Mykonos Grand Hotel

I’m a potential nightmare of a holiday guest. I need luxury. I deserve luxury. Hoteliers won’t realise it when they accept my booking, but I demand luxury.

This state of mind is a result of the self-flagellation I inflict for fifty weeks of the year. Guilt propels my motivation to fill every waking hour pursuing an ill-defined, largely elusive dream. I have to keep trying, I tell myself. If I just do this little bit extra that might be the magic bullet. That ‘little bit extra’ is usually the bit which tips me over the edge. It drives me and others around me mad. As a result, when me and The Significant Other holiday for the remaining two weeks of the year, everything has to be perfect. I allow myself to indulge.

It’s during those two weeks all my usual English preoccupations with value for money, customer satisfaction and recompense for mild inconveniences must vanish. I don’t want my escape from the tyranny of London life to be marred by niggles which chip away at perfection. If it does I’ll just ramp up the sarcasm. Any hotel which take a booking from me has a tough job ahead. (If I fail in the media industry, I’ll make a stab at being a hotel reviewer. I’m sure I’ll be very good at it.)

The staff at the Mykonos Grand hotel clearly take such high expectations in their stride, possibly because there’s little to complain about the basics at this five star hotel. (I came with two new notebooks and have spectacularly failed to make an impression on either.) Each spacious and tastfully decorated room has a view of the glistening Agean and the nearby island of Delos provides an electrifying backdrop at sunset. The mattresses are firm, the pillow selection never ending. Room service is so prompt you might be forgiven for thinking the staff are camped outside your bedroom door, providing a vital support network for guests for who disabled by the beauty visible from the balcony. Staff don’t hover for tips either – always a cast-iron gurantee of a five-star mindset.

And breakfast? A varied buffet – constantly restocked by the hotel director himself – cooked by a selection of chefs who not only understand the secret of perfect scrambled eggs but can also whip up fried eggs without the usual laissez-faire attitude to runny uncooked whites. For the British traveller abroad such small details are as welcome as a firm handshake or a reassuring pat on the back.

It’s clear. I should have been a hotel reviewer. It’s obvious, isn’t it. I could be a different kind of critic. One who’s positive instead of tiresomely negative about all and sundry.

Another bonus is the hotel’s location. Greece’s equivalent to St Tropez with it’s designer clothing and jewellery shops, eateries and art galleries nestle comfortably alongside the tacky souvenir shops in the narrow streets of the old town. Mykonos town is close enough from the hotel for a glamorous evening excursion and just far enough away to avoid the baseball caps and tossed sweaters from the visiting cruise ships.

Where the hotel steals a march on most of the competition is the high level of service it maintains. Guests at the Grand aren’t just sunseekers renting rooms, swiming in the pool and frequenting the bar. The sauna, jacuzzi and steam room are services expected from a five-star hotel anyway. As skin bronzes in the sun, the guests at the Mykonos Grand are also basking in the friendliness of the staff who seem tireless in their desire to make sure guests are happy.

Nothing is too much effort, especially sincerity. That’s why meal times provide an opportunity for interaction, not just guiding the guest to the breakfast table but to indulge in a spot of conversation. That same spirit permeates throughout the day. It’s no surprise check-out day feels like the end of school term saying goodbye to friends you’re not going to see for the whole of the summer holidays. In the space of two weeks this simple approach to customer service leaves a lasting impression on the guest and further enhances the brand of the hotel.

The disappointing truth is that I know of nowhere in the UK where the same level of personal attention is lavished on the guests. Some might argue that the higher the room rack rate the more chance there is of personal attention. My experience is that the higher the price the more aloof the hotel staff are.

No such problem at the Mykonos Grand. And it’s that fundamental reason we’ll be back here again.

No really, I hope Bob Crowe gets what he wants

I seriously doubt RMT Union leader with an undeniably suitable face for radio Bob Crowe (left) will care two hoots for the kind of day I’ve had. In comparison to many other Londoners I’m sure my day will seem spectacularly normal. And yet I find myself foaming at the mouth with rage having experienced the some of the impact he and his dubious call for strike action has caused on London’s commuters. 

It goes like this. 48 hours ago a colleague leaned over my desk and asked one simple question. “What are you going to do about the tube strike?” she asked with a big grin on her face. 

I pointed out that as far as I was aware, sorting out the tube strike didn’t form part of the responsibilities detailed on my job description but that if she was asking me whether I would make use of alternative forms of public transport in order to go from South East London to White City then the answer was very nearly 99% no. 

I did hesitate before committing myself fully. The alternative to not going into work was to work from home using my work laptop and connecting up to the network. I hesitated not because I don’t like being at home but simply because when I am I nearly always feel incredibly and inexplicably guilty for being there. I always assume others will assume I’m sat with my feet up watching TV. Thus I usually end up working harder than I ever do at work. I did exactly the same yesterday when I did end up working from home. By the time I’d finished work at 8pm I was absolutely exhausted. 

