As another eagerly-anticipated (?!) Valentine’s Day approaches, love has certainly been in the air at our St Margaret’s offices. So, whether you’re the type to need a reinforced letterbox for all those cards and presents this weekend – or are more likely to be found browsing microwave meals for one in Waitrose (sob) – we hope the following personal anecdotes warm the cockles of your heart. Names withheld to spare our blushes…
Where’s the most romantic place you’ve ever been?
• “Watching the sunset over the Tuscan hills and the red tile roofs of Florence from the top of the Duomo. Breathtaking, just like the stairs”
• “The 16th floor Gaja Sky Bar at the Swissotel, Istanbul, sipping cocktails while overlooking the Bosphorus. Bliss.”
• “As new (ish) parents…sheltering together in the pouring rain under a kagool, eating chocolate biscuits on the deck of the Isle of Wight car ferry to Cowes for our first weekend without the kids. As we huddled under the plastic, the storm passed over, a beautiful bright light cast over the water and seagulls swooped down to eat the biscuit crumbs.”
• “Enjoying the soft air, sweet spicy smells and exotic sounds of the busy Jamaa El Fna Square as we gazed down from the haven of our Marrakech riad rooftop cafe.”
• “Wintertime in the Blue Lagoon in Iceland. It’s at its most romantic at night, the stars twinkle overhead, the temperature is a few below zero, snow is falling and the steam envelopes everyone and everything. Its milky blue waters gently lap in the breeze and soothes tired limbs - it feels like your own private oasis. Hard to beat for an unforgettable experience.”
• “On a trek in Nepal, just outside Kathmandu, emerging from thick cloud to see the smoke rising from a beautiful Tibetan monastery - set against a snowy high mountain backdrop, with birds of prey circling languidly overhead and the distant sound of Buddhist drums. As we staggered breathless up to the monastery, there were hundreds of coloured prayer flags fluttering in the wind, a line of prayer wheels and then the wonderful bright orange robes and happy smiling faces of the monks.”
• “In London, you can dine at all the rooftop restaurants, cross all the bridges and stroll all the parks you want – but I’d dispute that any of those experiences comes close to matching the magic of a day on Hampstead Heath with your partner. The ideal scenario is this: choose a hot day and arrive during the peak of the heat. Dip in the mixed pool, then amble, arm-in-arm, up to higher ground for a lavish picnic overlooking London’s cranes, spokes and spires. After the pickled onions and prosciutto are all gone, bring out a blanket, and cuddle down as the sun slips away. A nice bottle of wine doesn’t go amiss, either.” (Nor breath mints, presumably, after this particular love picnic?!)
• “It’s cheesy I know, but my best Valentine’s day was spent in picture perfect Paris. A morning spent at the magnificent Musée D’Orsay, an afternoon spent strolling hand-in-hand along the Seine with no agenda, and an evening at a gorgeous little bistro in bustling St Germain de Prés. For me, Paris remains one of the most romantic cities in the world – its charming pavement cafés, picturesque cityscape, fantastic museums and indulgent food are still a winning combination when it comes to wooing your loved one.”
• “Catching the last little boat back from Bryher to St Mary’s on the Isles of Scilly after a magical day of autumn sunshine, spent meandering around the island and enjoying a delicious lunch of freshly-caught shellfish, washed down will a chilled glass of sauvignon blanc. I can honestly say I’ve never felt so relaxed and at peace. The seals we saw from our dinky vessel seemed to be enjoying the occasion too!”.
• “For me, it has to be Amed, a collection of small villages on the north east coast of Bali that’s so off-the-beaten track, I doubt we would have ever found it without the freedom and flexibility of a scooter. Dependent on salt-making and fishing rather than tourism, we woke every morning at sunrise to find the calm, big blue bay (no Kuta waves here) filled with hundreds of colourful sails as the double-outrigger fishing boats gliding back to shore with their catch. Silent and sublime.”
• “Lit each night by hundreds of hand-dipped candles, for breathtaking romance, it has to be the Hotel Casa Santo Domingo in Antigua, the old colonial capital of Guatemala. Dramatically overlooked by the brooding cones of three volcanoes, the former Dominican convent and church is an absolute delight. I burst into tears when we were shown our room – it was so lovely and individually designed, filled with lots of local touches. The perfect place to propose would be over dinner amidst the ruins of the old stone walls – very private and romantic, lit by candlelight but in the open air. You can also get married in the main church of the hotel – a good reason to return!”
