Posted on by maryhadow

Watchdog?

Is NOT a hotel – also haunted
Located on a country road with no signage. Impossibly creepy, like a horror film, and there is a man in the house roaming room to room.

One of the weirdest albeit most fun experiences I’ve had. However, the room is FILTHY; bugs everywhere, damp sheets, once we closed the curtains all hell broke loose as a thousand bugs appeared/emerged and crawled all over the place.

Truly scary weird place but at the same time an experience I will never forget. But this is not a hotel.

It’s a nightmare.

Awful
I would never recommend this place to anyone. Wasn’t signposted very well ended up going past it. When we pulled up we had to ring a number to be given a code for the for that door key. Got in and couldn’t find our room. There was 6 unattended children following and hanging around us making us feel very uncomfortable. One of the youngest children was spitting at my son so disgusting. Then the children were blocking my children from walking down the stairs as we were leaving as we were not staying in a place we didn’t feel comfortable In and that there was no one to ask about how to get to our room. Please anyone do not even book here. I never saw any adults around either.

Don’t go there
A warning to anyone looking at staying there, got given a code to get in it didn’t work once we did get in you couldn’t get though the next door we tried the main door that didn’t open eventually someone opened the door for us.
Once we got into the room it was disgusting the bathroom was dirty wallpaper hanging off the wall cobwebs hanging from the ceiling stains on the carpet and toilet brush was disgusting. The sheet didn’t fit the bed the quilt hanging out the duvet cover. They charged £75.00 a night we would never go there again

Don’t book.
Turned up and code we had been given was wrong to gain access to house keys. Then they didn’t work as was a key in the lock on the inside. Though turned out entry could be gained by any one of three unlocked back doors. Room then turned out to not be made up. Seems one of other guests had friends over and none of rooms are locked if not in use. 

took one look at the establishment and walked out
Drove into an untidy car park and the outside of the building gave me cause for concern. Walked into the bar area which was dirty with ripped carpets, asked to see the room and was shown up a badly decorated staircase to a tiny room. The twin beds were barely a foot apart and the beds looked like they had already been slept in.
The whole place made me creep and I decided to cancel my stay

Smellydelly
Dirty, Mouldy, Smelly, no hot water
The room was horrendous, it was dirty, mouldy, grubby, hair in the bed, no hot water, no shower only a filthy bath, just bleeuugghh. Booked 4 nights through but only stayed for 1 it was that bad then couldn’t get money back. Had to fork out again and book the rest of the stay at a different hotel down the road.

Room Tip: just don’t book for any reason

Totally ripped off….This place should be condemned…where are the hotel inspectors? Safety inspectors?

Absolutely disgusting hotel..The local people feel it shames the town…..I agree.
Filthy room,,,,,dust and litter under the bed and between furniture I found a magazine under the bed among the dust which was a month old..Don’t expect to hear the sound of a vacuum cleaner here…
Daily excuses as to why there was no hot water.,,,this apparently is par for the course at this horrible nasty hotel.
I bought a bucket and used the kettle to wash myself with a flannel.daily.
Please wipe your feet when leaving the building..

Room Tip: You will not find a clean room here..I’m speechless

Avoid discusting!
This hotel needs closing down! Mould, dirty, no hot water.made my skin crawl! Stayed one night, because couldn’t get anywhere else to stay at such short notice. Slept in my clothes as didn’t want to touch anything.discusting!

Terrible
Please do not enter – you will regret – as simple as that. I am surprised that it is still open. Only popped in for a drink, no beers (just lager) – it smelt and was simply gross. 

This is just a tiny handful of recent TripAdvisor reviews of some of the properties owned by the organisation that has taken over my erstwhile favourite pub.

According to Facebook there are various lawsuits pending, and in June they were  fined £thousands for refusing to comply with fire regulations. Across all the properties owned by this organisation, the average TripAdvisor blob-rating is just over two out of five.

Why on earth do they continue to add to their portfolio, and why do the agents continue to represent them, when it would appear that they don’t have a clue how to run their properties, causing such misery, frustration and disappointment to so many guests? It seems totally bonkers to me, and I would have thought that in due course a Watchdog TV programme will start an investigation.

After a flying start – exquisite food; cosy, characterful, welcoming, warm ambiance; friendly efficient service; all at a fair price (what more could anybody want?) – the chef and at least nine other staff (most of whom are my mates) have walked out over a period of less than two months.  Meanwhile another friend of mine, waiting for a reimbursement having booked a non-existent dinner for ten friends attending a funeral, got yelled at in the street, in front of the entire village!

