Posted on by maryhadow

Worst Guests Ever

Today Wydemeet lies twelfth in TripAdvisor’s Dartmoor B&B Top Two Hundred. Not bad considering we have fewer guests to review us than most.

If any of my visitors ever dares to award me less than full marks I’m in a white rage for a fortnight.

But very occasionally, I do deserve less than the fully monty.

Last summer a powercut meant the electric gate refused to open, so that my guests were trapped in the garden, unable to drive to their riding lesson at ‘Adventure Clydesdale’ up the road. And their two huge Rhodesian Ridgebacks had to be hurled over the top to get out onto the moor. Worst of all, though, the much-loathed macerator got stuck, resulting in poo and wee seeping through the ceiling into the hall below, and my poor visitors feeling obliged to help clear up.  We were lucky to get four blobs that time.

My worst score ever came from a Lebanese pair who marked their Wydemeet experience two out of five.

“Generous in the circumstances,” I responded to their scathing review.

They’d been ‘last-minuters’ – almost always a bad sign. And worse, only after they’d confirmed their booking did they mention that they would be bringing along their dog, ‘Fluffy’.

“My policy is that dogs stay downstairs with our mutt, Twiglet,” I told them.

“Oh we can’t come then; Fluffy always sleeps with me,” replied the lady.

“Well I’m afraid I must stand firm on this one.  The thought of 100 different dogs a year on my bedroom carpet is just too weird,” I said.

They chose to come anyway, due to arrive sometime before 11pm that evening. On with the marry’s and three hours later their bedroom was sparkling.  But still no sign of them. No phone call. No deposit. I tried calling, but no answer. At 11.15pm I gave up and retired to bed.

At 11.45pm the doorbell rang, and on the doorstep was Dan from the pub, smirking at my dressing-gown, apparently expecting some sort of late-night liaison. And then from behind him emerged my punters: the lady, probably pushing 60, was wearing trendy ripped jeans and sparkly shoes, while her husband, with his dark stubble, looked nothing short of a terrorist.  Their van hadn’t managed the icy road, so Dan had kindly brought them over in his 4×4.

I’d lost the will to live by this stage, so allowed Fluffy upstairs.  Our heating had gone off, but there was an electric fire in their room.  We arranged breakfast for the following morning at 11am and adjourned.  I’m not sure how many other B&Bs would be that flexible over breakfast times, but I don’t really care. Once I served bacon and eggs at 5pm!

The next morning I learned that the couple both worked for Arab TV, as I watched the lady trying to pour her coffee from the cafetiere without plunging in the plunger – I don’t think she’d ever seen one before.  I could just imagine that bloke interviewing Putin!

They devoured everything I put out in front of them, and then told me they weren’t staying for a second night.

“I’m really sorry, but I have to charge an extra 30% for single night stays,” I began, flustered.  “It costs me about the same whether guests stay for one night or two…”

“You just made that up, and anyway, this place isn’t worth the money in the first place,” thundered the terrifying bloke.  “No heat, no phone, no wifi…”

“But there’s a heater in your room, I pay a fortune for satellite broadband, and the website warns that we have no mobile phone signal,” I countered, stung. “You’re welcome to use the landline.”

We B&B proprietors can’t cope with the slightest criticism of our beautiful homes (which is why Channel 4’s B&B reality programme ‘Four In A Bed’ is so successful.)

“In fact, if you feel like that, go – go now. Right now. I don’t want you here. Go. Now.  Go.  Be off. Away with you both! NOW!” I began shouting, as I felt they were upsetting the normal happy atmosphere of my home.

Then I fled, shaking, to hide in the kitchen, much to the amusement of my two teenage children, who have never seen me lose it before. Embarrassingly, just then the terrorist bloke had to pop in to collect his mobile which he’d left charging on the kitchen unit.

“Have they gone?” I whispered to Will, half-an-hour later, before braving the dining room, to discover they hadn’t left a single crumb.