I knew I couldn’t do the same today. I had a meeting at 11am (cancelled first thing by a colleague who had declined the meeting on account of public transport) and a conference call at 1pm. I had to pick up some equipment from the office so it seemed sensible (even if it was a little 0dd) to go across to west London to attend the conference call. I had to go on a train to London Bridge, change for London Waterloo East, walk to Waterloo, train from there to Clapham Junction and then wait another 20 minutes to get on a train for Shepherds Bush. The entire journey took me nearly an hour longer than it normally would and this wasn’t at peak time either. Conference call over I then get in a taxi with a camera, a tripod, a suitcase and a stills camera and head towards Liverpool Street train station in time to catch the 4pm. 

The Polish taxi driver laughed hysterically when I said when my train was departing. “You’re giving me an hour to go from White City to Liverpool Street,” he laughed, “in this traffic?” He declined my offer to drive the car myself, turned around to face the windscreen and got on with the job in hand. 

As it turned out the taxi driver did do rather well getting me to Liverpool Street station five minutes before my train was due to depart. Sadly, I was unable to find the ticket machine where my tickets were dispensed and was then forced to buy the excess of £33 to get on a train half an hour later. 

I cursed Bob Crowe’s name when I reluctantly handed over my credit card to pay the extra money. The lady behind the counter smiled adding, “I was a member of the RMT Union but I let my membership lapse. They let me down. And, if I was still a member I wouldn’t have agreed to strike. They don’t pay you when you go on strike you know.” 

It was an interesting piece of information I hadn’t considered. If it was indeed the case, it seemed that strike days aren’t days off from work, the jollies, the faux-”working from home” statements I had previously assumed them to be. They are, presumably, times when those who feel aggrieved have their chance to state their case. The fact they’re unpaid for it surely makes their call all the more resonant. Doesn’t it?

Well no, actually. No it really doesn’t. Far from it in fact. And no, I don’t have statistics or trends, or quotes or speeches to link to to back up that argument. I have one simple anecdote which has changed my mind entirely about the entire union, their actions over the past couple of days and the leader who kicked off the entire thing in the first place. 

On my walk into work from Shepherds Bush train station, one reasonably sized but certainly well-packed suitcase trundling at speed behind me I end up walking past one entirely closed tube and another (White City) partially closed. Outside the latter station are two burly looking men decked out in their fluorescent orange high-visibility jackets, “RMT Union” printed on their backs. Both of them catch sight of me walking along the pavement, hot, sweating and demonstrating signs of being late and a little bit stressed. 

The burlier of the two men smiles momentarily, raises his empty drink can in my direction as though he was toasting my good health and shouts, “Give us a smile mate. It’s a lovely day you know. Things can’t be all that bad.”

I should have held back. I should have bit my tongue. But I couldn’t.

“You wouldn’t need to tell me to smile if you lot hadn’t agreed to strike for 48 hours.”

It won’t have made an impact. Those kind of people are so incredibly thick skinned it would take years using the very latest in drilling equipment to find anything approaching anything like a heart. 

Of course, I could be entirely wrong about that RMT Union member outside White City tube today. I could be entirely wrong about Bob Crowe (although somehow I doubt it). But if I’m not and we were to unfairly assume that everyone who chose to strike considered it somehow OK to display the same level of arrogance masked as some kind of lack of self-awareness, then frankly I say don’t let them have a penny more. 

Mind you. That’s just my opinion. And I’m only basing it on anecdotal evidence.

New toilet ‘facilities’ in West London

Either they’re new or they’ve been used quite a lot, but there are new toilet facilities in the Strand for those caught short and in desperate need of relieving themselves. Ladies may find the challenge more than a little overwhelming and opt instead to cross their legs instead.

It’s part of an “£8 million bound scheme to keep the West End clean” it says on the poster on the flimsy looking urinal.

Personally, I can’t see myself inclined to make use of the facilities, quite possibly because I’m not keen on performing in the open air. I’d probably need to seriously under the influence and or incredibly desperate and even then it would have to be late at night.

Nearby Charing Cross station charges its visitors twenty or thirty pence to relieve themselves. It’s a case of deciding just how much is worth perhaps.

First night in Plymouth

My two day work trip to Plymouth has kicked off on the wrong foot. The night before a two day conference on all things multimedia and I can think of nothing else to write other than how desperately blue I’m feeling.

“Have you visited us before?” said the perky receptionist as I stood dazed at the check-in desk.

I recounted my previous trip to Plymouth and how, when the sun rose, a park attendant had poked his head inside my tent, pointing out in an undeniably assertive tone to both me and my three other university friends that camping was not permitted on Plymouth Hoe.

“I meant the hotel, sir.”

“No, I haven’t.”

“Well,” she continued, “you’ll find the gym down that corridor there and the bar and restaurant on the ground floor. Breakfast starts at 6.45 in the morning.”

I grabbed my many bags and made off for the third floor.

Half an hour later, having complained about the stench of stale tobacco smoke in the room the receptionist had allocated me, I found myself in an almost identical alternative room with a slightly fresher smell. I called my colleague, also in town for the same conference and staying in a room on the floor below me.

“What’s your room like?” I asked, staring up at the ceiling fan above me.

“It’s not great,” she replied nervously, “I’m looking at the ceiling fan and ..”

