As though out of a film set for Wuthering Heights, the old Whitehall Inn in Camden was a mainstay of civility for well over a century, a place where vichyssoise and gossip lingered in the squeaky comforts of this seaside inn. It charmingly creaked and groaned with pokey rooms and the typical splash of faded chintz and wicker in its principal public spaces. Its restaurant was unremarkable and not one frequented by the general tourist brigade that piles into Camden in the summer.
