This is a Trip Report from the Upper Class cabin
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Treasure Beach Hotel, Payne's Bay. What superlatives can I spout that haven't already been spouted? Very few, I imagine. Small, intimate, understated. Frequented by like-minded fellow guests, many of whom are also repeat returnees, so they're old friends to boot. Staff who've seen Tizer go from the 6-month-old crawling cautiously across the lawns, to the bubbly little girl snorkelling over the reef just off the beach. Okay, so perhaps the suites are due a little bit of a 'refurb'; having said that, I hear that 'shabby chic' is terribly en vogue nowadays.
If Sandy Lane is the hotel that guests like to shout about (and boy, do they ever?), then Treasure Beach is the kind of place whose patrons like to keep their little slice of paradise hidden firmly under their straw hats. All except your big-gobbed correspondent, of course. In fact, I've probably said too much already...
Suffice to say, we'd had one of our best ever holidays in Barbados. Long days on the beach or by the pool; lazy evenings watching the sunset with a glass of chilled Chardonnay; balmy nights spent sampling delicious, locally caught fish in restaurants up and down the West Coast. The Senior Ponds had left us to our own devices after a week, finding themselves back in cold and frosty Blighty all too soon. We had a week to ourselves before it was our turn to log-on and check-in, which all went swimmingly and - cue drum roll - elicited SEQ number 1, 2 & 3! More importantly, it also confirmed we were in our desired suites - 12A/K and 14K.
I'd like to pretend I put my Mac back in our room at this point, but I'd become something of a feature with my fellow guests over the last two weeks: I was the-man-with-the-Mac, sat each evening at 'my' table beneath the mahogany tree, glass of wine by my side, watching the General Election news pour in over the wire and keeping folk updated with the latest opinion poll results. As people made their weary way from the beach and past my table, I was expected to keep them updated with their evening bulletin, which I was, of course, more than happy to provide.
Regulars of this esteemed site will no doubt be aware that I'm something of a politics-ophile, and I was still mildly miffed at where I was going to find myself as the election results came in. Everything being as it should be, and barring anymore ash related activity from our friend Efyja... Eyafaj... that big volcano in Iceland, we would be boarding the LGW bound VS030 half an hour before polls closed, landing about half an hour after an expected result (or so we thought). It was bad enough being away for Eurovision the previous year, but this was almost beyond the pale!
But thoughts of the hustings were soon dispelled as Mrs V and Tizer joined me to catch the last sunset of our holiday. I'd managed to convince Tizer that if you listen really, really carefully, just as the sun touches the sea, you'll hear it go 'Hisssss' as it sizzles. We also had to look out for one last, elusive Green Flash. No, not the iconic, green-trimmed trainers so beloved of - well - me in the 1980s; it's the mysterious emerald hue that can sometimes be momentarily seen as the last of the sun slips below the horizon. It does exist. Honest.
The day of departure saw Mrs V finishing off the packing, and me and Tizer trying to squeeze every favourite activity into the precious last 4 hours of our holiday: Shell hunting, sand castle building, snorkelling in the sea, swimming in the pool. Then an early lunch at 'my' table before we had to change into civvies and wait for our cab to the airport. Actually, it turned out the cab was waiting for me, as Mrs V and Tizer were stood in reception with the driver whilst I was saying one last 'farewell' to staff and friends alike, glass of wine in hand (also having one last cheeky cig). Mrs V had to send one of the porters to fetch me. Then that was that; we clambered into the back of the car and waved dear old Treasure Beach a tearful farewell for one more year. If you haven't got the message yet, it's a terribly hard place to leave.
Our run to the airport was uneventful except for the incessant chattering of our verbose daughter. She didn't shut up for 35 solid minutes. The driver told us she was 'delightful', but I noted he nearly left without being paid after dropping us at departures. As ever, the Skycaps, who are keen as mustard when you come into the country, inexplicably lose all interest in you when you're trying to leave, so we heaved our cases across two lanes of traffic, building up a most unwelcome sweat in the process. And the airport was heaving. Cricket mania had hit Barbados, with the Twenty 20 World Cup now in full swing. The place was bustling with fans, cricketers, entourages and really, really big black guys in flak jackets and helmets brandishing machine guns. Security was clearly much higher than usual at BGI.