• “Being rudely awoken at four in the morning by the honking and shouting of an impatient tuk tuk driver may not seem like it would signal the start of a romantic sojourn but Cambodia is full of surprises! Bouncing up and down along winding roads in complete darkness I wondered if I was mad, but all doubt dispersed when we arrived at Angkor Wat, the best-preserved temple at this awe-inspiring 12th century complex. We made our way to the ponds in front of the temple and took position for the sun rise, the sky turned from inky black to purple, pink then orange - particularly beautiful was the reflection of the temple in the water by my feet.”
Once the turkey’s all eaten, the mince pies demolished and even the last few unwanted Quality Streets in the tin have finally found favour (orange cream anyone?) most fit-to-bursting bodies will be crying out for a detox. Having recently returned from a whistle-stop tour of some of Austria’s finest spa hotels (a pre-emptive strike on my anticipated festive flab), I can think of nothing nicer.
First stop, the Alpenresort Schwarz, a chocolate-box perfect four-star hotel in the Tirol which, like most of the properties in Austria’s Finest Spa Hotels & Resorts programme (www.austria.info/spa), is family-run – this one by the charming Herr & Frau Pirktl. After a massage guaranteed to unknot even the most stressed Eurostar executive, you can take a dip in one of seven pools at the newly-opened Schwarz Water World or simply sink into a relaxation area – my favourite resembled a soft play area for adults, dimly lit and strewn with suspended, womb-like pods where drifting into a sublime deep sleep is only a matter of minutes away.
Indoor golf at the Interalpen-Hotel Tyrol
After a delicious dinner accompanied by an evening of entertainment from the staff of the Schwarz – including Herr Pirktl himself, it was time to move on to our second spa hotel. The five-star Interalpen Hotel Tyrol sits amid spectacular Alpine isolation – imagine the hotel from iconic movie ‘The Shining’, but without Jack Nicholson running amok! Built in traditional Tyrolean style, yet on a scale that wouldn’t look out of place on the Las Vegas Strip, guests approaching the Interalpen by car arrive via an marble-clad underground car park from where it’s an effortless hop to the hotel’s impressive lobby. Clutching a hand-picked rose stem courtesy of the reception staff (I’m a soft touch for a free flower) we were escorted to what the hotel classes as a standard double room whilst, to the rest of us mortals, it comes closer in size to an upper-end central London apartment. And, if two large double beds, a sitting room area, enormous bathroom and walk-in wardrobe (a total dream for Carrie Bradshaw wannabes) isn’t enough, the hotel’s penthouse suite with panoramic mountain-top views provides the perfect bolthole for paparazzi-shy A listers or Europe’s more monied spa-seekers.
And the spa itself? Wow. Over 5,000 square metres of steam rooms, massage and beauty suites await as well as a Tirolean sauna village complete with running stream, water wheel and birdsong. Purely for research purposes (you understand), I tried a Dermalogica facial (superb) and full body massage (amazing), both carried out by friendly and über-professional practitioners in scrupulously-clean treatment rooms, each with its own private view overlooking ubiquitous snow clad pine trees. Equally idyllic for male and female spa enthusiasts, there are mixed and single-sex sauna areas, a delightful chill-out area boasting waterbeds, cosy throws and – in winter – a warming log fire. Husband or boyfriend the type to get bored sitting around in his dressing gown all day? Look no further than the Interalpen’s latest attraction – an indoor putting green and golf simulator that enables sporting types to play a round at some of the world’s best courses…without even leaving the hotel.
Last but certainly not least, the third hotel on this superb spa safari was the five-star Posthotel Resort & Spa. Nestled in the picturesque Alpine village of Achenkirch am Achensee, this is one of two properties owned and run by the Reiter family whose considerable talents extend beyond warm hospitality to interior design (everything you see around the hotel can be purchased in the shopping mall) and even horse husbandry - Herr Reiter’s speciality is Lippizaners, many of which are stabled at the Posthotel and available for guests to ride.
Picture perfect: Alpine splendour at the Posthotel, Achenkirch
Slightly alarmed to hear that my treatment plan here included cupping (think Gwyneth Paltrow) I am pleased to report that, whilst it’s an odd sensation at first (imagine your skin getting sucked slowly through a small funnel) my epidermis has lived to tell the tale. Add to that a lymph drainage massage for face, neck and décolleté, and the Atrium Spa had certainly done its darnedest to prepare me for the Christmas party season! Karen Carpenter.
