This is a Trip Report from the Upper Class cabin
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To regular readers of my trip reports (you few, patient souls), this won't come as much of a surprise, but I bloody love Barbados I do. The climate, the scenery, the food, the people, the rum, the food and - of course - the rum.
We've graced this fair isle many a time before, but this was our first trip in October. It was damp at times, yes, but beautifully green for it. A bit like Ireland, but without the cold or the crippling debt. In fact, I rather liked visiting in 'wet season'. It's not like it rains all that often (every other day on average, and even then only for half an hour or so) but when it does, it's the kind of rain that makes you suddenly realise that you've left it way too late to start gathering two of every animal, let alone to embark on any kind of ark-related construction project.
Treasure Beach Hotel - which for many a year has been our 'pied-a-terre' in Barbados - had a new manager this year; an affable enough chap, but a slightly unfortunate pinch of Basil Fawlty about him. One of his first edicts on taking up the role was to tile over large expanses of what used to be lawn and - as a consequence - any kind of natural ground drainage. This meant that during the heavier rainstorms (and bear in mind, by UK standards they were all pretty bloody heavy) the swimming pool could quite easily triple in size, sometimes coming within inches of our ground-floor suite.
At this point, Basil would drag on a set of oilskins, grab a shovel and start frantically digging trenches in the borders and flowerbeds to try and alleviate the flood. He was usually watched by a handful of the ever-stoic Barbadian hotel staff, who'd gaze on quietly, passing bemused comments between themselves from the dry of the restaurant.
Basil aside, we'd had another cracking holiday and - come our day of departure - we'd secured our room for a late check-out. Having completed a blessedly incident-free online check-in with VS the previous evening, we knew we could indulge in a relaxing morning on the beach, a swim and even a spot of lunch before we even needed to think about getting showered and dressed for the trip home.
Of course, this wasn't taking into consideration Basil's 'penchant' for digging, and he'd chosen this particular day to really indulge himself by attempting, single-handedly, to uproot a coconut tree from the grounds. I believe he hails from Brisbane, an equally tropical spot to Barbados, so where his deep-seated hatred of coconut trees comes from I know not. Suffice to say, he failed miserably in ridding the hotel of a tree, but unearthed a pipe instead and succeeded most effectively in cutting the water off to all the rooms.
We were enjoying one last, leisurely Bajan lunch by the pool with a cheeky glass of Chardonnay, making a decent stab at pretending we weren't going home, when we were informed of the water-free situation. All at once I was struck by the blood-chilling prospect that I might have to fly home dressed as I was. Now, I hear that the dress code in Upper Class is pretty relaxed these days (hell, there's even a rumour that they're letting people from Hull on board) but in my loudest pair of Vilebrequin shorts, a shirt that Magnum would've been proud of and a thick but even layer of stale sunscreen, sand and sweat, I was pretty certain to attract more than the occasional, disapproving stare.
What were we going to do? Take a bath in the pool? Well, other than the fact that mixing shampoo with chlorine would probably turn my hair green, I really didn't fancy the idea of finding myself in the photos section of TripAdvisor wearing naught but a smile and a thin layer of soap suds. We were assured that the water would back on well before our taxi showed up, but two weeks experience of Basil's managerial skills left me less than confident.
I'd quite gone off my lunch by this time, but ordered another large glass of Chardonnay to try and allay some of the stress. Mrs V was playing it cool, but I was more-or-less sure she wasn't relishing the idea of flying home in a swimsuit and a sarong. With an hour to go - heavens be praised! - we were told that the water was back on. We relaxed, sipped the last of our wine, laughed together in the way those who've just dodged disaster do, and readied ourselves to go back to our room. But then, a mere two minutes later, we were informed that the water was off again.
Basil had the audacity to blame the plumber (as opposed, for instance, to some gung-ho Aussie having a go at a bit of amateur tree surgery) but swore it would be back on in minutes. And, to his credit, it was. Nerves frayed to shreds, we headed straight back to the suite. I'm not saying I didn't trust dear Basil's word, dear reader, but the Family Vipond had the fastest three showers they have ever had, or ever will again, I'll wager.