The whole thing is tragic.  Everyday something new happens resulting in my jaw dropping closer and closer to the ground. I am increasingly astonished, and dismayed.

Posted on by maryhadow

“Divide and rule, a sound motto. Unite and lead, a better one.” Goethe

“Whoopsadaisy!” yelled Matt, as the Honda CM 125 reared up in the dark, and described a perfect backward somersault.

“Perhaps Si should ride it back?” suggested Will.

“YIKES!” shouted Antony, flying over the handlebars of our new E-bike, and slithering down lane towards home.

I had just received one of the most joyous phone calls of my life – a dream come true after two decades of failure.

Will and his two mates – best friends since they first met at prep school over a decade ago – had been visiting The Forest Inn at the end of our lane, for a drink and a game of pool. Matt, wearing a bandeau, had gone there riding Will’s scrambler, and the other two were on the E-bikes. “We’ll be back about nine to cook you a steak!” they shouted merrily, as we passed each other in the lane, my horses remaining remarkably calm in the general milieu.

I was a bit worried that they might upset the locals and my B&Ber who was dining there, with their posh, loud, excited voices.

The call was from Will saying, “We’ve joined up with Si, Rob and Jez, and after a bit more pool we’ll all be coming back to the Bothy to chill.  So I’m afraid we won’t be doing your steak.”

It’s taken twenty years, but finally, unbelievably, at last, thanks to our jolly pub up the road, Will seems to have been accepted as part of the local community.

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Skinny and Brown

I have now been skinny and brown for the whole summer.  What for? Nobody has seen the beautiful new me, and nobody cares.  And now my lovely tan is flaking off like snow onto the inside of my black leggings (I’ve gone down from an M&S Size 16 to 12, so most of my clothes don’t fit anymore).

I have combed both Encounters and Muddy Matches nationally, looking in vain for somebody I might like. Nobody at all.

Yet I’ve enjoyed one of the most wonderful summers of my life! A lot has to do with the weather. And more because there’s been a child or two here, keeping me sunny company ever since June. Perhaps I don’t really need a bloke in my life after all!

Today I’m delivering Will to the dentist for a filling, meanwhile Ben is dropping off a guitar that Will lent his son a year ago.  It is clear that Ben wants to catch me, rather than bringing it along earlier in the day.  Well I don’t want to see him.  Will can tell him that I’m ‘parking the car’ which will take me a remarkably long time.  Then I shall go and buy some flowers and eggs before my next lot of guests arrive at teatime.

Nell has just informed me that a journalist from the Chagford Herald thinks I might be interesting to interview at my ‘Authors Talk’ next week. And says he’s single. Oh dear. Call me arrogant but I would be a lot more interested he were editor of the Times or something.

BUT.  You never know what anything might lead on to. So I am very excited.  Perhaps from this small acorn a socking great oak might grow!

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The Great Divide

“Faye did rather as expected – 4 As; 5 Bs and a naughty C in French which she’s studied since she was 7!!  How lovely of you to be interested!” I responded to Jane, our lovely ‘Pretend Granny’s’ kind enquiry regarding my 16 year old daughter’s GCSE results. And, without thinking about it, to everybody else on our ‘thread’, which actually related to Mum’s health. In our world these grades are nothing special.  If she’d been at Eton or somewhere, she’d have been kicked out with anything less than six As!

I received a slightly curt response back from one of my favourite people in the world, who has been Mum’s staunchest rock and support for more than two decades, never once letting her down whatever else was going on in their tiny hamlet in deepest, darkest, remotest Dorset.  This lady’s family were delighted with their son’s results of 5 C’s and 1 B, she told me: “I suppose that’s a reflection on the divide in our education system.”

Agh! What to do or say to that? She is absolutely the very last person in the world that I would ever want to offend. She is just the kindest, most thoughtful, long suffering, patient and friendly individual, and I know Mum’s not the only one she loves, and looks after so well.

To reply, or not to reply, was the question.

So I did what I thought my dearly loved and most highly respected Dad would have done, and undertook some research.

God I am shocked! Now I understand what the point of the massive private school fees is!  ‘The great divide’ is nothing short of scandalous!

I discovered that this year, 2/3rds of children altogether achieved A-C grades in GCSE’s, so that compared with the national average Faye’s results are outstanding! I also found that at A’level, the titchy number of private schools, compared with state schools and colleges, account for literally double the A/A* grades awarded! No wonder people go to such lengths to pay, if they possibly can!