Earlier this year I spent five months working in a tourist office in the South of France. Before starting I really wasn’t sure quite what to expect, and was by no means ready for the stream of strange and curious questions which would end up coming my way. Nothing had suggested that the tourist office would turn out to be a general information office or that the majority of ‘tourists’ would, in fact, be local residents.
People seemed to see us as having a variety of functions. A particularly memorable question came during my first week when a middle-aged lady came in to ask where she could buy a canary. Thinking there must be a misunderstanding and blaming my rusty French, I double checked that it was a little yellow bird that she was after. It was. She was not alone in viewing us as a sort of shopping advisor, and weeks later I was asked for the whereabouts of a shop selling wine bottle corks, and one which stocked books on witchcraft.
To other people we were more of a meteorological office. An old man once wanted to know the precise timings of the forecasted rain in order to schedule when his wife could hang out her laundry, and fairly late into spring I was questioned on the closest place with snow.
Numerous occasions saw us being mistaken for a travel agent and being asked to book flights to Madrid or on the best way to get to Ibiza. Another favourite was when a clearly very local couple came and asked whether there was a time difference between where we were, and the north of France. You really never knew what was coming next!
Perhaps people had reason to come in with strange requests. It’s true that along with the town maps you might expect to receive in a tourist office, we could provide maps and guides to any EU capital, to most French ski resorts and to France’s various overseas départements and territories.
It’s worth remembering, and next time you find yourself in France with a tourist office nearby, you really can go in and ask quite literally anything. Helena Hamlyn.
Travelling to and from work I’ve been drawn to the colourful posters of the Incredible India advertising campaign, brightening up train and Tube stations around London, and transported to the tropical waters and the vibrant settings they picture. Having returned from the AITO Conference in Cochin, Kerala, on my first visit to the country, I would say the Ministry of Tourism’s product does exactly what it says on the tin.
After arriving in the early hours and waking up from a few hours’ sleep, the sound of nearby prayers and beeping traffic brought me to the balcony and, stepping into the heat with a close-up of Cochin before me, I immediately felt enveloped by the city’s charming, gentle chaos.
Exploring Cochin around the business sessions of the conference was a real pleasure. A laid-back place with a rich history of colonial influences, notably Portuguese, Dutch and British, today they seem to form a harmonious blend with traditional and modern Indian culture. Part of the British legacy is cricket and talking to the locals while watching a game is a great way to spend an afternoon, and definite confirmation of how crazy Indians are about the sport; turning up to watch an AITO team play is keen.
Locals in Cochin take refuge from the sun and catch up for a chat
Architecture, from palaces to fishing huts; food, with tastes that come at you from all angles; distinctive dance; arresting music; the views; and the people of Cochin’s approach to driving are all part of what made my snap-shot of India an incredible first-time experience. And the backwaters, stretching across a vast area behind Cochin, are an eye-opener after a few days in the city and not to be missed. Coming out of downtown, Chinese fishing net structures and palm trees form the skyline there while flitting kingfishers and fishermen, balancing on small wooden boats to pull in their nets, provide the action to both unwind and uplift the visitor. Rob Looker
For somebody who has never watched a live cricket match, never mind played it, it was a brave step to attempt my first cricketing appearance against a crack Indian outfit at the AITO conference in Cochin, Kerala, last Friday. All the more so when I saw how fast the first few deliveries whizzed by our opening batsmen.
Every year at the AITO Conference, Steve DaCosta from Sports Tours Ltd lays on a sporting challenge where we play a local team. Playing the Spanish at football and the Indians at cricket is a wonderful occasion but to stand any chance of winning a game, we need to be playing the Spanish at cricket and the Indians at football.
The famous pink cricket ball
As somebody who has played a range of sports, cricket has always appeared to be a sport that seemed slightly pedestrian. Hurling, with 15 other mad Irishmen chasing you with sticks and trying their best to beat the living daylight out of you, was a slightly livelier prospect. However, despite my sporting nous, I was dispatched to the outfield as a fielder, facing the batsman at approximately five o’clock on the field; somebody more knowledgeable than I can tell me what position that’s called! The first ball that came my way went over my head like a rocket, on its way into the Indian sky, as everyone shouted “catch it, catch it”. Easy for them to say as firstly, I barely saw it, secondly, I’m not ten foot tall and thirdly, I value my fingers a bit more than sticking them in front of a missile travelling at 80 mph. Still the next ball to come my way was far more manageable, a nice height, not too fast and as it approached I imagined the cheer of the crowd for this cricketing rookie, the appreciative drinks that would follow as I was constantly slapped on the back and congratulated for being a natural. As it fell down to earth, I was perfectly positioned and it sailed into my hands, a perfect catch but the momentum of the ball caused me to trip on the boundary, fall on my backside and I ended up over the other side of the rope, gifting the Indians a six. Slaps on the back did not follow although slaps of a different kind were now more likely to follow.