I found it difficult not to finish off her sentence. “.. wondering whether it will fall off the ceiling?”

I privately dismissed my fussiness over the room. I was tired. The three and a half hour train journey must have been tiring even if I hadn’t actually been doing very much. I must eat, I told myself. Take yourself off to the restaurant.

It closed at 9.45pm. I signed in at 9.10pm and settled myself down with my newspaper a minute after. Two minutes after that I’d decided on both a pint of Kronenberg and the roasted wrapped chicken with fondant of potato and wild mushroom jus.

I casually flicked through my copy of G2, marvelling once again at the Guardian’s ongoing success at creating daily content which not only engaged me but reassured me all at the same time. How was it they got it so right so often? Whose was the brain behind this particular machine, I wondered as I skimmed over the article on anger management.

Twenty-five minutes later and I noted that unlike the other two people in the restaurant, I still hadn’t received my food. Was I being impatient ? Did twenty-five minutes justify me complaining? Or, if absolutely necessary, was it OK for me to start foaming at the mouth? I texted my husband back in South East London for advice.

Predictably, he suggested I check-in with the waitress, advice I followed with almost immediate effect.

“Well, it does take 20 minutes to cook the chicken, sir.”

“But surely if you’re cooking the chicken for 20 minutes, the chicken will be dry, won’t it?” I said as I glanced over towards the other people making use of the restaurant.

“We do advise customers to have a starter so they’re not kept waiting for the main course. You didn’t order a starter, sir. But it won’t be dry sir, I can assure you of that. He knows what he’s doing. I don’t argue with the chef. ”

“That’s fine, I will.”

I was an idiot to complain. As soon as I’d dealt what I thought was my death blow, out came the chicken on a plate, with its potato and its wild mushrooms and its jus.

“There we go sir,” said the waitress. “Enjoy your meal.”

I stared down at the plate. An ample breast, a roasted potato, a splattering of stock and a handful of mushrooms. The only thing wild about the whole thing was me. I guzzled the meal and made for a swift exit.

“Did you enjoy your meal sir?” asked the waitress handing me the receipt to sign.

I looked at her and paused.

“Not especially no,” I frowned. “I ordered it at 9.15pm and it arrived at 9.40pm. That seems quite a long time. The other thing is, it said on the menu it comes with fondant potato. It’s not like I’m a big fan of fondant potato especially, but when the meal arrived it had a roast potato clearly not cooked between 9.15 and 9.45.”

“I am sorry sir,” squeaked the waitress, “Would you like me to get the chef so that you can talk to him?”

“Not really, no.” I replied. “I’m a coward really.”

Maybe I should have hesitated before complaining. Maybe my complaint wasn’t water-tight. Maybe, in fact, if I was so bold to say that I would argue with the chef before the food arrived, that I should have been equally as bold to face up to after I’d eaten the food. After all, I do have to eat breakfast in the morning.

That aside, I’m reminded how the seemingly insignificant things can have the biggest impact when I’m staying outside of my comfort zone. Sure, I may not be picking up the reduced-rate accommodation bill, but still I can’t help getting over the simple emotional response that a slightly unfortunate experience in an hotel on the south coast has left me feeling that maybe Plymouth isn’t my kind of place.

Let’s hope it looks better in the morning.

Free Thinking Will Self

Will Self has been a genuine surprise. A considerably more learned friend of mine suggested that Self was a master in making most people feel as though they really hadn’t studied enough. I could see what my friend meant.

Self takes dryness to a new level. He’s off the dry-scale. Whenever I’ve seen him on Newsnight Review I’ve never really been sure quite how to take him. In fact, if memory serves me correctly I may possibly have turned to long-suffering partner (from hereonin referred to merely as LSP) and said “The man doesn’t like anything, does he?”. I had this assessment in my head when I went along (almost too late) to the opening lecture in this year’s Free Thinking Festival at the Bluecoat, Liverpool on Friday 31 October.

I was, of course, being a fool. In his lecture, Self deftly illustrated the striking the differences between the thoughts we read about in our favourite novels and the reality of our own day to day thoughts. In so doing he skilfully demonstrated his mastery at the English language and why he is the successful novellist and literary anti-celebrity he is. Oh, and I almost forgot, he made me laugh like a queen too.

There’s something special about the Free Thinking Festival. It’s almost impossible to put my finger on. It’s something to do with the location and the fact that I feel as though for the rest of the year I’m starved of the kind of intelligent feeding of the kind there is on offer during this all-too-short weekend.

At first I reckoned referring to what struck me as the mere simple and possibly middle-aged pleasure of sitting and listening to a speaker read out his thoughts in front of an audience as something of an indulgence. 

Now, having listened to the same lecture back a second time during the relayed broadcast on Radio 3, it feels more accurate to refer to these events as a treat. Hearing and seeing someone speak makes for a personal experience. It’s something we just don’t get very much of. Or, at least, it’s something I don’t do enough of.

Self’s appearance this evening has changed my views about him. Not only that, but the criteria he’s using to judge whether his contribution to this year’s festival has been a success or not presents me with an interesting challenge.

