Earlier this year, after deciding to cut short a thoroughly disappointing stay at a boutique hotel, I found myself looking for somewhere to stay in Barcelona. The experience had been so dreadful that I was genuinely upset and, quite frankly, desperate to leave.

Among other things, I had been firmly instructed to help myself to coffee from a machine that would not have looked out of place in a hospital canteen, while a perfectly good professional espresso machine stood behind the bar. This was hardly the worst of my grievances, but it rather summed up the experience.

By then, I had absolutely no appetite for another gamble. The last thing I wanted was to find myself in yet another supposedly charming little hotel wondering how on earth it had acquired such a glowing reputation.

I wanted somewhere comfortable, professionally run and, above all, predictable. No surprises, thank you very much.

So I booked a Gran Meliá.

Not the most obvious choice, perhaps, but this particular property had interested me for years.

Torre Melina Gran Meliá, designed by Carlos Ferrater for the 1992 Olympics, was formerly the Rey Juan Carlos I, once a member of Leading Hotels of the World and subsequently operated by Fairmont. Its enormous atrium is quite magnificent, particularly if, like me, you have a weakness for grand hotel lobbies. I was also drawn to the extensive gardens and the club floor. There was enough there to satisfy my curiosity, even if I had no great expectations of the rooms.

And indeed, the rooms are nothing to write home about. Perfectly comfortable, certainly, but hardly memorable. Nevertheless, I had a thoroughly enjoyable stay. The staff were welcoming and helpful, everything seemed to run as it should, and I was perfectly happy spending a couple of nights there. Nobody was trying terribly hard to impress me, which was rather pleasant for a change.

I left in a considerably better mood than when I arrived.

It was a curious experience, not least because there was a time when my instinct, after a disappointing hotel stay, would have been to book a Four Seasons, Mandarin Oriental or another of the great luxury names. I knew what I was likely to get, and more often than not I would have been right. The big brands offered something immensely valuable: consistency. Some properties were better than others, naturally, but standards were generally dependable and the occasional disappointment was just that, occasional.

I am no longer quite so confident.

The great luxury brands have become alarmingly inconsistent, often charging extraordinary rates for experiences that are anything but. That does not mean I have lost faith in them, far from it, but I no longer regard a prestigious name as a guarantee of a good stay. Nor, for that matter, do I automatically assume that an independent hotel will be more charming, more personal or more authentic. I have stayed in some wonderful small hotels, but also in a few that left me wondering what all the fuss was about.

These days, I find myself increasingly drawn to properties with personality, a genuine sense of place and, above all, staff who are capable of being themselves rather than following a script. I like hotels that feel as though somebody has put some thought into them, preferably somebody who actually enjoys having guests.

A few weeks after Barcelona, I had another rather unexpected experience in Mexico.

I was reviewing a hotel at Kanai, on the Riviera Maya, and decided to spend a couple of nights at Edition, a brand I had never tried and which, frankly, had never particularly appealed to me. Still, I am curious about hotels and hotel brands, and wanted to see what all the excitement was about.

I cannot say I was converted.

The architecture did very little for me, and the rooms, with their white-on-white interiors and almost complete absence of personality, were not much to my taste. I found the whole thing rather clinical. There were aspects I admired, but I certainly would not choose Edition for its design, and I still struggle to understand why this particular aesthetic has become so fashionable.

What I did like, enormously, were the people.

The staff were delightful. Warm, attentive, efficient and refreshingly natural. They remembered things, followed up on requests and seemed genuinely interested in making sure I was enjoying myself. There was none of the stiffness that can make luxury hotel service so tiresome, nor the excessive familiarity that has become fashionable in certain establishments. They simply knew what they were doing.

I had a very pleasant stay, although I left without any great regret. Edition was good, certainly, but hardly a hotel I expected to find myself reminiscing about.

How wrong I was.

My next stop was a highly rated boutique hotel farther down the Riviera Maya, a small, intimate property with considerably more character and, on paper at least, much more to recommend it. I shall be reviewing it separately, so there is no need to go into the details here.

Suffice it to say that the experience was deeply disappointing.

Before long, I found myself thinking about Edition. Not its architecture, which I still disliked, nor its rather anonymous rooms. I missed the staff, their warmth, their attentiveness and the ease with which everything had been handled. I missed being greeted with a smile and feeling that somebody was actually paying attention.

I never thought I would find myself wishing I were back at an Edition, but there you are.

It was particularly galling because the boutique hotel had so many of the qualities I usually appreciate. It was smaller, more intimate, more individual and certainly more attractive. Yet none of that counted for very much when the hospitality itself was so disappointing.

What struck me about both experiences was that neither Meliá nor Edition had done anything particularly extraordinary. They had simply looked after me well. I realise that this is not the most exciting endorsement one can give a hotel, but after some of the experiences I have had at considerably more expensive properties, I have come to appreciate it rather more than I once did.

I occasionally book hotels that are unlikely ever to feature in The Gallivanter’s Guide. Sometimes I am interested in the architecture, sometimes in the history of a building, and sometimes I simply want to see what a particular brand is doing. I enjoy hotels too much to restrict myself to those I might review.

I should make one thing clear. I have absolutely no intention of abandoning the high end. This year alone, I have stayed at several Aman properties, as well as Auberge, Four Seasons, Airelles and Mandarin Oriental, among others. These are the hotels that The Gallivanter’s Guide exists to examine, and some of my stays have been exceptional. Nor am I about to start reviewing Meliá or Edition. Both were personal choices that turned out to be rather instructive.

I still believe that the finest luxury hotels, whether independent or part of a group, offer something that the middle market simply cannot. The attention to detail, the surroundings, the generosity, the sense of occasion and, occasionally, that wonderful feeling of being somewhere quite special. When everything comes together, there is nothing quite like it.

And I really couldn’t care less whether a hotel has a floating padel court or an infrared sauna. Neither will make up for indifferent service, however enthusiastically they feature in the marketing material.

But I am becoming rather tired of hotels that spend more time telling me how exceptional they are than demonstrating it.

The industry has developed an extraordinary vocabulary in recent years. Everything is authentic, immersive, bespoke or designed to create an emotional connection. Every stay is apparently a journey, every experience unforgettable. I sometimes wonder what happened to the simple pleasure of staying in a very good hotel.

I don’t need to be taken on a journey every time I check in. Nor do I particularly want to have an emotional connection with the furniture. I would much rather have a comfortable room, staff who are pleased to see me, a decent breakfast and the feeling that somebody is keeping an eye on things.

I have certainly not lowered my expectations. I still expect a great deal from a hotel charging great luxury rates, and I make no apologies for that. But I have become much less impressed by the name above the entrance and considerably more interested in what happens once I am inside.

Perhaps that is why those two rather unremarkable stays have remained in my mind. Neither hotel was especially memorable in the conventional sense, and neither would make it into these pages as a review. Yet both gave me something that their more ambitious boutique counterparts had failed to provide.

And, much to my amusement, one of them even managed to make me miss an Edition.