The woof guide to The Refuge at Kimpton Clocktower Hotel

frequent the bar, but I could also accompany my humans into the restaurant itself. A huge, windowed, light-infused, New York loft-like restaurant that’s upmarket without being up itself.

It’s often hard for humans who don’t want to leave their dogs at home. They are banished to the outdoors in all weathers just for the privilege of having us sit close by and look into their eyes with a face that says, ‘feed me’.

On the day we headed over to The Refuge, which is a bar and restaurant based in the majestic Kimpton Clocktower Hotel on Oxford Road in Manchester, they went to see an exhibition at the new Aviva Studios. Of course, they both had to go in to see the exhibition separately as even art-loving dogs like me aren’t allowed in the gallery space, but I’m pleased to report I am al lowed in the ‘Social’, which is the name of the bar/café area, so doggies and their owners won’t be missing out on all the action when the impressive arts venue officially opens in October.

Neither are we made to feel third class at the Refuge, because not only could I

The staff here are really, really friendly. If they had tails, I think they’d wag all the time. And they are helpful without being pushy or annoying. I mean Francesca, who was lovely and friendly to me never kept doing that annoying thing of pouring wine as soon as the humans had taken a few sips and although she had to explain the menu, which had big plates and small plates, she didn’t spend ages boring us all with the details.

I had my own bowl of water, while the wine they drank was a light, slightly fizzy Vinho Verde. If it had been a Sunday, I could have had a dog roast – a roast dinner designed for pooches, but because it was a weekday, I was given delicious treats, plus I had a taste of whipped Kidderton Ash goat’s cheese, which was super-nice for humans as it was topped with a hot sauce called zhug. I was also allowed a tiny piece of the dry-aged sirloin steak, jazzed up with zhug and another Middle Eastern sauce called shatta. I was allowed to sit at the table and watch as small plates of highly addictive Padrón peppers, charred carrots coated in a spicy roasted mix called za’atar, blackened tenderstem broccoli, which was revved up with crispy onion dukkha and artichokes and aioli were delivered to the table. After such delicious ness, they had to have puddings – the sticky toffee pudding was OK, but the chocolate and raspberry delice was excellent. On the whole though, the cooking was fantastic and as you’d expect from The Refuge, a little bit leftfield. It’s a beau tiful, modern restaurant space and we all love the big, busy bar too. And noth ing is too much trouble for the staff, especially when it comes to pleasing dog guests.

Also, Just in case you don’t know, it's Na tional Dog Day on August 26th and Kimpton Clocktower will be rolling out the red carpet for humans and their hounds. That’s definitely something to bark about.

Kimptonclocktowerhotel.com

The Swinging Sixties

When my big brother, Marcus, flew out last month for his first holiday with us, I really had not anticipated his apparent pensioner-pin-up status here. To me, he is my 61-years-young, newly separated, fa vourite sibling, but to the single, overfifty women of Nerja, he was pure catnip. You see, the single ratio of women to men here is not in the women’s favour. So, when a sixty-something man arrives, with a full head of hair, two functioning hips, his own teeth and the ability to string a sen tence together, word spreads fast.

Tuesday morning Padel Club was my first encounter with this strange phenomenon. Highly intelligent, independent, attractive women suddenly started simpering like teenagers, twirling their hair, licking their lips and strutting their stuff around the court. Me, mortified. My brother, absolutely loving it. Encounter number two, Gardening Club’s monthly meeting at my house. In stead of talking all things Monty Don, they were crossing their legs Sharon Stone-style whilst throwing their heads back, laughing loudly at all of Marcus’ jokes. Me, mortified. My brother, again, absolutely loving it.

But these were just warm-up acts to the main mating event, La Noche de San Juan festival, down at Burriana Beach or, as I now like to call it, spring break for oldies. The over-fifty female international com munity were out in force, having heard fresh meat had arrived. As soon as we stepped on the beach, I was greeted like a long-lost friend by women I barely knew, desperate for an introduction. Meanwhile, the over sixty-five cougars took a more direct approach, moving in to form a tight circle around him, each looking to drag their prey to a secluded spot to feed undisturbed.

As my brother seemed to still be loving the attention, I left him to it. But after a couple of hours, Marcus appeared at my side, looking dishevelled, out of breath and, frankly, a little scared. “Hide me. Now.” Not knowing what was going on, but sensing alarm in my usually confident brother, I shoved him into a friend’s nearby pop-up tent. Just in time too, because a posse of sangria-filled, swingingsixties senoras descended on me. “Where is he?” Yvonne from Sweden demanded angrily. “It's time to go skinny dipping,” shouted Parisian Marie. “It's my turn to dance with him,” whined Dublin-born Caitlin from the back. Sensing my brother quaking, I protectively lied: “I’m so sorry, Marcus had to head home, his colostomy bag needed changing.” But, as they shuffled off, disheartened, I felt bad about lying to them, especially when I heard Mia from Frankfurt forlornly mut tering, “See, I told you he was too good to be true.”

But as soon as the coast was clear, up popped my brother, now giggling. Apolo gising to him profusely, he simply replied: “What on earth are you sorry for? Best trip of my life. Haven’t had this much action in years. I just need some wingmen, can’t handle that lot on my own.” And with that, off he shot to WhatsApp his rugby club teammates of ‘83, inviting them out for the Festival de las 3 Culturas in Frigiliana next month. Oh, dear lord.

Right, must dash! Just heard his sexagenarians are coming over. Fifteen of them. Marcus has bagged a lastminute villa cancellation. With hot tub. And I really need to make sure it has a defibrillator…