Does his illustration of what the reality of human thought is make the likes of Jane Austen’s naturalism nothing but therapy for the reader? I can’t wait to pick up a copy and see for myself. Well done Self.

Will Self’s opening lecture in this year’s Free Thinking Festival is avalailable for the next seven days on BBC iPlayer or via /programmes. Go listen.

Up to Liverpool

I’d made a mistake. It wasn’t a four and a half hour journey from London to Liverpool. It was in fact two and a half hours. Not only that, the thought of upgrading to first class was quickly dismissed when a very smart looking attendant standing outside the train advised me that no, on weekdays upgrades to first class were in fact £130 and not £18. I shuffled off feeling a little disappointed.

During the journey there was time to get some footage together for a short clip. Not having a cameraman makes the process more time consuming but still a challenging kind of fun. I’m nearly always surprised about how many more cutaways I need to break up the script. This usually means looking for different ways of shooting what might otherwise be regarded as a fairly dull interior. Bear in mind that rapid moving subjects don’t translate well on the web and very quickly the options are fewer and fewer.

Still, if there’s one thing I’m rather relieved about it’s the brevity of the thing. The Proms videos were over five minutes long nearly every time. Short form content is all about the piece being as short as it possibly can be. For someone who rather likes the sound of his own voice, such a demand can sometimes be a little difficult to meet.

Read up on the opening lecture given by Will Self at the 2008 Free Thinking Festival.

Free Thinking Festival 2008

“You’re a 90 year old man stuck in a 40 year old’s body,” said a new found friend with a wry smile on her face. I corrected her only on the “40 year old” bit. As it happens I am 36 and I also go to the gym three times a week. I may not have the body of twenty-something gym bunny, but I figure I’m doing OK for my age.

Having said that, she’s not entirely incorrect. I was explaining to her how I was looking forward to my weekend jaunt in Liverpool. I’ve got my train booked – a nice four and a half hour journey to the European City of Culture to attend Radio 3’s Free Thinking Festival. I’ll be taking my flask for the journey (yes, really), some sandwiches, and a small weekend suitcase. I love the travel. I love the ocassional weekend away in a hotel. I’m really looking forward to it.

I’ve been to the Free Thinking Festival before and loved it. Initially the prospect of listening to lectures, seminars and debates about a broad range of topics delivered by thinkers, scientists and authors didn’t seem appealing. And yet, only a few hours in Liverpool and I found myself lapping it up.

Attending is one of the many benefits of working at the BBC. You can be working in one division doing your day to day work and then find yourself doing something completely different for an entirely different part of the Corporation. I like that. I value that. It’s something I’m very grateful for.

This year’s event is a little different for me. There’s a personal challenge afoot. Armed with my camera, my laptop and a (hopefully) free internet connection, I’m producing a series of short video reports about various events. There’s a drama being produced over weekend for broadcast on Sunday night, a key note speech from Will Self, a debate about whether computers make us stupid and a discussion about whether our idea of privacy is now redundant in light of social networking tools.

The challenge for me is two-fold. First is the editorial and technical challenge presented by attending a series of events and providing responses to camera immediately afterwards. This is “free thinking” after all. It’s about engaging in the debate, identifying your personal response to a series of ideas proposed by various speakers. That response then needs editing, encoding, checking over and then uploading to the web (all the videos will be at www.youtube.com/thoroughlygood and on this blog).

The second challenge is primarily an editorial one. In comparison to the Proms – where I’ll happily admit I relish the opportunity to be a little tongue-in-cheek - the Free Thinking festival is an entirely different animal. Tongue-in-cheek just doesn’t work at this kind of event. It’s small – intimate in some respects – and it’s a genuine educational experience too. The opportunity to go is a bit like being told I could go back to University and do my degree all over again and not have to pay. The idea of that is a luxury. The opportunity to reflect that using a slightly different language is appealing and also quite a challenge.

Can I pull it off? I’ve absolutely no idea. But I will have a good stab at it. Keep up with what’s going on via Twitter if you fancy or perhaps even check the blog if you’re so inclined. Failing that you could always listen on the radio.

A big day awaits

Setting up stage, originally uploaded by Thoroughly Good.

There’s a large crown outside our bedroom window. It’s lifting all sorts of heavy looking items from large lorries parked below us across to the poolside. Lots of bronzed men busy themselves wheeling flight cases from here to there and back again.

Inside, the hotel’s guest list has swelled considerably over the past 24 hours. The breakfast room is occupied by inconceivably handsome men with smouldering eyes and shaven faces accentuating chiselled jaws. I’m convinced they’re parading around just to irritate me as I devour my plate of cheese, salami and salad for breakfast.

The twenty-something females aren’t that much better either. They float around the corridors and restaurant, dressed in billowy-white tops. Pouting lips adorn otherwise expressionless faces decked out with designer sunglasses.

The tanned glamorous set is here at the Kempinski for what I’m told is a Turkish celebrity wedding this weekend. Suddenly I feel really awkwardly British and also fuelled by curiosity all at the same time.

