Gastnutzer
5. März 2025
My wife and I are a pretty stoical pair—we don't usually grumble unless something is truly catastrophic, like a meteor strike or running out of tea. But this place… well. Our first room had no hot water, which would’ve been fine if we were looking for an authentic Arctic survival experience. The bed was lumpy enough to qualify as an archaeological site, and two of the springs made a daring escape while I was lying on it. The whole room had the charm of a forgotten storage cupboard. I mentioned this to the front desk and was assured the next room was "better." It wasn’t. This time, the water was so hot it could have boiled a lobster—sadly, that lobster was me. The room itself looked as though it had recently lost a fight with gravity. The blind was in tatters, with a long strip hanging like some sort of post-apocalyptic décor. The window security cable had given up on life entirely. The shower curtain had a fetching two-tone design: white(ish) at the top, thick brown at the bottom (we didn’t investigate further). The taps in the sink were grim enough to make a health inspector weep. The walls had cracks that suggested the building was slowly trying to escape itself. And, for good measure, another bed spring went ping in the night. Didn't see any point in trying to move again, just in case the next room was even worse. All in all, the stay was technically survivable but hardly worth what we paid. If they charged £20 a night for two people, that might feel about right—if they threw in breakfast and an apology. I understand the place was previously used to house asylum seekers, and I don’t think they’ve changed so much as a lightbulb since. There were only ten guests in the entire "hotel," so if this place is still open in six months, I’ll eat my (hopefully non-bedbug-infested) hat. Frankly, calling it a hotel is a bit ambitious. A "loosely assembled collection of rooms" would be more accurate.
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