Presenting ourselves at a slightly disorganised looking Upper Class check-in, a waistcoated member of staff asked us to hold back for a short while, as they had just one party deal with first. No problem, I thought. Then I realised that by 'one party' what he actually meant to say was 'the whole bloody Bangladeshi cricket team'. All of them. And their kit. And their bats. This was going to take a while, and I started to glance over at the near empty PE check-in on my left. I think the waistcoated chap had followed my glance, as he quickly ushered us over to the vacant desk where we were quickly presented with lounge invites and purple boarding passes.
Security revealed another great mdvipond family tradition, that of leaving a bottle of juice or water in one of our bags. The whole exercise is enhanced greatly when we're asked if we have any liquids in our hand luggage, and we always assure the security staff with an I-travel-far-too-often-to-make-that-kind-of-schoolboy-error-my-good-man smile. Of course, they always catch us out in our little fib which, at least on one level, is quite reassuring.
We were lucky that we got to the airline lounge when we did, as it was already chocker with most of the Bangladeshi cricket team. Matters weren't helped by one or two lone individuals (not on the cricket time, I should say) who thought it would be a terrific wheeze if they commandeered two sofas, a chair and a coffee table just for them, their bags and their jacket. This meant that space was a premium, and we were fortunate to grab a couple of comfy chairs and table before people had to resort to sitting in the 'cafe' area of the lounge. Then the Irish cricket team decided to join us, followed by two of the burly gun-toting black guys. The following brief conversation ensued:
"Daddy?"
"Yes, dear".
"What's that man holding?"
"It's a machine gun, sweetheart"
"Is it a real one?"
"Yes. It is. Very real."
"Can I ask him if I can touch it".
"No, sweetie. That would not be a good idea."
Clearly, my tone was such that, for once, Tizer didn't pursue the matter further, which was a relief. Still, at least we know what to get her for Christmas this year.
I settled to a relatively refreshing G&T (sadly devoid of a slice of anything even remotely citrus) and a frustrating attempt at getting a wifi internet connection on my Mac. It never works in BGI, and this election junky was in need of one last fix before the flight. Thankfully, my iPhone came to my rescue, but I still fail to see why my phone springs agilely onto the internet when my Mac resolutely refuses to. Not that there was anything to report, it was still an hour before the polls closed. The most exciting, hotly contested election in a generation, and I was going to be in the equivalent of a sealed box, wearing headphones and a blindfold (images of 'Mr & Mrs' spring to mind) whilst it was decided.
A call went out in the lounge some 30 minutes before departure time and we headed for the gate. Some sort of priority boarding seemed to be in place, which was a surprise, and as we stepped out on to the shimmering tarmac, Lady Penelope was once more there to greet us. The last few steps toward our waiting plane were melancholy indeed, all too aware that the warm Caribbean breeze that accompanied us would soon be replaced by the chill of Britain in early May. And the forecast looked pants, even by British standards. Overnight frosts for crying out loud! I mean, what's that all about?
As we boarded via the front steps, we were 'greeted' (I use the word loosely) by the FSM, a steely-haired Irish gent whose idea of 'Welcome On Board!' was to squint at our boarding passes and mumble 'right to the front'. We followed his somewhat curt instructions, and made our way to our little triad of suites. A cheery FA was soon with us to offer Champagne and take jackets. It looked like it was going to be a packed one, with the Bangladeshi cricketers taking up almost all of the Upper Class 'B' zone. The Irish, it seems, were less fortunate, relegated to Premium by the looks of things. All except a chap I later discovered was their manager (and an OBE to boot!), who was sat up front next to us.