Unfortunately, whilst my investigations have been productive I am unable to reveal the name of the groom (or the bride, for that matter). This isn’t because I’m not allowed to (although judging by the way the security glared at me when I took the picture above, I imagine there would be one or two furrowed brows if I did mention the names of the couple).

Part of the reason I can’t reveal the name is because I’ve only heard it once. Was it Volkon somebody? Turkish names are phenomenally hard to recall or pronounce or even spell. I won’t even try. Would hate to humiliate myself more than necessary.

What I am certain of is that the groom is a hotel owner from nearby Bodrum and that he is of sufficient standing to attract a great many glamorous individuals on yachts to come to his event and most importantly one of Turkey’s greatest pop stars, a man called Kenan Dogulu.

Shamefully, I drew a complete blank when the waiter down by the beach bar handed back my notebook with the name of the artist written on it for me. Any Eurovision fans who are reading this (there aren’t that many, I’m sure, even less now) will know that Kenan Dogulu represented Turkey in the 2007 Eurovision with his song Shake it Up. (On reflection, maybe this wasn’t quite as embarrassing as I first thought. The waiter had no idea who Sertab Erener was which is surprising in the grand scheme of things considering she actually won the damn contest for Turkey in 2003).

Judging by the considerable size of the outdoor stage being constructed by the pool and that a day before the nuptials the infinity pool has been partialled covered by a temporary catwalk (I’m presuming its for Kenan to sing and gyrate on rather than some kind of impromptu fashion show) that Kenan is still really quite successful despite his Eurovision appearance in 2007.

As partially exciting as these preparations for someone else’s party may seem, I can’t help feeling a little peeved by the sudden influx of new faces to the hotel. That’s no judgement on the hotel staff who have proved that their continued sense of priority is to their existing guests.

It’s perhaps more that this year more than ever before I’ve found myself totally relaxed, totally immersed in the laid back atmosphere. So much so that when other people break into the bubble it takes a little getting used to. It will be very difficult to resist not booking ourselves in for another two weeks when we check out later on, but for now I’m really quite relieved we’re on our way home.

BBC Philharmonic at the Bridgewater

Post-concert drinkies, originally uploaded by Thoroughly Good.

What better way to listen to Beethoven 9 than splayed out on a sun lounger on the edge of an infinity pool at a German run hotel overlooking the Aegean? Think blue skies, a gentle breeze and no queue at the poolside bar for post-concert drinkies.

I was listening to a recording of a live concert the BBC Philharmonic gave at the Bridgewater Hall on Friday 26 September, the Friday before I came away on holiday.

Whilst I have been able to meet two of the BBC’s criteria for it’s content (finding and playing) I am, sadly, unable to meet the third – sharing it. The performance has missed it’s seven day window on the iPlay-It-Again thingy. Consequently you have only my word to go on.

It was the first concert I’d listened to since the Proms, around about a month after I stood in the arena of the Royal Albert Hall listening to the Proms rendition. I was fighting to maintain my stamina in the last week of the season back then, conscious of some lower-back pain and irritated at the proximity of other concert goers. (It was late in the season.) I finished the performance that night hating Beethoven, the length of his final symphony and certain I’d never listen to any more Beethoven for as long as I could. I certainly wouldn’t be listening to any on holiday.

Not so today. I sat on the toilet this morning browsing BBC Music Magazine and was reminded about the gig. I had a satellite recording of it on my laptop (it had taken quite a lot of fart-arsing around to get it from the Sky+ box to my laptop I might add). I’d listen to it this morning and see if I still felt the same way.

Inevitably, the combination of seering heat and the stunning view added something to Beethoven’s monumental symphony. Not only that, the chance to listen to what sounded like an entirely different acoustic – Manchester’s Bridgewater Hall – was a bit of a treat too.

The performance restored my faith in the 9th symphony. The third movement was especially glorious. It always takes me by surprise. I always think it should start slower than it invariably does. “Bloody hell, that’s cracking on a pace. Should it really be that fast?” The answer is clearly yes. It isn’t long before the third movement is underway that you’re lulled into it’s beauty.

It set me thinking about something I’d quite like to see made available from the iPlayer thingyamy.

How good would it be, I thought to myself as I sipped on my cool beer, if I could download radio content via iPlayer in the same way I can TV shows. That way, I wouldn’t be tied to my laptop to listen to stuff. I could listen at leisure. I could listen in the bath, or on the tube or as I wandered aimlessly through Hyde Park or something…

In fact, if I could have a download manager installed on my portable media player then wouldn’t it be possible to impose some digital rights management on a WMA file thereby preventing me from distributing it and thus keeping all those legal types from going to an early grave? That way I’d be able to to it when I wanted, write yet another tiresome blog about what I’ve just listened to and (if it was available for say .. 14 days?) then share it?

Four hours away from London and with only 48 hours left before I get home, I can’t help wondering whether all these “brilliant” ideas I’m having about iPlayer (let’s be honest – they’ve probably already been explored) may well have provoked some people at the Beeb to look a little more closely at the contract I have. Will I be finding a slim looking envelope on my doorstep when I push the front door open on my return?

No! Of course not. That would never happen.

Best prepare myself for the worst, just in case.

