A traveller's tale.
I've just left an abridged verion of the following review on Trip Advisor.
Those who follow me on Twitter will have watched the episode unfold, no doubt chuckling at my blooming incredulity and obvious discomfort. I'll post some pictures to help set the scene. This all occurred on Thursday night. It's all true.
Title:
Welcome To The Overlook Hotel Mr Torrance
Be afraid. Be very afraid.
I was on business in Geneva and had failed to observe the maxim 'book early to avoid disappointment', choosing rather to trust to my customary good fortune (and Hotels.com) to find somewhere 'close to Geneva Airport' so I could commute to and from work each day. The photos on the website showed a jolly ski lodge adorned with snow and fairy lights, boasting a heated indoor pool and proclaiming all manner of warm and welcoming things.
The resort sits in Les Rousses a-top the mighty Jura, the skiing Nirvana that looms over Geneva. This would, I surmised, make a tasty treat for a seasoned curmudgeon like myself, tired as I am of staying in homogenised look-a-like MarrioRamadaInns.
Here's a link to the resort profile
I arrived late at night having driven up the winding mountain pass from Geneva. The SatNav took me to the map location but this was clearly wrong. Nothing but the silhouettes of deserted buildings set between tracts of open fields. Having peered into the darkness at the mountain top for some time I spied the soft glow of a cigarette in a doorway. In my best pigeon French I asked after the place. A nod, a swarthy smile, a long drag on the Gitagnes.
'Oui. A gauche' - an arm signal 'et deux a droit' some more hand gestures.
I followed his directions, cursing him silently as I sought signs of life amidst the darkness. Just as I was about to abandon my search a huge shadow loomed from the inky black. Eureka. No lights appeared save a lone flickering bulb over the entrance. No signs of life; no cars in the car park (Hotels.com said '2 rooms left' when I booked), not so much as a scurrying mouse. Could this be it? Ah, yes. Here were my keys, taped to the reception window in an envelope marked with my name and 'Appt 4'. The only suggestion of life in the vicinity was the pervasive, eye-watering waft of raw agriculture coming from the nearby farms.
I found apartment 4 (door unlocked and slightly ajar). To say the room was sparsely decorated would be an understatement. No pictures (anywhere), no soft furnishings. The doors to the balconies were open (with outer shutters loosely closed). It was freezing cold. In a state of mild shock I searched the rooms. The shower appeared to be Louis Pasteur's original lab, so advanced was the biological development in the loose tile/ mouldy grouting. The bedroom was a treat. A large, low bed, devoid of sheets, pillows or covers, just an old hairy blanket covering a decrepit, sagging mattress.
The 'living' room/ kitchenette boasted a fairly new pine shelf unit on which sat the original microwave. It was so large I thought the glass plate must be a TV screen. Alas no, such advanced technology had yet to reach the area. Next to it slumped a sorry looking coffee maker. There was no sign of refreshments, no vending machines in the corridor, no drinking water in the fridge (I wasn't going to try the tap in case blood ran out). To be fair there were no bugs either. French insects have high standards. The laminate, presumably glued onto the kitchen furnishings shortly before man landed on the Moon, had bubbled and started to turn green-black at the edges.
By now I was waiting for the kid on the tricycle to show up. There was no sign of RedRum anywhere but the night was young. I was tired and not a little hysterical. The drive back to Geneva involved a degree of alpine slalom beyond my weary ken so I opted to stay until sunrise. I found some blankets in a slightly beaten, metal school locker and cowered on the spongy mattress, teeth chattering, wondering if Leatherface might be about to pop in. It felt like some bizarre test to satisfy the last will and testament of a wealthy but vindictive relative. Eventually, mercifully, the sleep of the weary traveller came upon me.
At sunrise I took my leave, depositing the key on the deserted shutter-sealed counter. Still no signs of life, no other vehicles, no sounds save for my own ragged breathing and the rather too loud beating of my heart. I made the descent into Geneva in record time, bruising my shoulders as I threw my little rental car into every hairpin.
The good people at Hotels.com provided a full refund and I am happily now installed in a more expensive (but occupied) hotel near Geneva airport. The moral of the tale? Book early to avoid disappointment, don’t believe everything you read in the interweb.