Batting was a going to be a doddle; I’m pretty handy at tennis and how to drive a hurling ball (sliothar to those who want the technical term) ninety metres down a pitch. As I expected this to be my one and only cricketing experience I intended to take a swipe at anything that came my way and send the errant bowler all around the ground. The moment came as I faced my first ball and as it slowly left his arm I panicked. I connected and the ball was hit 20 feet into the air, but sadly only three feet in front of me into the grateful arms of a fielder. My batting career had lasted one ball and twenty seconds, far from a glorious innings. Still, I had the consolation of being one of the first people ever to play with the new pink cricket ball, courtesy of Colin Gibson at the ECB and for seeing the happiness on the opposition’s faces at their victory.
My first cricketing experience was thoroughly enjoyable and a wonderful sense of camaraderie between both teams was apparent. Although I never expected to play cricket for an English team in India, I can’t wait for the next time to make amends for my dismal performance and rescue my reputation. Ian Bradley
Two-and-a-half years old and she wants to divorce her parents. “I don’t like my Daddy!’ she screams, face puce and feet planted on an uneven stone step overlooking the pastel-washed houses of Fiskardo. “I don’t need my Mummy!” The words feel like gunshots, but our provisional parenting licence (we’re novices) tells us we can’t crumple: show you’re wounded and they’ll think you surrender. In pink plimsolls, pink t-shirt and little white shorts, her big blue-grey eyes and golden curls peeping out from under a floppy blue hat that’s tied in a bow under her chin, she’s a pint-sized-cherub-turned-Exorcist-girl (minus the rotating head and green bile – so far).
Our 50-week-awaited, two-week-long Cephalonian summer holiday had promised to be worth every penny of our savings (just over £3,000): a stunning stone house in an olive grove with an entire valley and a small beach practically to itself; a private pool overlooking Ithaca; our own chickens and their daily eggs; a houseman on hand to clean (and who, on one occasion, held the back end of our hire car up with his bare hands, preventing it from toppling over a precipice while I took my time remembering how to find first); a hillside hamlet just up the road with a couple of really Greek tavernas and where we could find all sorts of inflatables and plastic beach bumph to keep the little lady happy.
But no. “I want to go back to London. I don’t like my holiday”. Admittedly she was getting over a bad throat infection, but we thought if we kept her plied with Calpol and ice cream, she’d see the benefits of being away. According to our miniature travel expert however, the beaches were too “stinty” (pebbly), despite the anti-stint shoes we went to great pains to find for her to toddle about in, in what were actually the most striking, practically deserted bays with cerulean, see-through water we’d ever seen.
The stunning pool at Hotel Emelisse on Cephalonia
All she wanted was to watch Winnie the Pooh, Chicken Run and Madagascar (in that order, over and over again) on the big telly in the sitting-room, and to make patterns with the pieces of the Connect 4 game we found in the cupboard. Seething with frustration, desperate to get our tans on the go, my husband and I sat with her, in silence gazing out of the windows at the green and blue, dazzlingly beautiful outside world, occasionally catching each other’s eye and trying to smile to belie the fact that our souls were under destruction.
By day five I was ready to go home. I even contemplated calling the Greek Islands Club (GIC) rep to find out about flights. I’d liked this lady, Anna, the minute I met her, which was on our first day: she arrived just as our delightful daughter finished having a poo on the terrace. I was mortified. She had (honestly) never done this before – I was having a (short-lived) attempt at potty training and just wasn’t being observant enough. As I ineptly scrubbed at the immaculately swept stone with washing-up liquid and kitchen roll, apologising profusely and assuring her that we were actually very clean, tidy people and would take excellent care of their property, Anna laughed and reassured me with stories of her own children’s embarrassing loo (or lack of) moments.