Ephesus

Library of Celsus, Ephesus, originally uploaded by Thoroughly Good.

You know when you’ve been in a hotel a long time when you realise there’s been a change of staff at the breakfast buffet. People haven’t been fired – obviously – just that some people have got some time off and deservedly so.

I’d noticed the same lack of familiar faces amongst the clientele too. All the usual breakfast grazers were nowhere to be seen. They’d been replaced by new faces, all of them very white, one of whom sat at the table across from ours running his finger over a guide book for Turkey. He seemed intent on planning how he and his American wife would crack the real Turkey.

I’d reckoned on the same only the day before. I resisted the temptation. Let him find out the way I did. It’s the only way, I thought. As you see, I may have been on holiday for a week but there’s still a mean streak which needs to be worked on.

There had been cloud cover across the bay only the previous morning. Despite Simon reassuring me that our closer proximity to the equator meant that some of that necessary UV could still penetrate the clouds and thus tinge our skin, I reckoned the fast approaching thunder cloud made a day at the hotel a miserable affair. It was time to explore.

For some reason I plumped on Ephesus as the place we were going to visit. Ephesus was the oldest ancient site east of the Mediterranean. That meant old ruins. That meant sight-seeing. That meant a road trip.

The journey to the ancient ruins would take us no more than an hour – an hour and a half at a push. This calculation based on me measuring the distance on the map from our hotel to Ephesus as being no more than half a forefinger.

What I hadn’t bothered to check was the scale on the map. If I had then I later wouldn’t have been so inconsolably angry that our journey had taken two and a half hours. At that point there was at least another twenty-five kilometres to go.

We finally arrived at the ancient site at around 3.20pm, having set off to avoid the impending rain storm only to drive through one at the beginning of the journey and arrive 188 kilometres just in time to get drenched in another one. The site closed to the public at 5.30pm. We’d have a couple of hours there before we had to drive back. This little road trip was feeling like a bit of a disaster.

Ephesus wasn’t quite what I was expecting it to be either. I’d seen the pictures in the guide book. It made it look like a scene from Ecce Romani. I imagined a very British kind of tourist attraction with gift shops, printed tour guides, turnstiles and a cafe run by a couple of old women.

Not so here. It may be an extremely important site, but such English details were lacking.

We paid 4 YTL to get into the car-park only to be offered a free trip to the top of the site (the ancient city is effectively a walk down a hill – best to start from the top, not the bottom) by a man who spoke very good English and seemed to have a fantastic line in leather goods he reckoned we absolutely couldn’t do without. “First I take you to my leather shop and then I take you to the top of ancient city for free!” he said excitedly as he pulled the sliding door of his mini-bus wide open and ushered us inside.

We declined, taking the shiny yellow taxi to the top for 15 YTL. We paid a further 10 YTL each to get in, at which point we understood why it was the guide books advised visiting the site when the sun was obscured by the clouds. There was no shelter which in turn meant there was nowhere to hide from the rain.

Other visitors had taken the sensible precaution of bringing brollies and waterproof jackets. One foreign-looking couple who had found the only archway on the site to listen to their tape-recorded guide and wait for the rain to pass. Beside them was a brolly hanging from a hook in the wall. They appeared visibly unimpressed with British society as a whole when I ventured, “Is that brolly yours?” “Yes,” was the couple’s stern reply.

For all my apparent moaning about the day (the rain did eventually stop), there was something eerily moving about the entire place. The Greeks obviously knew how to lay out a city in a suitably grand style. There was detail in the carvings, solidity in the stone walkways and an undeniable sense of grandeur in the buildings implicit in the remains which marked out foundations and boundaries.

Looking down on the site felt a bit like looking at a partially completed cartoon. We saw the sketches of the buildings in front of us, leaving us the fill in the rest in our imagination. The more I looked, the more I wanted the site finished off. The more I wanted to wander around these amazing structures and live the glamorous life of togas and scrolls and sandals I reckoned it was back then.

At the same time it felt odd to be wandering aimlessly over what at times felt like a forgotten town. People lived and worked and studied in these buildings how ever many hundreds of years ago. The idea the place had ceased to be vibrant and successful when the nearby port finally silted up, made what was left almost like a tomb.

Stunning to look at, it did kind of feel as though we should have been marvelling from afar rather than clambering all over it.

The BBC rears its ugly head in Turkey

Fried Fishy Grub, originally uploaded by Thoroughly Good.

Shortly before I left the UK I made the tactical error of saying to a colleague how much I was looking forward to spending two weeks away from all things BBC. “If I so much as glance at a BBC logo anywhere in Turkey, I’ll be livid.”

It’s never great to be reminded of work when one’s on holiday.

I tried to overlook the first sighting. I hadn’t slept very well yesterday morning; woke early; went to the gym; used the ski-machine with the embedded TV screen; the only usable channel was BBC World.

But this afternoon’s reference was a little more difficult to avoid. Sat next to Simon and I as we tucked into some fantastic fried calamari at Sunger Pizza in Bodrum was a smashing lady called Kim.

