A Bimble round a very British hotel

 

 

A winter bimble often requires better accommodation than a big red van and the bumbler is always open to a bargain hotel deal.  These corporate hotel bargains are usually at weekends when capacity is low and they reduce their expectations.  I am usually left wondering if anyone would actually pay the working week prices if their expense accounts didn’t stretch.  For the weekend price I don’t expect much but the hotel inspector would have a field day in many British hotels of this ilk.

 

Once we leave the EU our service industry is in peril. Why are there so few British people working in the hospitality industry when there are so many jobs performed by Eastern Europeans these days?  I can reveal the answer.  The British are completely incapable of functioning in a servile capacity. They require speed of thought, a cheery demeanour and some element of customer service allied with a basic knowledge of their environment and the job role they are employed to fulfil.

 

Evidence for the prosecution begins upon my arrival at reception:

 

Have you got a map?

 

-What of?

 

Well, the area, or maybe the grounds of the hotel?

 

-Oh we don’t get asked that much.  You can go through that door outside into a garden and it leads to some woods. 

 

Where’s that then?

 

-Just outside… and, er… there are some fields which belong to us

 

That will be the 25 acres in the brochure then

 

-Yes, but the farmers use it so there might be sheep in them.

 

I don’t mind sheep

 

-We printed one off once but it was big.

 

Big?

 

-Yes, like a big, internet map, it took ages to print as well and the guest said it was useless. He was American. We do have this map. We use it for fire alarms.

 

-Ah. A floor guide of the hotel. I could walk the corridors.

 

Yes I suppose you could.

 

I decided to put my walk on hold and try the ‘leisure club’.  The pool was 15 metres long and had about 15 loafers in it so I tried the sauna.  A friend had recently told me they never used saunas and despite my defence of the benefits of the Swedish sweatbox their words rang in my ear. 

 

‘Sweating, with strangers sloughing off their dead skin, breathing germs in a toxic broiling chamber.’

 

They also told me that the rolls on the bed that support the lumbar or head or more usually my feet are never washed. Their insight into the germ factory that is a slightly uncared for hotel was confirmed by some dubious stains so they go straight on the floor from now on.

 

I stuck the sauna out for ten minutes during which someone looked in the door and said, ‘it’s a bit pinched in there,’ to which her partner replied more prosaically ‘I don’t like the look of them.’

 

I didn’t either. The guy with the fading tattoos already scared me into letting him know the secret entry code so I was dubious also.  He rolled out the old question about the reasoning behind having a big red button in a sauna.  A stock conversation killer.  ‘Doesn’t it just make you want to push it?’ he said, moving his hand toward it.  Not unless you are completely unable to control your self destructive impulses I thought but actually quipped, ‘There is probably a big red light at reception and they are thinking what’s that big red light flashing for? Its been flashing for ages. ‘

 

To which I received no response. His partner said, ‘I wonder where it connects to.’  I was starting to wonder whether I had evaporated so headed for the Jacuzzi which was also pushed in the brochure.  It had some heavy looking planks of wood over it but a nice touch was a fading peace lily placed on top to appease guests which I suppose beats a scrawled note saying it may be repaired soon.  With, new found, inner calm I searched for the steam room which was padlocked and also curiously signed ‘Manager’s Office’.  As there was no-one supervising the facilities guests were asked to sign in and out so I turned on my heels and in a spirit of rebellion steadfastly refused to enter my time of exit. There were no towels either although there was a bin of dirty towels which I momentarily selected from. However, I thought twice and decided to drip dry all the way back to my room. I put a pound in a machine vending chocolate hoping to try the new ‘Teaser’ Malteser bar.  I had saved a pound from not being able to use a locker but found the cost was £1.10. I had no 10p and then found that the machine would time out in 60 seconds then hit me with the information that exact change was required.  Mild pressing of the refund button then frantic stabbing led to a Hamlet moment of calm as I knew my visit to the club was fated to be this way. I cheered myself up by using Schindler’s lift and trying to think of a joke that wasn’t entirely inappropriate.  Still trying.

 

Sleep and refuge was my solace although they must have commandeered all the televisions from the 1980’s as the picture was fuzzy on all but BBC2.  Alan Yentob and an earnest drama beat watching Match of the Day in the snow.

 

I beat the rush for breakfast intent on recouping my money on an eat ‘til you feel sick breakfast. Another British institution.   And gluttony is our least hidden vice.  There was no line by the fresh fruit and yoghurts but the queue to the fried frenzy stretched out the door.  Maximum velocity eating and back for more in an orgy of greed.  Once the fumes became too much and the fat congealed in a distended stomach I was unable to force feed any longer.  I checked out, deciding to make my feelings known in a calm yet forceful way. Sort of passive aggressive with a pre-prepared map joke thrown in to lighten the mood and show that I alone understood. But dark clouds hung about reception. No-one in the hotel enjoyed the luxury of hot water that morning but I had gotten off lightly. A toilet had overflowed and bath sealant had come away while someone was in the tub.  A door had not locked and, although they had been told it was not worth worrying about, a drunk reveler had stumbled in at 2pm.  When I eventually got to the counter I asked why they did not answer the phone when I called about the lack of hot water. A roll of the eyes suggested it was because the whole hotel were doing the same and they had just given up.  An offer of breakfast knocked off the bill sent me off with a spring in my cholesterolised step.

 

And I found the garden! Which was delightful. A walled garden with blossoming cherry trees leading to a bluebell wood.  With a bit of effort this 17^th century manor house set in 35 acres of woodland with large, adjacent 60’s extension would commandeer tariffs which may deter the budget traveller.  But then I probably wouldn’t be staying there on a poorly researched last minute bargain deal. Next time I will ring ahead to check the accent and hope to be re-assured with a cheery attempt to communicate in broken English. Lesson learned;  if it ain’t broke don’t go there!