Some years ago, before its restoration, I visited the Midland Grand Hotel at St Pancras on one of those Heritage Open Days that offer the public special access to buildings normally closed to them. At the time of my visit the roof and exterior of Sir George Gilbert Scott’s Victorian gothic masterpiece had been restored and made weatherproof, after decades of abandonment, but the interior was still in a pretty rough state. Remembering this visit leads me to acknowledge a vice of mine which is perhaps shared by other historians, that is to say a fascination with decay and dereliction.
Midland Grand Hotel, St Pancras. My photo taken, I think, from the Ladies’ Smoking Room window.
From the open day tour, I particularly remember seeing the sealed-up doors of the long-disused lifts (or “hydraulic ascending chambers”), which represented the latest technology when the hotel was built in the 1870s. And I took this photo of the Grand Coffee Room, which follows the curvature of the building, empty of all furniture and sporting gaping holes in its ceiling:
Compare this with the picture below of the coffee room in its heyday:
The main staircase is the hotel’s most magnificent feature, cantilevered to spiral up to left and right between each floor and meet again at the next one, as appears from my photo below:
Near the top of the stairwell tower hung the tattered remains of a chandelier:
Here is an clearer view of it, which I took with the light from the window behind me:
The above photo also highlights the wonderfully whimsical medieval-inspired original decoration. When it was erected, St Pancras station and its hotel represented the very height of railway age self-confidence. On the day of my visit our guide told us that, despite innovative features such as the lifts and ladies’ smoking room, the hotel’s lack of modern plumbing had already rendered it potentially obsolete at the time of its opening. Many of the accommodations were large suites, rather than individual rooms, and these lacked their own bathrooms. I read that it was closed in the 1930s and used as railway offices for some time until its eventual abandonment. It is well-known (though still beyond belief) that it was only just saved from demolition in a bygone age of architectural barbarity.
Scrolling through internet photos of the now fully restored, and renamed, “St Pancras Renaissance Hotel”, it looks to have been sumptuously refurbished with a splendour befitting its earlier incarnation. The unavoidable modernity of the furnishings appears well-matched to the original décor, and to retained original features such as the fireplaces and pillars and arched window-cases.
I would not turn someone away if they offered to pay the (no-doubt astronomical) tariff for me to spend a night (or two) there. I don’t think, however, that I’d find staying there, as it is now, as interesting as I found visiting it before the building was restored. This is because I could get a better sense of how it had first been from its dilapidated state, and a better evocation of that vanished grandeur.