There were two additional fireplaces in the section of the hotel in which we dined.
This is a bit dated (2005) from the Telegraph, but all the same, interesting reading.
Pint to pint: Inn at Whitewell The landlord of the Inn at Whitewell in Lancashire is an ex-pupil of Fettes College, the Prime Minister's former alma mater. I know this from my reading of Fruity and the Ferret: the Publican Schoolboy Guide. It is a guide that prints the school colours of mine host after the name of the pub. It also has symbols indicating that the boozer will welcome smokers, hunting parties and well-behaved children. There will be those that think that a book that celebrates pubs and inns run by ex-public schoolboys adds little to the sum total of our lot. The chippy teetotal and those Blairites fooled by the Prime Minister's comprehensive school veneer will doubtless consider it elitist and wish to burn such seditious reading matter. But I like to think that this skinny volume adds a further dimension to the general fount of drinking knowledge. After all, most public schoolboys are experienced in the pub fundamentals of male bonding, beer, fags, the bogs, a decent claret and nursery food. The Inn at Whitewell is a former Victorian deer-keeper's lodge deep in the rolling wooded hills of the Bowland Forest to the south of the Yorkshire Dales. It is one of the book's 40 recommended "hooray" hostelries and has the shabby grandeur of a frayed Jermyn Street shirt. The usual suffocating good taste of the gastro-pub has been rejected in favour of a muddle of good and bad auction-house furniture, unusual sporting prints and a stuffed fox climbing through a wall under the staircase. The bar sells three cask ales and majors in Norfolk kippers (although I opted for the excellent liver and bacon with my pint of Timothy Taylor's Landlord). It has a magnificent wine list, a daily chalkboard menu of locally produced food and all the broadsheet newspapers are available, plus the current edition of the Beano. It is an establishment of huge charm. And while I question the conclusion of Fruity and the Ferret that because the landlord went to Fettes the pub necessarily runs like clockwork and welcomes dogs, it does at least prove that a Blairite whitewashing of a good background is not imperative to be a governor. 
They had an amazing store of logs to the rear of The Hotel. I bet they go through some in a cold winter as well.
You can't beat an open fire.