Anyway, I resisted the urge to call her, thinking that such capitulation on my part may well push my dear husband, so desperate to give his little family a fun holiday, over an edge that he was perilously teetering on. And amazingly, my resistance paid off. On day six, I nervously went into our daughter’s room to wake her up – preparing myself for the abrupt “Go way! I want stay in bed” we’d been greeted with every other morning – and she was sitting in her white sheets, grinning.
And from that moment on, either because she’d finally shrugged off the tail end of her illness, or because a pitying Greek fairy godmother had visited her in the night to perform a personality transplant, we had a relaxed, happy eight days of holiday. She started playing with other children on the beach, swimming in the sea, and even stopped worrying about the stints. We enjoyed early-evening dinners around Fiskardo’s buzzing harbour, and she ate her bodyweight in calamari, Greek salads, meatballs and spaghetti every night. She started sleeping like a log (or a twig, anyway) at night, napping on the beach wrapped in towels under an umbrella after lunch, and, most importantly, hugging us again.
An added bonus to our new-found holiday happiness was the discovery of the Emelisse Hotel, another GIC property recommended by a couple we met who also had small kids. A boutiquey design property, all serenity and contemporary style, we were utterly surprised it described itself as a ‘family hotel’. But despite the minimalism and mostly coupled clientele, it turned out to be the most child-friendly place (bar Center Parcs) I’d ever been to. The two enormous infinity pools, one cascading into the other, overlooked a breathtaking and expansive view over the calm sea and ‘Ifferker’ (as it became known) – the island whose majestic, mountainous dominance is inescapable in the area. One of the pools came up only as far as her chest, which meant hours of water-winged wading with bucket and spade; and the other had perfect steps for sitting on and colouring in with a watering can.
We stretched out on smart sun-beds, iPods on, ordering Diet Cokes, pretending to amazed onlookers that our daughter was always this easy with non-committal nonchalance. We lunched by the pool on tasty club sandwiches, smoked salmon-filled ciabatta, chips and fresh melon, while our angel, strapped into the latest funky high-chair provided by the hotel, smiled and said ‘efaristo’ to the accommodating waiters, desperate for one of her charming smiles.
Five days were spent in this delicious luxury, and although the pleasure cost us around 45 euros a time, we were just astonished, and incredibly thankful, that such an exceptionally cool hotel allowed children, and day-guests, in at all.
A picture perfect olive grove on Cephalonia
So in the end we had the best of both worlds, times two: the privacy of our own property and the facilities of a hotel; and the (eventual) joy of a family-friendly holiday without having to venture into happy-clappy Mark Warner-esque territory.
As we drove back to Argostoli airport, 90 minutes’ worth of winding and zig-zagging through the mountains, our little friend, after so many days of adorability, without warning took on her Regan-inspired traits again: shouting and kicking in her car-seat, and twisting her head violently (still not rotating though). We stared forward, ignoring her wails, determined we wouldn’t have this again. Then silence, and a repulsive smell. I looked around and she looked at me desperately, dolefully, covered chest to knees in white puke. The guilt! The shame of thinking so little of our girl, when all she was doing was being car-sick.
Thankfully, this came just at the popular viewpoint where you can pull in and marvel at Myrtos Beach (featured in Captain Corelli’s Mandolin). As we stripped her down in front of a coach-load of religious Greek tourists and their accompanying Orthodox priests, I gave thanks to God that we had her back for good. Mischa Mack stayed at Olive Grove, featured in GIC’s portfolio of properties. Mischa Mack.
The Sporades, an archipelago off the east coast of mainland Greece, caught my attention this year. A ‘so bad it’s good’ film has put the spotlight on Skopelos, a tiny pinprick in the Aegean with pine-clad vertiginous peaks that’s about as green as the Greek islands get. Luckily the terrain has deterred the Greeks from building an airport here, and after a white knuckle landing at Skiathos (the runway, flanked by the sea at both ends, is the shortest I’ve ever seen!) and a speedy hop by ‘flying cat’, we’re in peaceful Skopelos.
The stunning view of Skopelos from our villa
Travelling in late September means that the temperatures are in the mid twenties, ideal for walking and snorkelling. Our villa – booked through my client Greek Islands Club - is perfect: nestled on its own on a hill, it faces west and overlooks the amphitheatrically-built Skopelos town and harbour – the views and sunsets mesmerising. It’s not long before we settle into island life buying Barbouni (red mullet) straight off the boats in the morning for dinner, before tackling the island’s hilly trails. My keen birdwatcher partner is in heaven when he spots bee eaters, Bonelli’s eagles, Eleonora’s falcons and wind chats. We hit the picturesque beaches in the afternoon - a favourite was Limonari, just far enough from the town that it wasn’t too busy with some good snorkelling and a nice taverna serving hearty Greek dishes.
