building has had various uses as a school, a health centre and a hotel. All these identities seem to have aged it, and the current hotel/hostel hybrid incarnation has the faded scars of time throughout.
But I loved it.
The carpets were worn, the furniture was mismatched, the decor was dated to say the least. But I bloody loved it. It's the kind of building you would say has 'character' as a polite way of saying it doesn't look good. But 'character' is so much better than shiny taps and magnolia walls. It has life. And past lives etched into every wooden windowsill or faded velvet curtain.
I stayed in a large sixteen bed dorm. It was comfortable and had everything I needed. It even had the reliable inevitability of someone opting to sleep in the bunk directly below mine, despite the obvious availability of ten other beds. When I crept in at gone one in the morning, (that's a different story, not to be told here) it added an extra dimension to my phone-light mission, by challenging me not to stick my foot in the face of the person below me. I bet Doyle never had to deal with that.
My arrival at the hall coincided with a break in the traditional British summer weather. On the final leg of my journey, I had battled against the kind of driving rain that even double speed windscreen wipers can do little about. I had hugged the hedge on corners into Wales hoping I wouldn't meet a tractor emerging out of the gloom. But as I drove up the long driveway to the hall, the rains had stopped and some semblance of brightness adorned the sky. With a touch of end-of-the-world beauty, the sun was juxtaposed with the deepest grey-purple sky above the rich, green hills that frame the site of Baskerville. It was the kind of foreboding view that I'm sure would've sparked Sir Arthur's imagination back in the day.
The inside was just as inspirational. The grand, central staircase led upstairs to a small landing overlooking the entrance hall. Strategically placed on the landing, either side of the fireplace and with a grand piano next door, were two leather wingback chairs. The sort of chairs you can sink into, rest your arms on with a worldly-wise aura and quietly watch the events of the Baskerville Hall Hotel unfold around you. And that's exactly what I did. All I needed was a pipe and a smoking jacket.
Whilst sat there I asked myself what would Sherlock do. And so I watched everyone. The extremely helpful receptionist I had met earlier. The group of American girls arriving late with no booking. The drunk stumbling out of the bar and attempting to initiate conversation with said group. The even drunker friend who escorted him back. The sleepwalker who opened his room door above us, mistaking it for the toilet. The late night dog walker with her tiny pug, for whom nature must've called in the early hours. Baskerville Hall Hotel seems to attract a cacophony of characters. Maybe even enough characters for the next instalment of a famous mystery.
Maybe the howling I heard later in the night was that very same pug, or maybe it was the sound of a hound that used to roam these grounds.
Maybe some mysteries are best left mysterious.
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