The lady on reception was lovely — probably because she’s the only thing about this hotel worth smiling about. Unfortunately, everything else is a disaster. The moment you grab your key, the whole experience takes a nosedive.
The décor feels like Basil Fawlty lost a bet, had a few too many drinks, and then let someone with zero sense of taste finish the wallpapering. The plumbing is unreliable at best, and the beds… well, they’re less “comfortable furniture” and more “medieval torture device disguised as a mattress.” Sleeping on them felt like wrestling with a shopping trolley, and the bloodstains on the sheets? Let’s just say they add an unexpected “personal touch.”
The carpets probably haven’t seen a vacuum cleaner since the 1960s and are so grimy they seem to have their own ecosystem. I half expected David Attenborough to pop out from under the bed to narrate the wildlife thriving in the dust and grime.
Calling this place a “hotel” is generous. It’s not a getaway — it’s a cruel experiment in patience and tolerance. If the owners spent half as much time cleaning as they do cutting corners, it might barely scrape the level of “tolerable.”
Honestly, you’d be better off sleeping in a bus stop, a skip, or even a cow field. You’d be cleaner, more comfortable, and less likely to leave needing antibiotics.