I don’t know what should be done to balance things out. I hate it that the two educational systems exist. My suspicion is that were they to scrap private schools, then all the rich people would move to live near the good state schools and price everyone else out of that location. There doesn’t seem to be an answer, yet the level system seems fine in France and America and everywhere else.

I have always absolutely hated it that the current system separates my children from potential friends around here, and am thrilled that Freya has since reconnected with her old mates through working in the local pub/hotel/pony club etc..

The whole thing is deeply unsatisfactory and absolutely infuriating for everybody concerned. At least the universities are trying to equal opportunities up a bit. I had a guest here only last month, whose son achieved straight A*s throughout his GCSE’s and A’levels at Eton, yet he was refused entry to Cambridge – presumably in favour of somebody from a less privileged background.

I apologised profusely for my crassness.

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Don’t Judge By Appearances

“Ne pas toucher!” yelled the 6′ octogenarian ex-model French bloke, who was showing us around his castle, as my mate prodded something calling itself a 100 yr old crocodile skin suitcase.

She looked up in mild surprise.  She’d already annoyed our still rather gorgeous, arrogant tour guide by saying “I don’t understand a word” when he’d offered to translate his patter into English, not meaning to at all.

My friend has just celebrated her 60th birthday, closely escaped death in a horse accident last year, she’s not very tall, and has bad feet, so she’s currently looking a little lame, small, thin, pale and hunched.

Her interest in the crocodile skin is prompted by the fact that she is a Professor of Dermatology – Secretary of the Scottish Dermatological Society Skin Cancer Group, President of the British Society for Skin Care in Immunosuppressed Individuals, Chair of the Scottish Intercollegiate Guidelines Network for cutaneous Squamous Cell Carcinoma (SIGN SCC), member of the NCRI non-melanoma skin cancer clinical studies group, member of the British Association of Dermatologists Skin Cancer Prevention Committee, Board member of Skin Care in Organ transplant Patients in Europe (SCOPE) and UK representative on the International Transplant Skin Cancer Collaboration (ITSCC).

She also had the same piano teacher as me til she was twelve.

And she was remarkably unjudgmental of my beautiful, deep, Summer 2018 tan.  I surreptitiously hid my bottle of Piz Buin No 10 before rubbing Factor 50 onto her glowing white back.

 

 

 

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Doing a Katie Hopkins

Isn’t it surprising how many vegetarians are fat?  It’s probably all those flapjacks and carob-brownies masquerading as health foods in Holland & Barrett.

Over the past four years increasing numbers of my B&B guests let me know beforehand that they’re veggie, or even vegan, prompting me to buy Linda McCartney’s revolting cardboard cylindrical Cumberland quorn sausages, and one of the myriad choices of dairy-free milk substitutes – almond, soya, oat? How can you tell which one they’ll prefer? I also offer Bertolli spread, oat creme fraiche and dairy-free fruit yogurt, and actually all of this is almost no trouble at all. But, at the end of the day – let them eat eggs (oops, not the vegans – can’t even put butter on their toast!)

I always expect non-meat-eaters to be weak, white and wan.  I also worry about them clocking the hunting pictures which surround them in my dining room – their place-mats, coasters, and Lionel Edwards prints on the wall. Well I am now having to eat humble pie (a dish originally made from the innards of deer).

Last week a French mother-and-daughter couple proved our fittest couple yet.  The Mum was celebrating her 65th birthday, walking in some borrowed Dunlop wellies; and the daughter is the most beautiful creature I have ever seen. Six foot tall, willowy gazelle-like slender, like the Russian girls gathered in the loos at Annabel’s – a different breed of human.  Only this one is no dolly-bird – she’s developing a new kind of un-launderable money for the city.  She’s the best advertisement for veganism that you could possibly dream up.  Being French, highly intelligent and successful she doesn’t really do smiling, and knows exactly what she wants and likes, so she’s bloody scary, but over her stay, she thawed.

Anyhow – she has an app on her phone which proved that, crossing Dartmoor hills, bogs, rocks and gorse, this remarkable pair averaged 23km a day over four days. Phew.

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Meet the Author – Moi!

“Are you sitting down?” I exclaim.  “His grandmother taught me and everyone else I know the piano til we were twelve! She had blue hair!”

This is the result of my meeting with the MD of the Dating/Events company who’s asked me to speak at her ‘Author’s Talk’ in September.  She appears to be more interested in matchmaking me than in my books which she hasn’t read.

She’d given me his name, and original family name, so obviously I stalked him on Google the minute she was out of the door, and top of the entries was an article he’d written in the Scottish Daily Mail about his famous composer grandfather, married to my ex-piano teacher.