We started to taxi out more-or-less on time, but then... we stopped and turned tail. We were heading back to the terminal. The Captain came on to tell us that he'd just had reports that the ash cloud - yes, that old fella - had started shifting around a bit, and was in danger of buggering up his flight plan. Well, he didn't use those exact words, but that was his general gist. Normally, the prospect of a delayed or even cancelled flight would send me into an apoplexy, but I was pretty damn sure that our suite was still lying empty back at Treasure Beach and if it's true what they say about whatever it is coming around subsequently going around, then surely the stress and torment we'd been put through in the run up to this holiday justified another - say - three or four days in Barbados?
Back at the stand there was an anxious wait. I mean, what if the ash cloud wasn't that bad and we could still fly? As it turned out, this was exactly the case. A review of the flight plan, we were informed, revealed that there was no danger from volcanic ash on our route. Apologies and all that, and we were on our way once more.
Once in the air I ordered a Bombay and tonic - with lime - which came with lemon instead (quelle surprise!) and very little tonic. Eye-wateringly strong. Still, I'm not the kind of man who complains about the strength of his drink, so I stuck with it and slowly numbed my tongue, along with a few hundred thousand brain cells. V-Port booted up or, in my case, didn't. Nowt but a blank screen in 12A, although I was glad to note that Tizer in 12K and Mrs V in 14K were up and running. I mentioned it to the FA who said she'd re-boot the system. I didn't hold out much hope. In fact, despite an announcement some 20 minutes later saying that V-Port had been re-started my screen remained resolutely blank.
I let the FA know that I'd be needing to avail myself of a DVD player before too long, although I realised I was going to miss out on my beloved trivia game. But Mrs V who, akin with all women is always keen to play the martyr, offered to swap seats. She wasn't all that bothered for anything more than a quick film before settling down on a bed of nails and whipping herself to sleep with damp birch branches, apparently. I pretended to resist for a while, but was fooling no one and soon accepted my good wife's offer and shifted my sad arse to 14K. For all the fuss, once I got into 'Trivia Challenge' there wasn't another soul playing, yet again. I mentioned it to the male FA now working my side of the cabin and he said he'd put the word out to rally up some competition for me, but if he did, no one came out to play.
A third female FA started doing the rounds taking breakfast orders, but she seemed desperately nervous and rather out of her depth. She asked the Irish cricket fella next to me if he'd like to be woken for breakfast.
"Now, I don't know if I'll sleep. But if I do, you can try as you like to wake me, but I doubt you'll have much success. If I'm asleep there'll be very little chance of me waking afore breakfast. If I'm awake, all well and good; if not, I sleep that deeply, it's probably best to leave me in peace".
Nervous FA giggled, nodded sincerely, then asked him if he'd like to be woken for breakfast. Oh dear.
Mrs V's DVD player arrived and she opted to watch 'The Time Traveller's Wife' (stunning book, lousy film apparently). She was doubtful, however, as to whether she'd get to watch the whole thing, as the battery on the player was only half charged and it looked at first that she was going to have watch it balanced on her knee, as her table wouldn't 'deploy' from its recess. An FA appeared with a knife, which seemed to do the trick and the table was released.
I opted for 'I Love You Phillip Morris', a film which takes an interesting slant on the classic rom-com by pitching Jim Carey and Ewan McGregor as star-crossed, ex-con lovers. Weird, but really enjoyable. This reviewer gives it... 4 and a half stars!
Dinner took its fine time to come out, but when it did, the soup (minestrone) was very good indeed. Beyond just warm and gloopy, it was also chunky and tasty. A bigger serving would have been a meal in itself. I glanced across at Mrs V to see what she thought, as she'd ordered the minestrone too, but she was starterless, having just been informed by Nervous FA that they'd run out of the soup. She didn't fancy the salad, so went without, unfortunately. My guilt at having swapped seats was mounting.
Tizer was happy enough though. She'd been served with a large steaming bowl of penne pasta and tomato sauce which she was absent-mindedly picking her way through whilst watching 'The Princess and the Frog' again. I reckon one more viewing and she should have more-or-less memorised the whole script.
