RECENTLY there have been items in the news regarding litigation against an international tour firm, which reminded me of an unpleasant experience we once had.
It’s September 2016 and Janet and I are on a seven-day holiday in Halkidiki, Greece.
On day three we do a six-hour cruise on a pirate ship, but as we leave the hotel I realise I’ve forgotten my sun hat.
So, I race back to the eighth-floor room but have to wait ages for the lift. When I’ve recovered my hat I do a short cut down the fire escape, which is a series of external metal steps. The cruise is superb – there’s plenty of Mythos on offer, but Janet and I are happy to keep hydrated with the bottled water we’ve brought with us.
At just after midday we’re served freshly cut ham and salad sandwiches, then ice cream and sweet strawberries. It’s blazing hot in the afternoon, so when the ship drops anchor we both take full advantage of the cool, inky-blue Aegean Sea.
On our return to the hotel I complain to Janet that I don’t feel right. Think I’ll give tonight’s barbecue a miss. Let’s go for a short walk on the beach instead.
At just after 8pm, as the orange sun sinks below the horizon, we try to exit through the fire escape door, but it’s locked.
“Come on,” says Janet. “We’re only supposed to use the lift…” But before she can finish her sentence I have to rush back to our room for the loo.
“Look at your face,” she says. “It’s drip-white!”
But I have to turn around to use the toilet again, and again, throughout the rest of the evening and night.
“You need a doctor,” she says next morning. “You have the worst case of dysentery I’ve ever known.”
The hotel receptionist sends for a doctor, and 30 minutes later he’s prescribing medication for a tummy bug. However, my condition deteriorates so I have to drag myself to the surgery like a wounded soldier.
Fortunately, the fire escape door is unlocked this time, so I can avoid humiliating myself in the hotel reception.
The doctor puts me on a drip for an hour and sells me more tablets, but the fluid flushes straight through me, even before I get back to my hotel room.
It’s not a pretty sight but, at least, by now I’ve learnt how to reduce the number of loo-visits – I starve myself of food and drink until the end of the holiday.
That evening I ask Janet to check the fire-escape door once again. When I discover it’s locked I ask myself: would we survive a blaze if we were forced to jump out of this eighth-storey window? Not a chance. If the flames didn’t kill us the fall certainly would.
Janet goes to reception to get the fire escape door unlocked. The receptionist tries to argue the toss but eventually gives way.
“I’ve something else to tell you, Ronnie,” says Janet, looking disgusted. “I’ve just spotted your doctor coming out of one room, on this floor and entering another.
“That’s odd – I didn’t notice anyone from the hotel on the pirate ship.”
I’m bedridden for the rest of the holiday until there’s nothing left inside me to dispatch. Finally, on the last day, with our cases packed, I corner the TUI rep.
When I ask why the fire doors are locked between sundown and sunrise, she tries to justify it by saying thieves use them to gain access to hotel rooms.
“But that’s crazy, don’t you realise that locking a fire escape is against the law and turns this place into a death trap? Oh, and by the way, how many guests in this hotel have suffered from tummy trouble during the last week?”
“None – as far as I’m aware.
“Well, I earnestly suggest you undertake an investigation because I think there’s possibly three cases or more. And if there has been an outbreak of food poisoning the source needs to be urgently identified.”
The rep becomes slightly irritated as she records our complaints. Then it’s time to collect our luggage and depart, but that’s the last we hear from TUI. There’s no follow-up. No apology. No compensation.
And no more TUI holidays for us ever again.