Afterwards I found myself rather looking forward to reading what they had to say about their stay, as I had been composing a suitable reply to any review they might leave.

In the event Hotels.com refused to print my first three drafts, but you can see my final effort still up on the company’s website. What’s so odd about the whole thing is why the company feels it should be appropriate to publish a review at all, from guests who never paid.

 

 

 

 

 

Posted on by maryhadow

Tesco’s Finest

Mitchelcroft, on the edge of the moor outside Scoriton, ranks top B&B on Dartmoor, scoring the full monty of blobs on TripAdvisor and averaging 10/10 on Booking.com. This means it’s one of the leading 100 B&Bs in the country.  I heard it has also won a European award which the owners don’t even bother to boast about on their website.  I bet they have no idea that I regularly stalk them, snooping to find out what it is they do that I can copy, that makes their place so unusually special.

Well I’m afraid I draw the line at making fresh fruit compote every morning. The best I can provide is a basic sort of fruit salady thing .

On the other hand, I can manage Eggs Royale of every configuration.  My standard version is served on Mediterranean toast, layered with quality smoked salmon (Lidl’s is good value but too spongey), fresh spinach, and sprinkled with paprika, in an attempt to take on Ashburton’s  ‘The Old Library’ which overlooks the carpark.  The Old Library specialises in brunch, and is run by properly trained award-winning chefs.  Unlike them, I can’t quite run to making the hollandaise myself.

In fact I asked the  waitress at Exeter’s fabulous ‘Cosy Club’ for their delicious recipe for this wonderful sauce, of which they use copious amounts, only to discover theirs comes out of a tetra-pack called Macphie’s, which you have to buy 20 litres at a time from a Cash and Carry.

So much emphasis these days is put on the words ‘home made’; ‘locally sourced’; and ‘organic’.

Well I have now cooked over 4,000 breakfasts, and conducted innumerable taste tests, only to conclude that a lot of what Tesco produces is better than any of Dartmoor’s offerings, and is considerably more convenient to source, as it gets delivered direct to my door by charming young men.

“Could you let me have the recipe for your bread?” I repeatedly get asked by my revered guests.  Well, no.  Tesco’s ‘wheaten loaf’ has the taste and texture of something that I could AGA-bake if I felt like it, and is only £1.10 a pop.

I’ve taken to asking the children’s old school matron to bake batches of ten chocolate cakes at a time for me, with thick icing on the top and in the middle, at £4.25 each.  It doesn’t matter if they’re rather small, as once my guests have been greeted with a couple of slices on arrival, the rest goes mouldy in a tin. But recently I’ve found some cakes which look just as home-made and are equally yummy, and are much more convenient to collect, as they come from the farm shop next door to my daughter’s school.

My real piece de resistance, however, is my sausages.  The best I could find, having tried every local butcher’s offerings, used to come from my friend who keeps a few pigs and makes her own from them.  But now I’ve discovered the unbeatable Tesco’s Finest Pork and Apple.

I challenge you to tell the difference between a butcher’s dry cured bacon – streaky or back – and Tesco’s equivalent; while Lurpac unsalted is ten times better than that bright yellow handrolled salty Cornish stuff.

Meanwhile, supermarket frozen croissants beat even fresh French ones from Provence. And are considerably more accessible.

Which leaves the eggs.  I served my neighbour’s farmyard eggs for several years, laid fresh each morning by her free-roaming birds.  During particularly busy times she would kindly bring them down for me herself, first thing in the morning.  But occasionally, for some reason the gloriously deep orange yolk would turn spherical and the white fall away – hopeless for poaching.

So these days you will see me haring around the lanes, late at night on a Sunday, determined to track down the very, very best, richest, freshest eggs on the moor.  At the moment Mad Kay’s, at £1.80 for six, tie first with those from the Mighty May’s in Dartmeet, coming in at £1.25.

Holne community village shop also sells good local eggs; as does the soon to be defunct Tuckers in Ashburton.

Whatever happens, you can be sure no guest of mine will ever be served a supermarket egg.