Weymouth turned out to be a lovely place for a weekend away, but given the choice of going back and staying here or sleeping on the beach, the sand wins. Arrived, brought cases in the front door to be greeted with a locked door with a keypad. Rang the doorbell…no response. Scrolled though the 400 emails I received upon booking (past the “you can sit in the hot tub in the carpark for £40 an hour….should have rung bells really) and discovered reception is in the basement at the rear. Found it, and Basil Fawlty would have fitted right in. Up 3 winding staircases to our “room”. I can imagine the conversation. “This is a single room, right? One single bed?”…No, sod it, put a tiny double and a padded plank in there and we can charge £135 a night as a family room!”….”Including breakfast?…”Nah, we’ll charge for that.
The room might fit 3 pixies. On the door a sign reading “If anyone smokes or vapes £150 will be deducted from their credit card”. How they’d know I’ve no idea, as you could light a bonfire and it wouldn’t mask the overpowering smell of damp Labrador. The tiny beds are so close together anyone but Oscar Pistorius walking sideways has to just walk over the top of them, and minute bathroom is decorated as a Turkish brothel.
Ample storage was a damp chest of drawers in a cupboard, and a little tip if planning a shower. Apply shampoo and gel before entering, as the 1sq foot base rules out the movement of your arms.
It was akin to 2 nights in a Siberian Gulag.
Just don’t.
