The Hotel

I haven't named this hotel or provided its precise location as most of what unfolds in this piece was far beyond the control of the people who work there. They all took immense pride in what they do and how they look after guests. Sadly, their hands are tied by the bindings of an all too familiar st of constraints. Those are, despite being owned by an international group, a lack of capital expenditure on the fabric of the building which an estate agent would describe as "tired". And the seemingly entrenched problem with the hospitality industry in the UK of not being able to hire enough staff. Or, there might well be budgetary restraints imposed from a glass and ivory tower somewhere in London or in New York.

Unfortunately to get from check in to our room the hotel did offer the services of a Tibetan or Nepalese Sherpa.

We were on the third floor of a listed building. That is "listed" as because of its age and architectural importance is subject to strict planning restrictions both inside and out as opposed to "listed" referring to some divergence from the vertical. Those planning restrictions prohibit the installation of a lift. Hence the hike up staircases of varying steepness and height with our luggage.

After allowing both of our cardio vascular systems ample time to recover and a light tea in the room we went for a short "shuffle" as we loke to call these brief forays into the hinterland of wherever we are staying.

Within ten metres of the entrance of the hotel we encountered a very sad and all too realistic symptom of the reality of how hard life is for some people. At first glance the jumbled array of a bike, old push chair and a supermarket trolley looked like the normal accumulation of urban waste that accumulates in arches under a bridge. Put it there out of sight and out of mind in more ways than one.

As we walked past the cavernous looking arch and could see into is darkest depths we could see a small tent and a duvet hanging on a line. A man walked past us, said "hello" and disappeared into the arch's darkness.

All of this just metres just mtres from our room, fewer metres from the bar and restaurant and even fewer metres away from the kitchen whose fumes wafted through the gully between the bridge and the hotel.

From our room we could see the river. It looked as placid as a mill pond. Waterfowl of all sorts made ripples that were soon absorbed back into the mirror like surface. Even the single and double sculls from the nearby rowing club only left ripples from their oars and their wakes that seemed smaller than those water boatmen, corixidae, could ever leave as they skittered across the miscus of the water.

Darkness came as quickly as a dramatic light fade in a Shakespearean tragedy. The only hint there was a river appeared when a restless waterfowl was disturbed and slapped the water with its wings as if waking from a nightmare and the light from the street and houses undulated in the short lived panic.

The night was punctuated by sirens emanating from emergency vehicles as they wailed their way to someone else's life changing crisis.

Our first morning was warm and still enough to enjoy our breakfast on the terrace overlooking the river. It was still like a mill pond. Algae had bloomed and accumulated during the recent heat wave. The water was so clear we could see strands of what looked like long strands of grass bending downstream in the gentle current.

In amongst the algae and grasses about ten metres into the river there was what looked like a rather grubby mooring buoy. Heather saw it as well. We looked at it more closely just as the restaurant manager came out to greet us. We could all see it wasn't what we thought it was. It was the main body of a Canadian goose, Branta Canadensis. How it met it's end we will never know and hopefully nor did it but the post mortem didn't stop other waterfowl, including members of its own species from eating the algae and grasses around it.

We retired to the restaurant from where we watched others venture on to the terrace with their glasses of juice, bowls of cereal and plates of things cooked. Within mnutes we would hear "Is that a dead goose?", "Ughhhh" and eventually "Shall we eat inside?"

Later in the afternoon I noticed a puddle of water on the bathroom floor. Definitely not me as I do pride myself on my accuracy. No taps running. No plugs stuck anywhere. Ah ha, a leak under the sink.

I mentioned it politely to the reception team with the hidden agenda of securing not only a different room but a slightly better one. The receptionist did that thing they all do when sorting out rooms. Their faces go blank as the pixels in the screens reflect on their glasses. It is as if they have some shaman like control over the guests and can decide if they get a room or have to go like nomads into the night looking for alternative accomodation.

At least I only had to hump our stuff horizontally and not up and down the north face of the Eiger.

We were given a new room next door to our previous room and it is better but only by the thickness of one of those plastic cards that guests use as a key.

This hotel is part of a multi national organisation headquartered in London or somewhere in America. Yet they, going by this hotel and a couple of others in their group we have stayed in, appear to be reluctant to invest, not spend, on the refurbishment of their aging assets. And as with those other hotels what has compensated for the old carpets, leaky plumbing, creaky staircases has been the staff.

So next time you stay in a hotel where the fabric is not quite up to scratch or service has got a bit slow just consider what pressure the staff are under when mentioning any issues to them. And if you so wish contact the head office as well.

Forty eight hours later the dead Canadian goose is still floating in the algae while other waterfowl just carry on eating arounmd it.