Before long, we’re off to Alonissos which offers an altogether wilder and more remote experience, with its crystal clear waters, heather-clad hills and beautiful rugged bays with very few people. It’s just as lush here as Skopelos and the walks are impressive – overwhelming wafts of thyme and heather; fig, mulberry, pine and almond trees aplenty and an excellent guide in Chris Browne who knows the island inside out. This time, we’re lucky enough to stay right on the beach at the charming Fisherman’s Cottage with its wonderful views of Peristera, an uninhabited island well worth exploring by boat if you like secluded beaches all to yourself. The nearby idyllic fishing villages of Steni Vala and Kalamakia satisfied our yearnings for fresh fish.
One of the cats on Alonissos drops by to say hi
Alonissos is home to Greece’s only National Marine Park primarily set up to protect Europe’s largest colony of one of the most endangered mammals in the world, the Mediterranean Monk Seal. Day trips into the park by boat are possible, although don’t expect to see any seals! Dolphins are more common though, and after pausing at the renowned ‘blue cave’, the boat stops at a charming monastery with a solitary working monk. One of our more unusual spots here – the monk, his cassock covered in dust, was working a cement mixer when we arrived! On our last day we discover an ancient resident – a great big wild tortoise plucked out of the undergrowth for inspection by my partner. An Alonissos veteran, it would seem that she sets the pace on this sleepy, beguiling island. Sarah Belcher
I need to qualify this blog because bmi is an airline that I’ve used for many years almost entirely without trouble with excellent cabin crew, helpful ground staff, spotless aircraft and flights typically on time – generally speaking they get it right. So my experience with the airline over the past weekend was certainly an aberration and hopefully just a one off, a bad day at the office.
I’ve seen Monty Python sketches less amusing than the chaos of check in at Terminal 1 and more common sense at my two year old daughter’s nursery (remember her age for later). So where did it all go wrong?
As a family we checked in online 24 hours in advance to select our seats because as the bmi website gushes “Online Check-in is designed to make your journey easier. The simple and convenient process allows you to choose your seat and eliminate the need to queue.” That’s an admirable concept in theory and tends to work for most airlines but what floats the boat of the marketing team doesn’t seem to have filtered through to the bmi ground staff at Heathrow. When we arrived at the spacious new check in area at LHR, there was a queue called “Fast Bag Drop” or some such misnomer about 30 passengers deep and a queue for the rest of the economy passengers being slightly shorter. Now get this, there were seven (yes, seven) desks dedicated to the shorter economy queue and only one for the supposedly faster bag drop. It doesn’t take a rocket scientist to see where this is going, the economy queue moved along merrily, always hovering at about 20 as passengers were processed quickly while the supposedly fast line moved at a glacier pace. At this point, common sense from staff had entirely gone out the window as for some reason they refused to take people from our queue and insisted on carrying on with one desk for the fast queue which by now was getting longer with very irate passengers. Simple and convenient? Something indeed was simple but it wasn’t the queuing system.
The first queue supervisor I questioned was a caricature throwback to the good old union days, “not my problem mate, see the check in supervisor”, no attempt whatsoever to understand the problem let along solve a very simple situation. Off I toddled to the supervisor then, I stood in front of her for a full five minutes and she studiously ignored me, (she was on the phone which was fair enough) but she didn’t lift her eyes once from her screen and attempt to even acknowledge my presence, so no joy there either. By now the smoke was coming out the ears of the entire queue as flights were getting closer to departure time, kids were crying etc. By now the fast queue was three times the length of the other queue.
Another queue supervisor now materialised, we now had two queues and two supervisors and she did at least speak to some check in desks and allocate us three desks in total, but predictably the check in staff ignored her and refused to call people from the normal queue, prompting her to come back and have a rant at them to do what they’re told! The foreigners around us glanced around for a surreptitious candid camera as they pondered the merits of the British pastime of queuing. Eventually we made it to the check in desk and the subsequent security line was a welcome respite from the chaos. Normal bmi service was resumed once onboard as the cabin crew restored my faith in bmi with a flawless service as usual.
