Tuesday, February 24th, 2015
Last week, to celebrate Gareth and I's first anniversary (or, in years together, 19th anniversary!), we retraced some of our steps from 2014 after we had the civil partnership ceremony. Our "honeymoon" (
remember how I hate that word!) took place at Langley Castle in Northumbria, near Hexham, and we enjoyed it so much that we decided to mark our anniversary by returning to the scene.
It's a proper castle experience, with four poster beds and window seats and 6ft thick stone walls and passageways and turrets and flags and all that heraldic stuff that you want when you visit an English castle. It's not cheap by any stretch of the imagination, but for a once a year treat, it suits us just fine.
But this blog isn't about how wonderful and happy we were in an expensive castle, that would be boring (not to say, repetitive!). No, I thought I'd talk about the hotel we went to after Langley, which for reasons which will become clear, will remain anonymous. Not because it was so bad, but because it was kind of too good - or rather, trying to be too good. Let me explain...
After Langley we traveled to North Yorkshire and stayed in a spa hotel not far from the beautiful seaside town of Whitby. Now, first things first, I can hardly blame myself for booking a hotel which offered services which I wouldn't ordinarily be interested in, but aside from that, the level of customer service kind of creeped me out a bit.
I have plenty of hotel experience, from the dirt cheap Ibis Budgets through to the aforementioned top of the range stately homes. But never have I come across the type of service which greeted us at this particular hotel.
We parked up and wandered into the lobby to try and check in, but were told we were just a little bit too early and could we wait 30 minutes or so. Absolutely fine. We were asked if we would like breakfast, and declined as we prefer to generally pay less, eat more healthily and find somewhere in the locale to invest in. It was at this stage that a suited gentleman appeared out of the ether to encourage us to partake in their breakfast - the best breakfast we would ever taste. We declined once more. So far so reasonably normal.
But then a barrage of in-your-face over-friendliness began which really put me on the back foot and sort of disturbed me a bit. The suited gentleman proceeded to refer to me as Mr Stratford constantly, almost at the end of every sentence (and there were many sentences). He also insisted that he should be given the keys to my car so that he could bring my car from the car park to the hotel entrance so our luggage could be unloaded.
I insisted that that would not be necessary and that we were happy to transport our own luggage, but the matter would not be dropped. He went on to say that he would like to drive us in a golf buggy to our car, so that we could fetch our own luggage back in the buggy. I said no, it would be fine, we would wait until the room was ready with our keys and we would fetch our luggage ourselves.
Not dissuaded from treating us like crown princes from some mega-rich Arabian province, the suited gentleman proceeded to insist we had a "hotel orientation session", which essentially consisted of a personalised tour of the entire spa complex so that we knew where everything was. Now, as I type this I realise this reads quite innocently, simply an example of good customer service on a level which perhaps isn't reached often enough these days. But it was the constant use of "Mr Stratford" and the unceasing insistence that everything I might want to do for myself could be done by a member of staff which perturbed me. When I go to a hotel I expect to be treated with respect, politely, and have any need I require to be met, within reason. But this gentleman was really overdoing it, acting as if we had paid an inordinate amount of money for a personalised service above and beyond the attentiveness of any staff I'd ever known before.
The "hotel orientation session" took Gareth and I on a tour of the restaurant ("In the evenings the tables will not be as bare as this, Mr Stratford, they will have candles and there will be low lighting. All very tasteful!"), then the wine cellar ("plenty to choose from there, Mr Stratford!"), then the conservatory, and then the gardens. Now, fair's fair, the gardens were beautifully landscaped and when Gareth and I escaped the suited gentleman's clutches later on, we did have a walk around the grounds and they were the best thing about the entire hotel. But I didn't need to be shown the gardens, I would've been happy to be told about them and to discover them myself at my leisure.
The orientation session had only just begun. We were then taken into the hotel bar lounge, marched to the very centre of the room and told where the bar was, what was on the food menu and what ales were being served. Everybody else in the room stopped what they were doing/ eating/ drinking/ saying and turned to look at the two interlopers being given a grand tour of the hotel. Who did they think they were? As all eyes stared at me, I realised that some of these customers might be thinking I was famous or rich in some way. Dressed in scuffed boots and leather jacket, I hardly felt the part.
