It's located south-west of Perth, just outside Auchterarder, with the A9 and the railway station handy. (As ever, click on the maps below to get a closer view)
So although close to the Highlands, the Hotel isn't actually in the mountains. But you can see them all around. The air is that clear. Nor is the Hotel sited in a glen called Glen Eagles, although there is such a glen not far to the south. The placename 'Glen Eagles' is, I'm afraid, a corruption of the Gaelic Gleann Eagas - and while I don't know what Eagas means, I'm quite sure it isn't the word for 'eagles'. So you shouldn't expect to see a squadrons of golden eagles zooming around in the nearby sky. On the other hand, this amazing hotel has nearly everything else you could want.
I've got a thing about posh hotels, and - if I can - I like to take a look at them, and perhaps treat myself to a very self-indulgent lunch or dinner. Mind you, it's always an expensive experience, and so my meals in these places are few and far between - definitely a special reward to myself.
And I can never even think about staying a night - that's way beyond my means! I may be comfortably off as single pensioners go, but the pennies won't stretch to luxury five-star hotels, and that's what the Gleneagles Hotel is. Just as well that I can get around the country, for ninety-odd nights of the year, in my little caravan. I don't think I'll ever be able to do it another way.
As I say, I do now and then plunge in and enjoy a meal at some of these top hotels. Not often: in recent years there has only been dinner at the George Hotel in Stamford in 2013, and then lunch at the Randolf Hotel (of Inspector Morse fame) in Oxford in 2016. Those two haven't by any means been my only hotel meals in the last few years, but they were definitely the poshest. And pretty expensive too. Dinner at the George in Stamford cost me £90; lunch at the Randolf in Oxford hit me for £68. Big money for only one person, when a stir-fry back at the caravan would have done just as well.
Fast forward to 2019. It was about time I found a reason to give myself a holiday treat again. But I'd become wary of spending silly money just to feel pampered. So I hadn't put the Gleneagles Hotel on my list of places to go to if feeling peckish. Nor even as a place to take a peek at without necessarily stopping to spending money. A chance encounter changed that, though.
I was pitched at the Club site at Balbirnie Park, between Glenrothes and Markinch, and wanted a short-range trip before moving on southward to Northumberland. Studying the map, I saw that I might enjoy a triangular drive north-west to Perth, then south-west to Gleneagles station, then south-east back to Balbirnie Park, stopping as the mood took me. It was a fine day, getting quite warm. I love a drive, and reached Perth too soon to consider stopping for lunch. So I pressed on a bit further, now on the fast A9, and in no time saw the slip road for Gleneagles station. I thought it would be a good place to stop for a short while, to consult the map, and in any case see what the station looked like. I have a growing photographic collection of British railway stations, mostly the picturesque out-of-the-way ones, but anything is grist to my mill.
Gleneagles station sits in splendid isolation in fine countryside, but has a baronial air, seemingly built for well-off Edwardians in tweeds, up from the Metropolis for a weekend's goff. No riff-raff allowed here. In fact, the very neat and well-swept platforms were almost deserted, as if ordinary travellers in their dirty and dishevelled clothes had been frozen off the platforms and browbeaten into taking the bus instead. It's on a main line with direct services from London: you can catch a Caledonian Sleeper (specifically the Highlander to Inverness) and it will get you here in style, and maybe comfort too.
Is it 1919 or 2019? Hard to tell.
I wasn't the only human presence. There was a man dressed very smartly in (if I'm any judge) a Savile Row suit, with an earpiece. He had a gravitas about him that told me he was Someone. Indeed he was. He was in charge of the Reception Committee at the Hotel, the chief man. He explained that he was waiting for the next arrival - he was personally welcoming a guest off the train. I suppose he'd simultaneously summon a Range Rover or Bentley with the earpiece. The Hotel was barely five minutes' drive away.
In the few minutes before the train came in we had a chat. He asked me whether I intended to visit the Hotel. I said I hadn't really given it much thought, but I would certainly need to lunch somewhere soon. He didn't give me any hard sell, but said simply that I was very welcome to take a look and see whether I liked the menu, if lunch was what I was looking for. I thought the Hotel was just for golfers, said I, and in any case I wouldn't just be able to turn up casually. Oh no, said he, it was really part of a big multi-activity leisure resort, and nowadays the Hotel offered affordable breaks for families, as well as hosting big sporting events. I could walk in and take a look at the Hotel facilities without needing a special pass or anything. Well in that case, I replied, I would definitely think about it!
Having expressed interest, but without committing myself in any way, I could have got into Fiona and driven off, letting the opportunity go by. But I'd pretty well had an invitation. I decided to take advantage of it.
So shortly afterwards, I was turning into the Hotel driveway. It seemed to go on and on. A good thing that Fiona, dusty as she was from so much travel, nevertheless looked the part. Ah, a lady here for a round of golf with her friends, onlookers might think. And there was plenty to see that related to golf. Beautifully-maintained tees, fairways and putting greens. A sprinkling of people dressed in natty golfing attire. Little golfing buggies all lined up. A glimpse of landscaped grounds - and surely of the Hotel itself?
