Size isn't everything – why ￡19 micro hotel rooms are the future of travel

What would you do with eight and a half square metres?

If you live amid the wilds of rural Moray or Montana, your responses may include suggestions along the lines of "extending the outdoor area of my rabbit hutch".

On ultra-congested Manhattan or Hong Kong Island however, the answer could well be, "host a dinner party".

We’re told from our teens that size isn’t everything. It’s a noble proverb. Except of course, that it’s entirely false in relation to pretty much anything you can think of, including hotel rooms.

What is true, however, is that whether you choose to use a space to rehouse your rabbit or host a housewarming, size is relative when it comes to perception, purpose and definitely pleasure. 

It’s a truism borne out by the new Zip by Premier Inn range, launching in Cardiff early next year, which will offer rooms that are, including the bathroom, a mere eight and a half square metres in size.

I have no access to the inner workings of Whitbread, who own the Premier Inn brand, but I would imagine they are already assembling a crack team of sales staff to respond to the imminent bulging inbox of complaints about the bijou nature of these rooms, despite them being priced at as little as ￡19 a night.

None of the rancour will be from me. Because I have no desire to spread out in a city hotel. I don’t want to soak in a Citroen-sized tub before padding around in my bath robe rearranging the fruit bowl and idly contemplating room service.

Because that’s not what city hotels are for. Like a Brandy Alexander or an episode of Peep Show, urban lodgings are best enjoyed sparingly, in the dark and when you’re already absolutely exhausted.

This theory doesn’t work outside of cities. Put me somewhere quieter and everything changes. A Caribbean break? Well then of course I want an enormous room, flooded with sunlight and with a rattan sofa on the veranda that’s big enough for me to recline on full length while I finally get round to cracking the spine of Middlemarch.

A Scottish Highland retreat? Yes, I want my Jacobean Suite to be big enough for me to have to leave a trail of shortbread crumbs to get from my four poster to the teak drinks cabinet full of obscure single malts.

But in a city, all this gargantuan pomp is just unnecessary. Which is why I’ve stopped splashing the cash on superior rooms whether I’m in Madrid, Montreal or Mumbai. 

If I linger into lassitude in one of the smarter suites of an urban hotel, it’s never long before paroxysms of guilt start biting into my flesh in a manner akin to an economy airline seat in the latter third of a long haul flight.

Why aren’t I out there? Why aren’t I greedily hoovering up the shows, the streets, the kinks and quirks of this metropolitan hub?

The fact that my hotel room has a hardback Monocle Guide to Better Living on the rosewood roll top desk and that the wardrobe is big enough for me to walk into, walk around a bit and then walk out again doesn’t really compensate for staying in.

And what do those few extra square metres of space actually do? Unless you’re in the same salary bracket as Bernie Ecclestone, the most opulent of suites and penthouses are way out of your (and mine) fiscal range.

So, realistically, the difference in size between the cheapest room and a mid-range ‘superior’ room is very often negligible - with much of that extra space you’re paying for taken up by a desk you’ll never sit at or an armchair that has an outstanding view of the opposite wall.

So if I can’t have the Empress Eugenie suite at Claridge’s then I’d rather meander out of the lobby and into the city, eating at restaurants where, for the price of that hotel room upgrade, I can eat two or three extra meals and then have three or four extra cocktails afterwards.

Exhaust a new city, burn that candle at both ends and you won’t notice whether the room you’re coming back to has space for an extra tabby cat or an entire monster truck.