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Chapter 15
April
It’s nearly noon when the taxi drops us at the Bellavista. The sun is high in a cloudless sky and the temperature is warm without being stifling. Nevertheless, my heart sinks as we grab our bags from the boot. The reception desk is housed in a standalone building next to the drop-off area, and there’s a track leading past to the main hotel car park, with the hotel itself behind that. The surface of the drop off area and the track to the car park is made up of broken blocks of concrete, giving the impression that the place is unfinished. The smell of raw sewage hanging in the air doesn’t help.
“It’s coming back to me,” I say to Toby. “When I was here before, they promised that this whole area would be resurfaced before they opened to the public. So much for that then.”
“What is that awful smell?” he asks.
“Sewage. The drains in Corfu are a bit hit and miss. Let’s hope it clears soon.”
As we approach the reception door, my eye is drawn to a woman standing just outside, having what appears to be a heated argument with whoever is on the other end of her phone. Curiosity gets the better of me and I dawdle deliberately to eavesdrop on a bit of the conversation. Straightaway I can tell from her accent that she’s from the North of England, and it seems she’s less than enamoured with the hotel.
“And I’m telling you, Julie, that I won’t stop here another night,” she shouts into the handset. “I don’t care what you have to do, you have to find us somewhere else.”
There’s a pause while Julie obviously tries to mollify her, but she’s having none of it.
“No, Julie. The curtain came away in my hand when I tried to close it, and it wasn’t even a blackout curtain. It was so thin we had to get changed with the lights off, otherwise people would have been able to watch. And the bedclothes were damp, Julie. Damp!”
Toby tugs my arm, and I follow him reluctantly towards reception. My reluctance stems partly from the fact that I want to hear the rest of what the lady has to say, and partly because I’m increasingly worried about what we’re going to find. The hotel wasn’t interested in taking part in the mystery shopper scheme, so Mark managed to persuade the bean counters at Voyages Luxes to fund our two nights here. I don’t know how he did it, but he’s obviously as keen as I am to get to the bottom of the disparity between my review and the reports on TripAdvisor. We have already stayed in two very pleasant four-star boutique hotels on the island, and the Bellavista is our last one before we head back to England.
The reception area is quiet, with just one receptionist behind the counter. She eyes us slightly suspiciously as we approach. I give her our names and she spends a long time trying to find our reservation. Just as I’m starting to fear that we’re not booked in after all, she gives us a form to fill in, and bracelets to identify us as all-inclusive guests. Without even a hint of an apology, she tells us that our room isn’t ready, that we can leave our bags, and we must come back at three o’clock to collect our key. Thankfully, Toby and I thought ahead this morning and we’re both wearing swimming costumes under our clothes, so I ask for a couple of swimming pool towels.
“Twenty Euros deposit for each towel,” the receptionist informs me, curtly. Either she hates her job or she’s having a really bad day. I’m trying hard to give her the benefit of the doubt, but her rudeness is starting to grate on me. I hand over the money and we head off to kill some time by the pool.
The hotel is built into the side of a hill and has two swimming pools. The one at the bottom of the hill has a dozen or so sun loungers around it, which are all occupied, so Toby and I head up the stairs to the one at the top. This is definitely the better pool; it has an amazing view out over the bay below and there is also a bar up here, but again the sun loungers are all occupied, apart from a couple of broken ones in the corner.
“Let’s have an early lunch and go to check out the beach,” I suggest.
The buffet in the restaurant appears to be divided into sections. There is an ‘international food’ area, which is serving rather lacklustre looking Spaghetti Bolognese and chips. A little further along there are some Greek specialities; today it seems to be either grilled chicken or fish, with rice. Towards the end there is a large selection of salads, and I make a beeline for these. I load my plate with dolmas, Greek salad and olives and we find a table overlooking the bay to sit and eat.
“I wonder what we do for drinks?” Toby muses.
“I think you have to get them from the bar over there,” I tell him, pointing towards a rather disconsolate looking woman standing behind a counter. The selection of drinks doesn’t look very inspiring from here, so it looks like I got that bit right in my initial review, at least.
“I’ll go,” Toby offers. “What would you like?”
“I think I’ll have a diet Coke,” I reply.
When he comes back with the drinks we tuck into the food. Toby has opted for grilled chicken, rice and a little bit of salad on the side.
“It’s barely lukewarm!” he exclaims, after a couple of mouthfuls. “I know the Greeks don’t like hot food, but this is ridiculous.”
He offers me a piece of chicken and he’s right. Thankfully, the salads are more of a success. As we eat, I watch the other guests file in and make their choices. I’m surprised to see that most of them opt for the Spaghetti Bolognese with chips.
“Hardly anyone is trying the Greek food!” I say to Toby, who has his back to the buffet and can’t see what’s going on. “What’s the point of coming to a place like this and not trying the food?”
“Perhaps they have, and decided the spaghetti was a better bet,” he replies. “If the Greek food is all like this, I might end up going for it myself.”
“It’s not a very promising start, is it? First the receptionist and her attitude, then the lack of sun loungers, and now this. It’s like a totally different hotel to the one I stayed in before.”
After lunch, a five-minute walk brings us to the beach, where a sign informs us that we can hire two sunbeds, a small table and an umbrella for €5. It’s beautiful, a wide swathe of golden sand leading down to the sea, which is lapping gently at the shoreline. There are a variety of small tavernas and restaurants nearby, most of which seem to be doing a brisk trade. The beach itself is not especially busy, and we spread our towels out on a couple of loungers, strip down to our swimsuits, and make ourselves comfortable. After a few minutes a woman comes to take our payment.
“This beach is lovely,” I tell her. “Does it get very busy here?”
“At the weekends it is more busy,” she replies in accented English. “But there are always places to sit. If you cannot find somewhere you come to me, and I will find somewhere for you.”
I thank her and hand over the money. Once she’s gone, I turn to Toby.