Remember I said to keep my daughter’s age in mind (she’s two)? On the return check in the following morning there was an amusing postscript. Being a glutton for punishment I checked in online yet again on the premise that lightning doesn’t strike twice. This time I did it on a Blackberry that sent a very impressive barcode confirmation to my phone, it was incredibly simple and efficient. However when we got to Belfast airport, the check in agent asked for a mobile phone for each person to check the barcode, the folly of his request slowly dawned on him while he glanced at my daughter . “Hmmm”, he agreed that the system obviously needs finessing as it didn’t state while checking in that each person on the booking needed a separate mobile phone. It wasn’t a problem for us as he promptly printed traditional boarding passes but it seems that the facility is more aimed at business travellers than families.
Hopefully normal service will be resumed at Heathrow regarding check in. Such rigidity is crucial in an airline when dealing with passenger safety but flexibility is key on the ground to solve problems. As I mentioned earlier, I’ll put this down to just a bad day at the office but bmi please empower people to use their common sense and take a look at what is happening around them, it will make the overall experience much better for everyone. Ian Bradley.
Amsterdam’s canals were particularly pretty in the August sunshine, and the waterways offer a great way to see some of the key sights. We admired the skill of our captain, manoeuvring what was a wide and heavy traditional barge from one canal into another – some nifty wheel-turning and spot-on judgment was called for!
One of the more unusual sights was a multi-storey bicycle park – along the same lines as a multi-storey car park, but for bicycles… Quite how the owners ever located their bikes on their return was beyond me – there were thousands upon thousands of bikes all crammed in together. The houseboats lining the canals were pretty impressive, too, with floating decks moored adjacent to the boats to allow their owners outside space for a spot of sunbathing and relaxation; it looked very soporific to be rocked by the wake of passing craft, although not exactly private! My favourite mooring was the floating cat sanctuary, De Poezenboot (puss in boots). An odd mix, cats and water, but the residents seemed unfazed and calmly watched the world drift by from their respective perches on board.
Staying on the down low in Amsterdam
I remembered the Indonesian “rice tables” – a legacy from Dutch adventurers visiting the Far East - from a previous visit to Amsterdam, probably 30 years ago. This time around, we sampled oysters and sophisticated seafood treats overlooking a large inland sea at Restaurant Nevy for lunch and a sumptuous evening repast at the Silver Mirror restaurant (De Silveren Spiegel), in a building dating from the early 1600s. Similar to Anne Frank’s story – but with a happier ending - an entire family had escaped the Germans during the war by hiding in a tiny space in the restaurant’s attic while the Germans caroused below. The family’s grandmother died while in the attic and they had to wait until late at night to take her body out and arrange it on the pathway to look as if she’d keeled over and died on the spot. In today’s free and easy Amsterdam, it’s very hard to imagine the privations suffered by many during the war-time years. Sue Ockwell.
It has somehow become an regular occurrence in my life that at any party where there is at least one adult, I will always be asked: “So… what are you up to at the moment?”. In response, I provide my much-rehearsed reply of “Well, I’m studying Spanish at Bristol University”. Cue a follow-up question: “Oh really – why Spanish?”. Now, to this I could maturely respond: “Because I love the lingo and think it is rapidly becoming a business necessity to have a modern language on your CV” - all very true. But instead, the answer that I’ve embarrassingly found myself giving has actually been: “Because I get to spend a year working abroad acting like an adult, when really I’m still very much under the protective title of ’student’!”.
In preparation for this year of faux-adulthood, Bristol organised a series of informative meetings and distributed leaflets, both warning of the social phenomenon that is a “culture shock” – an idea that I completely dismissed on the grounds that Madrid was but an easyJet flight away. Nevertheless, they were right to warn us. Luckily though, I didn’t suffer the normal symptoms: homesickness, disorientation, general awkwardness and depression. Rather, for me, it was feelings of pleasant surprise, of glee and of never wanting to leave!
I put these positive personal responses down to the fact that I already knew the Spanish clock functioned at least three hours behind ours and, similarly, that I was very much aware in advance that paella and jamón were the typical order of the Iberian day.
But what other subtle social differences spurred my unusually positive culture shock reactions? Well, one was definitely the great Spanish belief in freedom of speech – or, in other words, swearing blindly in the office. This practice caused great surprise, especially when a call from my temporary employers’ big bossman began with “Hey #*$^, what’s going on?!” (rough translation). My delight was further fuelled by never having to tip in a restaurant (and no, that’s not just my true student colours shining through!).
