We’re peering, gagging and coughing our way through the back-end fumes of a large quarry truck that farts every thirty seconds or so. Snaking up the hill cobra style are many more large lorries. The few cars that are dotted in between are in danger of being squashed or asphyxiated.
I’m in a state of panic. The write-up of the hotel and spa near Valencia had described it as a rural idyll. An art hotel in an oasis of serenity. Clearly it was written by someone who had no problem with embroidering the truth. The google map suggests we’re only about five kilometres away and all I can see is a bowl of dust.
My husband, my chauffer, is looking incredulous. We have a pact that works relatively well; until it doesn’t. He does the driving whereas I am the travel agent. “This is pollution hell,” he mutters. “I expect it’ll shorten our life by around four years.”
“Watch out,” I shout. He swerves at the last moment. Yet another lorry thunders far too close to our car. We both have lost one of our nine lives. Eight more to go. Or in my case taking in account other near misses, possibly five left. Either way, we’re about to enter pre-divorce mode. Bad holidays are a precursor to either therapy or lawyers.
Yup as holiday choices go this was less than successful. The hotel particulars had apparently substituted a garden park for a cemented over car park. A few dotted trees blocking out the otherwise industrial landscape.
Being Duped
Another booking disaster of mine was one year at Christmas. One of those annual moments when expectations run high and therefore the psychological stakes are much higher. The higher you’ve set your sights, the further the plunge into holiday depression.
I can date it because, it was also sadly, the year of the tsunami which swept away so many lives. In retrospect that makes our minor misfortunes insignificant. But the fiasco that met us on arrival is instructive of the ease in which visitors are sitting targets for the unscrupulous. None of us wish to be repeatedly scammed or fleeced in the interest of those with no intention of fulfilling their end of the bargain.
We’d hired a car at Jerez and driven down to one of the lovely white villages of Andalusia: Vejer de la Frontera. If we’d stayed where we’d begun, we would have been fine. The owners were everything I had anticipated a homestay would be. A beautiful spacious room off a courtyard, a courteous and informative host. Homemade preserves and charcutier for breakfast and drinks on a terrace.
But for the Christmas part of our stay, I’d been tempted by what turned out to be a stack of fabrications. An English/Spanish couple had conjured up a dazzling picture of festive meals hosted by a chef and sommelier in a relaxed and fun setting. To keep the feeling intimate, the offer was for just four couples and themselves.
Pictures of earlier festivities reflected the intimate vibe. Lanterns and decorations led the eye up a striking staircase. A roof terrace with a couple clicking glasses of champagne looked towards the beach and sea.
The brochure that I’d downloaded was a masterclass in marketing seduction. Everything gave the impression of a festive occasion right down to the vintage wine and champagne glasses. Conviviality at its best.
For women in particular there was the lure of not having to sweat away in a kitchen from early in the morning on Christmas day. The accompanying album of photographs were worthy of Elle Décor or Decanter. In addition to the obvious meats and hams, silver style baskets with piles of turron, Turkish delight and nougat were strategically placed between candles and lanterns.
But that was really just the beginning. Offsetting the architecture of confectionary and sweetmeats, were yet more baskets and plates of nuts, tangerines and grapes. And then, finally, centre stage was the piece de resistance: a cheese board showing off local produce intermingled with sprigs of greenery.
And then what turned out to be the biggest embellishment of all. The obligatory about us section revealing a hospitable couple who loved to live it up with their guests. A Christmas to remember for the rest of your days. It was; but not in the way advertised.
A licence to be unscrupulous
We arrived only to be met by a brazen announcement that since no-one else had made a booking – they had decided not to go ahead with any extensive cooking. We’d get our drink of cava and tapas on Christmas Eve but that truly was it. (Previously this had been the precursor to a four course meal.) They might manage to muster up a plate of ham for Christmas Day. But it was no longer worthwhile to do a cook-up.
We had been well and truly duped. Suddenly the vulnerability of being on somebody else’s home turf sunk in. The news was delivered belligerently. Us against them. The timing of these revelations could not have been more inauspicious. They had the rooms, the clout and, most pertinently of all, our money. And bar New Years Eve there is probably no time harder to find spare tables.
We had no leverage other than to complain directly to them. I’d booked on their site not on a platform. The money we had set aside for Christmas festivities was already in their greedy pockets. Our hostess had insisted that the meals be paid up front if we wanted to ‘take advantage’ of the festive menu.
Our protestations at the injustice of the situation went nowhere. The woman who originated from Trinidad was deaf to all arguments and pleas. When I requested a partial refund for the change of plan, she leered and told us that the meals were a Christmas gift and as such she was under no obligation to carry through with the offer. The arithmetic didn’t work for her unless other rooms were booked. The accommodation was the cost we had already paid.
It was an extraordinary situation and not one I’d want to repeat. Her accomplice-in-deceit meanwhile did his best to pressgang us into silence by hovering in the background. He had large tattoos. These seemed somehow more eloquent and meaningful than Chris-Hubbie Forlorn’s knack for oratory.
There were further unwelcome surprises to come. The house turned out to be a textbook case of potential hazards. In Britain we sometimes overdo health and safety. The Spanish seem to have decided that health and safety was a foreign concept. Or maybe, we simply encountered a couple who were early believers in ‘kill the tourists.’