It was at this point that we were honoured by our first (and only) visit from Surly FSM. His engaging repartee consisted of standing, unsmiling, in front of each passenger, a bottle of water in each hand, and barking 'still or sparkling' at them. I was starting to get the feeling that he wasn't exactly a 'people person', which seemed odd considering his career choice. I indulged in a very pleasant Italian red, and soon after found myself tucking into a perfectly palatable beef stew. I think the menu might have described it in more flowery terms, but beef stew is exactly what it was. I imagine if they'd popped a piece of puff pastry on top at the last minute they'd have called it 'Beef in Ale Pie'.
My attention was drawn to the gentleman sitting opposite in 14A, who was travelling alone and seemed to be having a worse time of things than Mrs V. He too was without V-Port, but hadn't been offered a DVD player, instead being told by the male FA that he should 'fill in a customer comment card'. Like Mrs V, he'd also had a reluctant table, but his had resisted the nifty trick with the knife and stayed stuck. So he was sat in silence with his dinner plate on his lap looking - quite rightly - like not-a-very-happy-chappy. I also noted that other than the brief water round, he'd had no contact, let alone a word or two of apology, from Surly FSM, which considering he was sat in a business class seat without IFE and with beef stew balanced on his knee, seemed a bit off to say the least. I felt, I'm sorry to say, embarrassed for Virgin. I know it's illogical, but all I could see was a customer who was being ripped off, badly treated and was highly unlikely to choose VS in the future.
I realised at this point that I'd been staring at my empty dinner plate and wine-free wine glass for a good half hour and hadn't seen sight nor sign of any crew in all that time. Another five minutes passed and I was getting close to fetching someone, but managed to catch an FA's eye, who came and - rather reluctantly - cleared my plate away. I collared him before he scadoodled off and ordered some cheese and biscuits and, whilst he looked a tad put-out, he did have the decency to offer me a glass of port to accompany it, which I accepted
Actually, I wished I hadn't. It was awful - far too sweet; I can only assume they've changed supplier in the last 6 months. The cheese was okay though, and I slowly nibbled my way through it whilst watching the end of the Carey/McGregor film. Didn't see the twist coming, but then, I never do. In fact, I'm still not entirely sure which of the 'Usual Suspects' was supposed to be Keyzer Soze.
Mrs V hadn't been able to watch the last ten minutes of her film because - as predicted - the battery had died on the DVD player, which was pretty disappointing for her. I suggested a quick glass of wine before putting Tizer to bed (who was by now into her second sitting of 'The Princess and the Frog'), but the crew had, once again, made themselves scarce. I also noticed a growing collection of plates and glasses which we'd had to start piling on our ottomans. So far we each had a plate from the cheese course, one empty water glass, one empty wine glass, one glass of barely touched port and one glass (empty) that my G&T must have come in a thousand miles ago.
Mrs V wouldn't let me clear them up; she'd already had to take Tizer's plates all the way to the bar before she found any crew and had then been told by Surly FSM to 'leave them on there' (how she contained herself is beyond me). She would, however, allow me to track a crew member down to get us a couple of glasses of wine. I found them all - including Surly FSM - still sat at the bar, and it was Surly that I approached directly to ask for two glasses of Chardonnay please. He gave me the kind of look that the less charitable in society normally reserve for homeless people with a cross-breed dog on a string who ask passers by in they can 'spare any change'.
"He'll do it", he told me brusquely, pointing to the male FA (who was, to his credit, sweetness and light), before returning to his 'bar chat' with the remaining crew. I was fuming, but didn't really want to have a Pink Face moment on a packed over-night flight, so I asked the FA to bring our drinks up to us and went back to our suites.
Mrs V was tucking a freshly PJ'd Tizer into bed and most of the cabin seemed to be following suit (although without the benefit Mrs V tucking them in, of course). The FA brought our wines, and we asked him to clear up the plates and things. He was gone in a flash, but only took the plates for some reason, so with the two newly delivered wines we now had somewhere in the region of 10 glasses between us.