Former UK-resident Kim now worked for a yacht charter business, the offices of which were situated conveniently above Sunger Pizza hence the fact she was sat at the table next to ours enjoying a post-work beer.

Kim hadn’t been back to the UK for 9 years and had lived and worked in Bodrum for nearly twenty. “Oh, well you can always dip in to what’s going on back home via satellite TV, can’t you?” I pointed out recalling a friend’s parents having British satellite TV in their villa in Spain.

“We get BBC World and BBC Prime. The choice is limited,” Kim replied sipping her beer.

“Well there’s always the iPlayer,” said Simon.

“No, she can’t,” I corrected Simon, “she’s outside the UK, remember?”

“Oh,” replied Simon. “Well .. “

“What’s the BBC iPlayer exactly?” asked Kim looking slightly confused.

It seemed almost impossible to believe that a British citizen wouldn’t know about the BBC iPlayer. I resisted the temptation to quip “it makes the unmissable unmissable.” If she didn’t know what the product was she was hardly going to know what the advert was.

Simon and I did some explaining, selling a totally objective view of the system. Kim didn’t seem especially disappointed to hear she couldn’t get access to the catch-up system. “My friends send me DVDs of all the BBC stuff they reckon I’d enjoy watching. I’m especially liking Torchwood. John Barrowman is gorgeous.”

Had I not finished eating I almost certainly would have choked when I heard this.

So, keen to draw the conversation about the BBC to a close (and thus avoid any attention being drawn to the fact that I work there – people do always assume that you’re able to sort out any problem with the corporation be it something on the Archers or the colour of Huw Edwards’ tie), we paid our bill and got up to leave.

I made a mental note to kick-start another discussion when I got home about British ex-pats having the opportunity to subscribe to BBC iPlayer content.

At this stage I don’t know of anyone I can pester at BBC Worldwide to get it sorted out. Give me time though, give me time.

Holidaymaker from hell

This is a Coffee and Tea Maker, originally uploaded by Thoroughly Good.

I am exactly the kind of stereotypical British holidaymaker you could expect to find far from home staying in a luxury hotel. In fact, I’m exactly the kind of holidaymaker who’d drive you wild with irritation.

I can’t abide being ripped off. I’m suspicious of it. I’ll sniff it out and kick up a fuss when I’m certain it’s going on.

Take yesterday. Simon and I return from the pool for our now regular late afternoon cup of tea on the balcony. I’ve already asked for a “Tea and Coffee Maker” from housekeeping knowing the kettle, teabags, milk, coffee and sugar don’t need to be signed for. It’s free refreshments. Perfect.

Only there’s a problem when we get back to our room. We’ve run out of teabags. Calamity. It’s OK, I think. I’ll just ring reception for a handful of replacement teabags and some more milk.

“That’s fine sir. I’ll get that sent up to the room for you,” said the friendly lady with a slight American twang to her voice.

When the chappy arrived with a sparkling jug, two tea bags on a glass dish, a couple of biscuits and a receipt to sign I immediately got suspicious.

Eight Turkish Lira Fifty. That’s £4.25. For TWO TEA BAGS AND A SMALL JUG OF MILK?

Pity the poor room service chappy who couldn’t understand quite what I was getting worked up about. I was charming, as ever, but I was a little riled. I immediately leapt for the phone and dialled room service.

“If you didn’t want to be charged you should have asked for a tea and coffee maker, sir, ” came the effecient and (in her defence) accurate response.

“But I’ve got the kettle already, all I needed was a few tea bags and some milk. I didn’t expect to be charged 8 Lira 50 for a couple of tea bags.”

“You need to order a tea and coffee maker. But I make sure the order you’ve received is removed from your bill.”

Very helpful. Bless them all here. They do have the holidaymaker from hell to deal with.

Guests receive an apology

Post-hotel fire apology party invite, originally uploaded by Thoroughly Good.

The promise of seeing the Chief Executive of the hotel personally apologise for the inconvenience caused by an outbreak of fire in the a la carte restaurant by the nearby marina was an offer too good to refuse.

In truth, it was the offer of a cocktail or two and the thought we probably wouldn’t be required to sign for them which persuaded Simon and I should make a point of going to the poolside Chill Out area for 1900.

However, I had spectacularly failed in reading between the lines of the letter delivered to our bedroom door earlier in the morning.

This wasn’t just a cocktail. This was in fact a cocktail party, with a dress code, something which failed to register in my mind when I slipped into my now favourite pair of jeans and oh-so-cliched cowboy check shirt.

My error was pointed out by some new holiday acquaintances. Angela and Jackie – here for a further eleven days after quite a considerable stay already – hit the nail on the head. “Typical man. Doesn’t read the detail.”

The four of us chatted about the fire, us expressing regret at not being able to witness it because we’d taken off to Bodrum when the drama kicked off. (It’s not that we’re rubberneckers, but really, the damage was quite spectacular and – we understand – it was dealt with really quite swiftly).

Inevitably the question of what happened to the live lobsters swimming around in the tank inside the restaurant came up. Did they manage to save them? Who knows, we’re not sure. They could have boiled alive. Such a terrible waste, if you like your food slaughtered shortly before you consume it.

