You Can't Judge A Book By Its Cover...Or a Hotel By Its Website

Many years ago, Tim, myself, and five other family members travelled to Ireland together.  I am still trying to repress those memories. 

We stayed mostly at small  B&Bs, but decided to treat ourselves to one really nice hotel/castle for a night.  The brochure boasted endless, rolling, green lawns with a plethora of outdoor sports and activities to partake in.  And inside?  Even better.   Plushly furnished rooms that would have made a Hollywood set decorator  with an unlimited budget green with envy at what they could never achieve.

At least, that's what the brochure promised.  The reality??? Not even close.  Think Phantom of the Opera (and I mean the Phantom's lair underneath the opera house) meets Best Little Whorehouse in Texas (no explanation necessary). 

First of all, the castle was located in Brigadoon and only appeared once every hundred years.  Sign on one side of the bridge in town: Castle Ahead.  Sign on other side of the bridge facing opposite direction: Castle Ahead.  Hmmm.  So the castle is halfway across the bridge in the water? air?  Well, that's one way to keep those pesky tourists out.

After crossing the bridge for the four thousandth time, asking directions from every farmer, tourist, cow and goat, we finally did find the castle, and it probably would have been better if it had indeed been located underwater.  At least fighting off the Loch Ness monster (or its Irish cousin) would have given us something to do.

Upon check-in, we enquired about the skeet shooting.

Oh, sure, that's once a year we have the big competition.  You just missed it.

Sigh.  Horseback riding?

Ah and sure isn't there a stable just a wee bit down the road.

Wee bit down the road: Irish-speak for "the other side of the country".  No way were we leaving the castle to disappear into the mists of time with all our luggage inside.  I mean, come on.  Where would I find another gazillion watt hair dryer in the land time forgot?

And then there were the rooms.

Our room in particular looked like it had last been renovated in the 50's...the 1850's.  By a decorator who specialized in houses of ill repute.  Who was drunk at the time.  And hated his client.

Big gold cupids flitted around an overly ornate chandelier that looked like it belonged in a third-rate horror movie which hovered above an orange carpet (or what used to be an orange carpet.  It was hard to tell what the original color was under all the stains).  The four poster bed was carved with demonic cherubs leering down at the bed's occupants like Johns at a 42nd Street peep show.

 The tub and shower curtain had so many layers of filth coating them, that we would not have been surprised to find out  Jimmy Hoffa was under them all.  The poor bugger had probably checked in and become entangled in the centuries of crud and simply...disappeared.

The other rooms were equally charming.  My mother and sister were in the turret on cots (guess they forgot to put those pictures in the brochure) which actually was a relief, since when we booked the hotel, they thought we were asking for cats!  Would you like tabby or ginger-striped?  (Whoa!  What kind of weird, crazy-assed cots do you people have in this country?  Ah well, that's another blog)

So now, many years later, an entire ocean away, we were once again planning to treat ourselves to a "special" hotel in Canada. 

The pictures on their website looked amazing.  "Huge renovation!" they advertised.  A face lift for a beautiful, historic grande-dame. 

They should have sued the renovation surgeon for malpractice.

Our room in particular was a real treat.  Upon entering, the bathroom was immediately, and I mean immediately inside the door.  Like when you showered, the guy across the hall could hand you the soap.  

The bedroom?  Across the window-filled "living room" and up a stair.  Wow, wasn't that convenient.  So they want me to break my other foot in the middle of the night and provide a show for the masses of people who filled the courtyard outside every single moment of the day and night.  Darn, and me without my g-string and feather boa.

But back to the bathroom.  Sink, toilet, tub.  That's it.  All in a row.  If I was in there getting ready, I had to step into the tub in order for Tim to open the door and grab whatever he might need.  You could shampoo your hair in the shower while applying make-up at the sink.  We had to keep the towels outside on a chair in the living room if we didn't want them to get wet, and that shower curtain managed to make it to at least third base every time you took a shower.

If this was a renovation, I shudder to think what the original rooms looked like.  A bucket of water by the door and a chamber pot next to the bed?

Next time we want to stay someplace "special", I think I am just going to stay home and order take-out.