We'd booked our taxi for a little earlier than usual, as we were aware of some pretty extensive roadworks between us and the airport. Bear in mind, Barbadian roadworks are much the same as British roadworks, but without the same sense of purpose, organisation and strict adherence to deadlines, so we were expecting it to be slow going. And it was. Matters weren't helped by Tizer embarking on a verbal stream of consciousness that lasted the full hour of our journey. Not since my heavier drinking days around Leeds have I seen a taxi driver more relieved to be finally dropping of a fare.
But we were at the airport in plenty of time, and found just one family in front of us at UC check-in. Now, for some reason, it's struck me over the years that whoever recruits check-in staff for Virgin in Barbados puts at the end of the job advert: 'Surliness not essential, but preferred'. Well, they'd slipped up with the agent who welcomed us this time; she was sweetness and light itself, efficiently confirming our seats from online check-in and proffering our lounge passes.
Security, as is the norm at BGI, was both quick and ineffective. I don't know about you, but if they're going to X-Ray passengers' bags for bombs and stuff, it'd be nice if the lady sat in front of the monitor could actually look at it once in a while, rather than chatting incessantly with her colleague over her shoulder about recipes for macaroni pie. I find it slightly unsettling.
View of Tinker Bell from outside the lounge at BGI
We were actually welcomed back to the lounge, which struck me as pleasant but implausible since we hadn't been there for a year and a half. Then we struggled for a bit to find somewhere to sit. It wasn't that it was particularly busy, it's just that half a dozen-or-so single travellers had deposited themselves at all of the available sofas, making sure that their luggage was spread evenly between the sofa, the coffee table and each of the three surrounding chairs. You see it all over the world in airport lounges, and it drives me potty (although not so potty that I'll actually say anything to any of them about it. I am British, after all).
So, we corralled three spare chairs into a vacant corner and gave the single travellers distant but dirty glances over our G&Ts, and munched in a slightly disconsolate way at a plate of cheesy biscuits.
Tizer adopting her 'ballerina' pose in front of Tinker Bell
All that aside, we were soon called for our flight and, after leaving sufficient time for the crowds to die down a bit, headed for the gate. The sun was setting as we strode across the tarmac to the waiting 747. The tree-frogs would soon be chirruping their regular sonata and all around the island people were sipping a rum cocktail and nonchalantly discussing their dinner plans for the evening. We, on the other hand were just about to board a plane back to Britain. In November. How cruel can this life be sometimes? And the realisation that it was Bonfire Night the next day did little to make me feel any better.
Tizer leads the way; but will she turn right, or left...?
Still, as your humble correspondent wiped a bitter-sweet tear from his eye, we scaled the steps onto the plane, took a last deep breath of succulent, warm Caribbean air, made a sharp left turn and found 12A/K and 14A waiting for us. The usual routine of discarding bags and jackets in return for Champagne ensued, and I quickly found myself sipping a glass of bubbly whilst surveying my fellow passengers.
By my reckoning, there weren't quite as many children on this flight as there had been on the outbound, although still a fair few. Thankfully, none of them (bar Tizer) were in the front cabin, so the prospect of a decent night's sleep looked good. There did seem to be quite a few kids in the next cabin back though; one toddler in particular who, I noted, hadn't stopped saying "Eee!! Eee!! Eee!! Eee!!" since we'd boarded. No sign of Tarquin or his ghastly cohort, though, so that was a distinct bonus.
But then, we realised, Tizer had gone awfully quiet (quite something for her). And not just quiet; she'd also taken on a particular shade of colour which, if Dulux ever marketed it, would probably be called 'Cadaver White'. And then we discovered why airlines put sick bags on their planes. The poor thing got through hers, mine and Mrs V's in record time, leading to an interesting version on the relay race undertaken by a number of the cabin crew who, for some reason, could only find spare sick bags somewhere near the back of the aircraft.
The calm before the 'vom'
As concerned about Tizer as we both were, I couldn't help but be impressed with how quietly and discreetly she divulged herself of - by the looks of things - her last five or so meals. Most kids her age would probably have forgone the sick bag altogether and given the Upper Class suite the kind of re-design I don't quite think VS have in mind. She was a little lady, bless 'er - a vomiting, ill little lady - but a lady nonetheless.