My unwillingness to return to England could also be attributed to six months’ experiencing the fiesta attitude. That’s not to say I spent my whole time on sangria but, rather, that I learned that, for the Spanish, fiesta is actually a state of mind – one which basically decrees that everyone should relax because nothing is ever as bad as it seems - and, even if it is, it can always be sorted over a bottle of vino!
So be warned: if like me, you fully embrace this fiesta attitude, and the Spanish lifestyle in general, then the Spanish will quite literally embrace you – making it very hard to leave!
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Buck up bmi - queue chaos at LHR
Thursday, October 8th, 2009I need to qualify this blog because bmi is an airline that I’ve used for many years almost entirely without trouble with excellent cabin crew, helpful ground staff, spotless aircraft and flights typically on time – generally speaking they get it right. So my experience with the airline over the past weekend was certainly an aberration and hopefully just a one off, a bad day at the office.
I’ve seen Monty Python sketches less amusing than the chaos of check in at Terminal 1 and more common sense at my two year old daughter’s nursery (remember her age for later). So where did it all go wrong?
As a family we checked in online 24 hours in advance to select our seats because as the bmi website gushes “Online Check-in is designed to make your journey easier. The simple and convenient process allows you to choose your seat and eliminate the need to queue.” That’s an admirable concept in theory and tends to work for most airlines but what floats the boat of the marketing team doesn’t seem to have filtered through to the bmi ground staff at Heathrow. When we arrived at the spacious new check in area at LHR, there was a queue called “Fast Bag Drop” or some such misnomer about 30 passengers deep and a queue for the rest of the economy passengers being slightly shorter. Now get this, there were seven (yes, seven) desks dedicated to the shorter economy queue and only one for the supposedly faster bag drop. It doesn’t take a rocket scientist to see where this is going, the economy queue moved along merrily, always hovering at about 20 as passengers were processed quickly while the supposedly fast line moved at a glacier pace. At this point, common sense from staff had entirely gone out the window as for some reason they refused to take people from our queue and insisted on carrying on with one desk for the fast queue which by now was getting longer with very irate passengers. Simple and convenient? Something indeed was simple but it wasn’t the queuing system.
The first queue supervisor I questioned was a caricature throwback to the good old union days, “not my problem mate, see the check in supervisor”, no attempt whatsoever to understand the problem let along solve a very simple situation. Off I toddled to the supervisor then, I stood in front of her for a full five minutes and she studiously ignored me, (she was on the phone which was fair enough) but she didn’t lift her eyes once from her screen and attempt to even acknowledge my presence, so no joy there either. By now the smoke was coming out the ears of the entire queue as flights were getting closer to departure time, kids were crying etc. By now the fast queue was three times the length of the other queue.
Another queue supervisor now materialised, we now had two queues and two supervisors and she did at least speak to some check in desks and allocate us three desks in total, but predictably the check in staff ignored her and refused to call people from the normal queue, prompting her to come back and have a rant at them to do what they’re told! The foreigners around us glanced around for a surreptitious candid camera as they pondered the merits of the British pastime of queuing. Eventually we made it to the check in desk and the subsequent security line was a welcome respite from the chaos. Normal bmi service was resumed once onboard as the cabin crew restored my faith in bmi with a flawless service as usual.
Remember I said to keep my daughter’s age in mind (she’s two)? On the return check in the following morning there was an amusing postscript. Being a glutton for punishment I checked in online yet again on the premise that lightning doesn’t strike twice. This time I did it on a Blackberry that sent a very impressive barcode confirmation to my phone, it was incredibly simple and efficient. However when we got to Belfast airport, the check in agent asked for a mobile phone for each person to check the barcode, the folly of his request slowly dawned on him while he glanced at my daughter . “Hmmm”, he agreed that the system obviously needs finessing as it didn’t state while checking in that each person on the booking needed a separate mobile phone. It wasn’t a problem for us as he promptly printed traditional boarding passes but it seems that the facility is more aimed at business travellers than families.
Hopefully normal service will be resumed at Heathrow regarding check in. Such rigidity is crucial in an airline when dealing with passenger safety but flexibility is key on the ground to solve problems. As I mentioned earlier, I’ll put this down to just a bad day at the office but bmi please empower people to use their common sense and take a look at what is happening around them, it will make the overall experience much better for everyone. Ian Bradley.
Tags: airlines, Belfast, bmi, British Midland, comment, Heathrow, holidays, London Heathrow, poor customer service, queuing at Heathrow, Terminal 1, travel, www.travelpr.co.uk, “travel pr”
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