Twenty minutes later, and Tizer was still resisting the lure of the Land of Nod. Mrs V and I were taking it in turns to 'stroke brow' but we didn't seem to be getting anywhere. We decided to change tack, so I was sent to the bar (kicking and screaming) so that Mrs V could make a more concerted effort at getting Tizer off to sleep. At the bar I found that Surly FSM and party had moved on, replaced by the nice Irish cricket dignitary (drinking) and Nervous FA (serving). I ordered another glass of white and had a pleasant chat with them both, mostly about trying to get children to sleep.
This wasn't going to be the longest of flights though, and I fancied an hour or two of shut-eye myself, so I grabbed one last glass of wine, and one of water, and made my way back to my suite. In doing so I increased our glass stash, by my reckoning, to 12. But I was passed caring. I changed into my PJs, turned seat into bed (storing the glass stash beneath it) and clambered in with Family Guy. Not literally, you understand; I'm referring of course to the hit US animated comedy which, surprisingly quickly, I drifted gently off to...
...waking some 2 hours later to early morning hustle and miscellaneous breakfast smells. We couldn't be much more than 45 minutes from landing, so I hot-footed it to the loo to change and freshen up. Upon my return, Mrs V had ordered two espressos which somehow - somewhere between the bar and our suites - had morphed into two cups of Netto instant coffee. Okay, so I'm a coffee snob, but this stuff was utterly, utterly undrinkable. It tasted like beef stock, and not very good beef stock at that.
Now, one thing that we have learned over our years of flying UC is that they like to hide a proper espresso machine on board. I use the work 'hide' as certain crew don't always admit to it, and many definitely don't like having to use it 'cause it's a bit of a 'faff'. But this particular caffeine addict knew it was there and needed his hit of java, so I approached the cheery FA who I hadn't seen since she'd brought me an almost neat gin at the start of the flight and explained the situation. Bless her, two minutes later we were presented with two steaming cups of espresso. She even offered to top them up with hot water to make a longer coffee of it, but I refused, taking my hit in one gulp (then regretting it slightly as it really was very hot indeed).
The crew had started to make the cabin ready for landing which meant - blessedly - my glass stash was finally removed. The usual Retrieving Of Headphones With Menaces was carried out and we were soon breaking cloud cover somewhere over southern England. I had me old Bose QC2s to hand so managed to keep watching Family Guy until we were almost ready to land.
We were straight on to a stand and soon lining up to disembark. The male FA brought a 'customer comment form' over for the chap opposite who'd failed to enjoy the benefits of either V-Port or a table to eat his dinner from, but I was glad to see that he also pressed the FA for an address for customer services and the name of Surly FSM.
After that, things went smoothly enough. I turned my iPhone on with trembling hands to discover I hadn't really missed all that much election-wise, and if nothing else the one-eyed-Scottish-idiot had been given the drubbing he so rightly deserved. Hell of a walk to immigration and baggage, but our cases were off pronto, and I won't assume to bore you with what was a pretty effortless trip back up to Leeds Bradford.
All in all, a disappointing flight which I know left more than just the Family mdvipond feeling rather disgruntled. Non-functioning IFE happens (perhaps a bit too often for my liking, but it happens); UC tables don't always work; food choices can sometimes run out (although to be fair, they bloody well shouldn't). But the impact of all of the above could have been mitigated, at least to some extent, if Surly FSM had shown any sign of giving a cat's arse about his passengers. If he'd just come down and apologised, empathised, offered a bit duty-free or a few thousand miles here and there, it would have made us - and the poor bloke in 14A - feel a little better about the situation. Don't get me wrong - I'm not fishing for 'compensation miles' here - but an FSM who showed just a shred of concern would have helped considerably.
As it was, he seemed positively allergic to passengers, leaving the role of placating unhappy customers to an overworked FA in a very full UC cabin. Surly FSM clearly preferred to sit at the bar and chit-chat with crew than to do something as basic as to serve a glass of wine, and that's a crying shame.
Ah well, all over now; what little tan there was has fallen off already and I'm more or less used to he cold again. Nothing else to look forward to until Cape Town in December now. Not quite sure how I'll cope...
Last edited by mdvipond on 23 May 2010, 14:14, edited 4 times in total.
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