The staircase that made such a striking photo was a potential death trap. There were a couple of candles that book-ended every step of the wooden staircase. At night as gusts of wind swept through the house, there was the real possibility of night lights or candles blowing over, setting the treads ablaze.
I could see no fire extinguisher nor fire escape. The electrics in the bedroom were no less dodgy. The bedside light sparked when you plugged them in at the mains. The overhanging bulb flickered on and off without logic before finally fizzling out in defeat. Its timing a law unto itself. My imagination in the shadows cast on the walls conjured up the real possibility that this might be our last night on earth.
Flexes darted about the room endangering life and limb. The furniture was chipped and every surface wobbled. This was guesthouse hell not quaint rustic. The water from the taps was almost non-existent too. Splutter, splutter, choke and then a forlorn trickle. Our reward was a steady drip, drip that could not be silenced.
Forget the ignition of lust or passion. The mattress put paid to that. We kept on catapulting into each other, tossing and turning throughout the night. Even if we had miraculously managed to overcome our surroundings, the obvious lack of soundproofing immediately dampened any reserves of desire left. We spent the night whispering our discontent. And getting colder as the hours wore on.
(You clock the disasters up and then emerge battered, bruised and, hopefully, travel WISE.)
Again, in the circumstances it is a miracle we are still married. We did however spend Christmas walking in opposite directions along the nearby seashore. Each of us needing to handle our disappointment and frustration by ourselves. That is the danger of holidays.
Reducing the Risk of Holiday Disaster [Admittedly a First World Preoccupation]
So, what would twenty years of spectacular failures teach anyone willing to learn? Three hard-won lessons that have transformed my hit rate from dismal to decent.
Lesson One: Resurrect the Travel Agent
The internet was supposed to kill off travel agents. Thank God it didn’t. There’s a reason professionals who physically visit properties still exist – they’ve already done the detective work. When celebrating something that matters, I no longer gamble. I pay for expertise.
The fraudsters who bedevilled my early DIY attempts are still out there, multiplying like digital cockroaches. Even seasoned travel journalists arrive to find their “boutique vineyard” is next to a motorway. Let someone else take that hit.
Lesson Two: Think Small, Think Family
Almost without exception, my most successful holidays have been at family-run hotels passed down through generations. The Bellevue in Cogne, Italy. The Hospitz Alm at St Christoph, Austria. These weren’t just stays – they were masterclasses in genuine hospitality.
Why? Because families who’ve been watching guests since childhood understand something franchises never will. At the Bellevue, breakfast came with handwritten quotes from Italian writers. The Hospitz’s grandfather personally curated his wine collection for decades, treating each vintage like a grandchild.
Small really is beautiful when it means you’re a guest, not a spreadsheet entry. St Christoph is just above St Anton in a wonderful ski area. Cogne will never be inundated by hordes of tourists because it’s in a mountain pass that’s almost impregnable. They update one or two traditions but otherwise they see guests more like friends. Best of all, there are individual touches that come from the heart rather than a brand kit.
Lesson Three: Mine Your Network Ruthlessly
Forget online reviews where everyone’s either ecstatic or homicidal. Real intelligence comes from real people. I now interrogate friends, their children, their children’s friends – anyone who’s been where I’m going.
Post-Brexit, half of Britain’s twenty-somethings seem to work in travel. Cultivate them. My brother’s riding holiday in Pakistan? Organised by a friend’s son. That hidden gem in Porto? A colleague’s daughter who spent a gap year there. These people stake their reputations on their recommendations.
When it comes to online reviews, once bitten doubly shy. I take it as given that exaggeration follows exaggeration. Therefore, if the grapevine of friends has not produced something suitable, I fall back on companies who deliver year after year.
Safe in Their Hands
Which brings me to my final recommendation to avoid horror stories. Today there are some wonderful agencies that will give you security of mind. All of them have researched what’s available and crossed out the duds.
Tablet Hotels
I have great admiration for Lucy Lieberman. The company is now in partnership with the Michelin Guide. As a combined unit they are one of the soundest companies judging hotels that have a special feel to them.
Mr & Mrs Smith
They have a great last-minute club which I’ve made use of when feeling less flush than I’d like.
i-escape
Founded in 2000 by ex-Condé Nast editor Suzi Otway and her husband Tam, they built their business on a radical principle – refusing payment for listings. Hotels can’t buy their way on. Their sweet spot is “boutique and beyond” – places with genuine character, often under £200 a night. They have a particular nose for hidden European gems (that converted monastery in Puglia, the fisherman’s cottage in Cornwall) just before they tip into oversaturation. Their filtering system actually works – search “rustic simplicity” or “spoiling and pampering” and trust the results. Real humans answer emails with proper suggestions, not algorithms pushing commission-heavy choices. The Special Offers section features genuine deals, not dregs. Their Kids Collection is brilliant for multi-generational trips that aren’t theme parks. Think of them as the anti-Instagram travel site – less infinity pools, more actual character.
The Plum Guide
For villas that actually match their photos.
Twenty years on, I still make mistakes. But they’re smaller, less marriage-threatening ones. Progress, not perfection – which at our age is really all we can ask for.
