Usuário convidado
16 de fevereiro de 2024
Arrived last Monday after a long drive. Booked by my travel agent in London for reasons best known to him. 20 kms away from my meeting the next day. When I arrived, my immediate reaction was one of despair. From the front, a Swedish seaside version of Faulty Towers appeared out of the sea mist. Railing against a pungent smell of drains I ascended the stairs with my bags and entered. On initial inspection, a time travel back to the 1920s was the impression. Quite quaint, in a grungy sort of way. Checked in by a convivial bearded host and ascended the stairs to Mata Hari, my room for the night. To be fair, the fish and chips and imported French wine was acceptable. The restaurant was filled with locals, a good sign always. The berroom though belied any optimism. The curtain behind the door was moth eaten. The floors were dirty, the room dusty. The bed was old and decrepit. The headboard needed a good clean. The bathroom had an old world charm, a broken flush on the toilet and a shower like a fireman's faucet, gushing out in a condensed narrow spray of water. After a poor night's sleep, I repaired to the dining room. What a disappointment. Cold coffee from a machine, a scrambled egg and bacon standing for self service which was inedidable. My host, when prompted, brought another croissant out but it was not cooked. The dough was still wet inside. I paid the bill and ran out of the place, again without assistance with the bags and through the omnipresent smell of drains. Not to be recommended, I'm afraid.
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