Inside, the Premier Inn is a fortress of reliable beigeness. After the sensory assault of bagpipes and medieval alleyways, the lobby’s “neutral tones” feel like a deep, therapeutic exhale. The carpet probably hasn’t changed since 2007, but it’s clean, and that’s a luxury you don’t know you need until you’ve dodged a horse-drawn carriage.
The staff here are superhumanly nice. They’ve mastered the art of smiling while you weep about the Scottish rain. They will not judge you for asking where the nearest “non-ghost-infested pub” is. Spoiler: there isn’t one, but they’ll point you to a good one anyway.