She says he’s brainy and quirky – well I love all that; and shoots, so he understands my world.

I told her I’d give her a million quid if she found me the man of my dreams. But since then I’ve reduced my offer to a grand, as I don’t actually have a million.  And now I’m worrying about how and when you can actually tell that this is finally ‘the one’.  Perhaps there should be a scale of charges.  Maybe thirty quid if you find yourself sharing a thoroughly enjoyable, stimulating meal together, that gets you all excited.  A hundred quid if you sleep with them; three hundred if you’re still with them after three months; and a thousand if you marry them.

Meanwhile the 6′ willowy blonde vision of loveliness that comprises Nell, the agency owner, explains that the Author’s Evening will probably comprise only around eight people sitting in a circle in a very relaxed way, and I won’t need to have prepared a talk or anything. God – I could actually look forward to this. Two hours of talking about myself without stopping, to a rapt audience! Lovely jubbly!

 

 

 

 

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Chippy People

I’m losing my nerve re going public with this blog malarky.

To do so, one of the things I suppose I’ll have to do is post about it on my Facebook page. My page currently boasts 268 so-called ‘friends’, most of whom I would imagine are Faye’s mates from the local pony club, and at the moment it’s listed under my maiden name – Mary Nicholson.

On the one hand, there’s boring close friends and foreigners witless with monosyllabic complacent me me me posts from my comfortable middle-class home, moaning on that I’m too broke to buy a new horse or something, and that none of my on-line dates feel comfortable discussing private schools, hunts, and yacht moorings.

But it’s rather different, putting yourself out there in front of people such as those following Rachaele Hambleton’s occasionally extremely dark posts – where women can’t actually afford to feed their own children; or are living in genuine fear of having their throats cut, or of their children getting stabbed to death by their abusive crazed fathers.  Despite all her selfless campaigning, Rachaele still receives some unpleasant and very negative messages. Yet hers is a completely different scary alien world to the comfortable, privileged, easy, complacent, smug place that I inhabit – what on earth are these sorts of trolls going to say to me? Perhaps they’ll stick a bomb under my car?  Do I really want to get involved, and be completely shafted as a result, by people who aren’t interested in reading jolly, life-enhancing, lightweight drivel about how posh people ‘live the life’, by chippy women who prefer to stick a pin into everything? My skin is not very thick.  This might turn out all to be a very hurtful, self-indulgent, waste of time.

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Acosador Gordon

Since I told him I was on holiday, Stalker Gordon is now sending me daily eCards in Spanish.

I bet there is nobody else in the whole world who is lucky enough to be stalked by somebody so hysterically funny, clever, witty, warm, supportive and loyal. He regularly literally has me in tears of laughter.

He has moved on from signing cards addressed to ‘Lady Demelza’ from ‘Ross the Toss’; to ‘dama intoxicante’ from ‘Julio Iglesias’, and today it’s from ‘Julio Double-Glasias’. I’m still sniggering to myself.

I have never spoken to him, nor do I know what he looks like.  But the producers of Channel 4’s ‘Four In A Bed’ know him all too well!

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First Follower – I sound like Jesus!

Yesterday this new blog of mine received its first ‘like’ and its first ‘follower’.  Both came from a company that sells pencil cases called ‘Skool Dealz’.  I hope its customers turn out to be better at spelling than its CEO is.

Well today, my very best mate of all in the entire universe, AngiePangiePooPlops, to whom I’ve dedicated my second book for her ongoing support of all things Mary Hadow-related; has become my second ever signed-up follower.  To become one is a pain the arse, apparently, as you have to ‘join’ and all that crap.  Urgh.  I’ve promised Faye 1p for every ‘follower’ that she can produce, as I don’t really have a single clue what is going on with this whole thing.

I nice fellow-blogger called Leslie Nichole gave me my first ‘like’ before I’d even finished or titled the last blog – what’s that all about? There must be a whole load of extraordinary automatic things going on around this thing that I am totally unaware of.

In the meantime, I shall continue with my ‘Categories’ and ‘Tags’ and hope they make something happen.  I want 20,000 followers, like the person had to get on Instagram in a book I’ve just finished called ‘One In A Million’, and designated for the waste paper basket. So I’ve got to learn how its all done if I’m to achieve my aim, and Faye is to make herself £2,000 by assisting me, using her limited knowledge of the dreaded Sew-sherll Meedja.

I mean honestly – if people are literally signing up to follow things like this, there’ll be no need for books anymore!