Perhaps we were laughing just a little too loud. I’m sure it was about then that Chief Executive Axel stepped forward and introduced himself. Our host for the evening cut a dashingly handsome figure in his salmon pink open collar shirt, simple navy blue blazer and full head of hair. Consequently it seemed only right to compliment him on the fantastic hotel, the marvellous service and the effecient way the fire was dealt with . All this and the al-fresco lunchtime buffet continued as normal the day after.

His was an effortless charm. No wonder. No, there was no personal apology I had been expecting – although one might argue the three glasses of red wine I guzzled constituted an indirect apology – but Axel did tell us about the gala meal scheduled for the following night. “Our chef has prepared a special menu and there’ll be dancing with a special Latin band too.” Axel accompanied this with a quite impressive and obviously natural wiggle.

This wasn’t really enough to convince us. We subsequently checked with reception about booking a table for the gala night. Unlike the cocktails, this wasn’t going to be on the house. We’re opting to eat a main course in one of the other restaurants instead.

Sunger Pizza

Sunger Pizza, originally uploaded by Thoroughly Good.

“How much is the hotel buffet?”

I could hardly believe what I heard so I got the receptionist to write down the figure before double-checking with an unsuspecting member of poolside staff.

The first figure was indeed correct. The buffet would cost £41 each.

Having spent a good hour devouring four courses at breakfast (breakfast opening hours run from 7am to midday) from what was a generously stocked buffet, the idea of us forking out £100 for an evening buffet seemed a little steep and, quite possibly a waste of money, as well.

We trundled off into nearby Bodrum instead. Simon suggested I might like to drive. I jumped at the chance.

I was being a twat of course. Twenty four hours in holiday mode and I’d forgotten that driving anywhere outside the UK means sitting on the wrong side of the car, getting used to using the controls with my right hand instead of my left and negotiating scarily conditioned roads. By the time I’d got to the centre of nearby civilisation – the ‘Turkish St Tropez’ according to the handbook – and parked the car in the packed-to-bursting car park, I was a nervous wreck. Thank God I had a packet of Amber Leaf in my back pocket and sufficient skins to subdue my increased heart-rate.

We plumped for “Sunger Pizza” in the Marina. It was recommended by the blokey in the burnt orange shirt on Concierge that evening. “I remember this place,” squealed Simon, “it was recommended on Trip Advisor.”

My cynicism always assumes that most if not all Trip Advisor recommendations are written by those who actually work at the estbalishments. Not so at Sunger’s Pizza where the staff are so busy running around looking after the customers spilling onto the pavement, I doubt they’ve seen a computer in months let alone logged on to the internet.

The food was appealing and we were hungry hence we ended up ordering three starters from the menu, a chicken parmigaeano and a lamb shish. We’d peaked just at the point we’d completed our meal. Our timing is impeccable.

We did look like a couple of lemons when we first arrived, it has to be said. Whilst the staff do understand English, I don’t think they necessarily knew what to do with a couple of blokes slightly overdressed for the ocassion unsure what the etiquette was when it came to claiming a table. One very pushy lady and her family jumped what I thought the queue was. I glared at her in my usual style, but it seems this was somewhat lost on her.

Still, no matter. The atmosphere – once we got used to it – was convivial and we ate at half the price of the hotel rate. Sunger Pizza on the sea front in downtown Bodrum comes heartily recommended.

The only fly in the ointment was the drama we missed back at the hotel …

The Road to Bodrum

The journey to our hotel – by which I mean the 250 kilometres from Izmir Airport to the Kempinski Hotel just outside of Bodrum - is a demanding one best tackled in daylight.

In our eagerness to get cracking with our fourteen days of sun and relaxation we opted to drive at night.

The journey took three hours and was quite a scary experience.

Should you be considering making the same journey you may way wish to take into consideration the many hazards facing the car driver and his or her passenger in eastern Turkey.

1. Motorways are signed in green, not blue.

2. There are vast stretches of road described as being dual carriageway which push the definition a little far.

3. On some parts of that dual carriageway there isn’t a definite sense of exactly where the road ends and the pavement begins. This perhaps explains why some other road users make arbitrary decisions when selecting places to stop and park up.

4. Some pedestrians have similar difficulty determining where the pavement ends and the roads begin, in addition to not understanding the safety advantages inherent in using a zebra crossing.

5. Dog owners in the region seem to adopt a laissez-faire attitude to looking after their pets, letting them roam free – often in the road.

6. Most roads are not lit.

7. Most roads have little or no road markings.

8. Where there are road markings , local drivers tend to take a cavalier approach to lane discipline thus making overtaking a risky business.

9. Contraflows tend not to be signposted. Reduced lane provision is uaully indicated by use of an apologetically positioned series of oil drums (with reflective stripes, if you’re lucky) every 50 metres or so. This assuming the oil drums haven’t already been knocked out of the way by a nervous tourist driving a hire car.

10. Strangely, no driver should ever be worried about running out of petrol. With a petrol station on both sides of the road nearly every five minutes drivers can be confident of only having to walk a maximum of five minutes in the worst case scenario and be guaranteed a competitive price when they fill up.