That was the bar done. Next was the spa. "We don't take people all the way down to the spa on an orientation session, Mr Stratford, for, you know..." At this point the suited gentleman lost his words, and I interjected: "Privacy?". "Yes! Yes, Mr Stratford, quite right!", and then he proceeded to stand with us halfway down the steps to the spa and tell us which button to press in the lift, what we should wear between bedroom and spa, and what time the children's "splash times" were so we could avoid the kids. "Unless you're teachers, are you, Mr Stratford?" When I told him I was not a teacher, he replied: "Well, that's just as well, Mr Stratford, because children are the last thing you probably want around you during a half-term, aren't they?"
Our hotel orientation session was over... for the time being. Our room wasn't quite ready, so we were urged to take a bite or pint in the bar lounge as we waited, but after my experience as a bogus millionaire during the tour, I didn't feel I wanted to return to the scene just yet so we insisted on a walk around the grounds as we waited.
As it happens, following our walk we did decide to have a bite in the bar (though not the bite I might have preferred, as one of the barmen was lick-the-mirror handsome!) and as we tucked into our sandwiches and fries I was tapped on the shoulder by the suited gentleman to tell me my room was now ready and that when we'd finished eating he would help bring my car round with the luggage. ARGH!
We circumnavigated the luggage escort experience as the gentleman was blissfully absent when we went to check in proper, but before you could say "The Shopkeeper from Mr Benn", up he popped again to single-handedly carry all our luggage (one suitcase and two plastic carriers) over to the lift, into the lift, up in the lift, out of the lift, along the corridor and to our room.
When we reached the bedroom door, Gareth quite naturally attempted to open it using the electronic key card, but it was snatched from his hand by our guide. He showed us that we were wrong to take the key cards out of the slipcase we'd been given as all we had to do was wave the slipcase in front of the lock and the door would open. He demonstrated this with the pride usually seen in a parent's eyes when they watch their child's first steps. Boy, was he proud of those hands-free electronic door mechanisms!
You guessed it, he didn't leave us there. He proceeded to give us a "room orientation session", heaving our suitcase onto the bed and then giving us a five minute tour of the room and its facilities. "You'll find the TV remote control up here, Mr Stratford, and the tea and coffee-making facilities over here."
And then the mind-numbing: "Do you have any particular tea requirements?". Gareth and I looked at each other blankly for a few seconds, wondering what to say. Gareth said he had no particular requirements, but was then told that any type of tea he wanted could be obtained: flavoured teas, herbal teas, fruit teas. "We stock Yorkshire tea, but any brand can be obtained for you, Mr Stratford".
 |
| Note: NOT from the hotel in question |
After reassuring him that regular tea was fine, we were then shown where the hairdryer lived, and the ironing board, how the bath taps worked, and where the bathrobes hung. We were shown how the patio doors opened and what was outside on the patio, and also given a bit of history about the building and what the special builder's marks were on the brickwork.
Back inside we were told that if we wanted to bring a bottle of wine of our own into the room - "or indeed any form of alcohol, Mr Stratford" - all we needed to do was ring room service and the "appropriate glassware" would be brought to our room, "free of charge!". I spied the two generous tumblers on the tea tray and considered they'd be appropriate for anything I'd be drinking in my room, wine or water.
And at that, he was off. I was just getting used to having a constant commentary in my ear about where I was and what I could do when he said he'd leave us in peace and swept out of the room backwards, closing the door behind him. I looked once more at a stunned Gareth, crossed over to the door and flicked the lock.
Now, all this sounds very nice, doesn't it? A polite man very politely giving us a polite tour of the hotel and its facilities and then politely leaving. But the intensity of this man's breathless determination to meet his customers' every needs was overwhelming and disconcerting. I felt like a child, incapable of doing anything myself. I mean, I didn't care where the hairdryer was, but if I did need it, I'm sure I was capable of opening a drawer and finding it there.
On the one hand, the level of customer service and care at this place was second to none. They meant well, and they did well. Every single member of staff, to a fault, was super-polite and professional and couldn't do enough for you. But it also kind of felt like we were in some sort of institution, some nightmarish holiday camp where everyone wears fake smiles and pretends nothing bad ever happens. A veneer of paradise which was in no way a sham, but which was forced, plastic, ersatz.
Sadly, we won't be returning. We felt uncomfortable every time we left our room as we would often be accosted by the suited gentleman, hovering in the lobby, and asked if we needed our car bringing round if we were going out for the evening. No. No! It's my car, I'll drive it, thank you very much!
What do you think? Would you revel in such over-attentive customer service? Or do you prefer the polite but hands-off unless asked kind of customer service that I do?