Still the driveway went on. Eventually signs to two car parks. One for valet parking - scary! Not for the likes of me! Another for visitor parking - this one, definitely! Even the ordinary car park had more than its fair share of Range Rovers, Porsches and similar. The tradesmen's vans looked odd in such company. Mind you, there must be a host of tradespeople coming in daily to make deliveries, and service or fix this or that.
First, however, I had a closer look at the grounds. Impressive and immaculate. Attractive trees. Acres of lush lawns. A lake.
What to make of it? You can see from my face that I was having misgivings. They held important international meetings here. It felt rather like sneaking into Buckingham Palace or The White House. I would have felt easier if I were there in some official capacity, with a pass to show. Ah, let's go for it. I put on a bright smile.
Closer to the Hotel, two stone eagles. They seemed friendly enough. Och, go for it, they whispered.
A well-preserved Rolls-Royce from the 1950s was parked in the driveway. I wish I looked as unblemished, as I also date from the 1950s.
Close-up, the Hotel had an air of confident, well-tended good living. There were people sitting outside, under umbrellas, eating and drinking. None of them were wearing tweeds. Maybe lunch here was feasible after all.
By now half and hour had elapsed since I'd met that chap in the suit at the station. Time to find the entrance, and sashay inside. And would you believe it, there was the man on the entrance steps with his front-line staff, two older men in matching tweed jackets and kilts. They all looked at me. The man in the suit recognised me with a smile. He seemed especially pleased that, after our conversation, I really had come to see the Hotel. While the two men in kilts attended to a party that were disgorging themselves from a taxi, their chief took charge of me, and led me inside.
I was amazed that he did this. Surely he was too busy to spare me more than a greeting? But no. He personally gave me a quick tour of the ground floor, explaining what I would find up each passageway. Along one of them was a Shopping Arcade I might enjoy visiting. And lunch? I only wanted a nice sandwich with a gin and tonic. In that case, he said, the Birnam Brasserie over there would have exactly what I wanted.
I thanked him for his time. I don't often get such personal attention! And he had made me feel special. Certainly, while he was doing his quick tour with me, other guests and members of staff had looked on, clearly wondering who I was to deserve such attention. Well, I'd been accepted as an approved visitor. That now gave me confidence to go where I liked.
Lunch could wait. I decided to explore the public areas first. What about that passageway with the Shopping Arcade on it? Well, it was (as you might well expect) a series of superior shops full of very expensive and exclusive clothing, accessories and gifts - the kind that make a big positive statement about your lifestyle and taste. Such as that rolled blanket in the picture below, with its leather carrying handle.
I'm not implying that these goods were useless and impractical and a waste of money. They were simply too nice for everyday use. Fatally attractive, even so - the kind of goods that would work a spell on you, so that if staying here and passing these shops several times a day, there would come a point when your resistance would crumble and you'd buy something. I did see a yellow cotton bathrobe that tempted me, but I resisted. I might not, if actually staying here.
I explored further. There were many rooms for private functions, such as this one, complete with a garden view and its own bar.
The room in the next shot was the headquarters of the person whose job it was to present the activity statistics for the previous day - the best round of golf, the best clay-shooting score, the weight of the biggest fish caught - that sort of thing. It seemed you could just wander in and gaze at the figures on the wall.
All along passageways were period pictures of championship golfing scenes.
Some rooms were clearly more private than others. There must have been a ballroom somewhere, but I didn't find it. There was however this tantalising photo of a grand room bathed in mauve light, with theatrical curtains at one end, for cabaret performances perhaps:
Behind this stout portal was the American Bar. I'm guessing it was an exclusive cocktail bar, for guests only. No casual Manhattans for this lady, then.
I prowled hither and thither - quite without challenge. My caravan-holiday clothes were not quite up to the standard of those worn by obvious guests, but on such a warm day it didn't seem to matter. I very much liked the grandness (and opulence) of the Hotel's interior.
Well, did I have lunch there? No! By this time, I'd concluded that a gin-and-tonic and a posh sandwich might set me back a cool thirty quid - possibly more. No Pensioner's Special would be available. I looked wistfully at the carefree people underneath the umbrellas, but was resolute. I'm sure I did the right thing, by walking straight back to Fiona and making an escape.
Would I stay at the Gleneagles Hotel, if I really had the money? Yes, in the same spirit that I'd treat myself to a cruise. It would clearly be a delightful experience, provided I were deliberately going to splash out.
I saw the place in the second half of April, when prices would be lower than now. Earlier today, I went on the Internet to see what a stay there might cost. (Click on these to see the detail)
Yikes, £2,009 for a seven-day stay!
'Only' £984 for three days! For which you get an inside-facing room (though it looks pleasant), plus a range of eating options:
The most expensive eating option is the Andrew Fairlie gourmet one:
All in all, I think a trip up to the Gleneagles Hotel from home in Sussex, for a week (to make the visit fully worthwhile), would probably leave little change from £3,000. I could have a very nice two-week cruise for that. And for the same amount, I could enjoy a hundred nights of caravanning.
Will I treat myself to a couple of nights there, if I get anything from my PPI claims (now with the Ombudsman, who seems to be taking them seriously and running with them)? Or just buy a big new TV? Such are the terrible choices of modern life.