Blessedly, she held firm throughout take-off, and the minute the seat-belt sign was off we were able to pop her into her PJs and bed her down for the night. It's proved to be case over the years that Tizer's occasional bouts of sickness are followed by an almost comatose state of sleep and, thankfully, it was no different this time.
Which meant, now that our poorly daughter was out for the count, that Mrs V and I could indulge in a G&T and a few nibbles before dinner. Now, I'm very much aware just how stunningly late this TR is, so I won't go into too much detail about what was - at the time - the beginnings of the new UC meal service. Suffice to say, the new bowls for nibbles and crisps were quite funky and easier to keep their contents in than the old plates. The meal itself was served with a little 'bread board' style thing for bread instead of a plate, which seemed a little twee and useless. I think I had beef, and I'm pretty sure it was quite good. Then I had cheese, which was also good. Sorry, can't really remember an awful lot more. Will try harder next time.
I do, however, remember that (a) V-Port was working very nicely thank you very much, and that (b) I watched a great film called 'Cedar Rapids', an indie comedy about a small-town insurance salesman who goes to his first ever conference in the 'big city'. And hilarity ensues etc. etc. This reviewer gives it: 5 stars!
Tizer woke briefly after we finished dinner, looked at the concerned faces of her parents at the end of her bed, giggled hysterically for a minute, then fell straight back to sleep again. I'm no doctor, but I assumed that this meant she was okay, so Mrs V bedded down for the night and I headed for the bar.
I managed a few glasses of white whilst chatting to a very friendly and personable crew member about all things flying related, Virgin related and - get this - V-Flyer related. I couldn't actually get him to divulge whether or not he's a member of the site, but if he is - and if he's reading this - hello, and thanks for explaining to me how you catalogue all the alcohol on the plane prior to landing (as I recall, it's slightly more interesting than it sounds).
Realising that learning how you catalogue all the alcohol on the plane prior to landing and finding it quite so interesting might mean I'd had one drink too many, I topped my glass up one last time and headed for bed. Wife and daughter were sleeping soundly, so I followed my usual routine: convert my seat into a bed, set out my duvet, get in, lay down, try to watch 'Family Guy'. Find I've trapped my headphone wire in the suite and that they won't reach my head anymore so, convert my bed into a seat, release my trapped headphone wire, convert my suite into a bed, set out the by-now-entangled duvet the best I can, get in nonetheless, try to watch 'Family Guy', fall asleep instead.
I woke somewhere over Southern Ireland, I reckon. Mrs V was already up, but Tizer was still away with the fairies. I breakfasted sparingly on a large espresso, changed out of my PJs, then settled to staring sullenly out of the window as Britain, in all it's grey-shrouded, wintery glory, approached. Tizer only just woke in time for a quick change back into her clothes, but seemed bright as a button after a straight 7 or so hours sleep.
We arrived early, were off the plane quickly, through Immigration like shit off a shovel and had our cases off the carousel in no time of at all. All of which would have been delightful, of course, if it wasn't for the fact we now had a shade over six hours to kill in the delightful environs of Gatwick departures whilst waiting for our flight up to Manchester. Let me tell you, there's only so much you can do in Gatwick departures at the best of times; but when you're feeling slightly jet-lagged, a tad hungover and considerably jaded at being back in a country where people where scarves and gloves and wander around coughing and sneezing at each other all the bleeding time, it's a bit of a drag.
What to do when faced with 6 hours to kill at LGW...
I bought a scarf from Fat Face (so as not to feel left out) and tried to read, but the wait was - as they say - interminable. Quite possibly the longest 6 hours of my life, and I speak as a man who once visited Hull Fair. Once we were finally home in God's Own County, some 8 hours later, it did rather cross my mind that it'd taken us just a shade longer to get from Gatwick to Leeds that it had from Barbados to Gatwick. We really must find a better way of doing things in future; really, we must.
That being said, the Virgin segment of our trip was great - everything I'd expect from a good, solid night-flight in UC. The crew were pleasant and handled Tizer's sicky episode well, V-Port worked, the food (what I remember of it) was good and the bar was the haven it alway is on such flights.
Nothing else booked with as yet, but hoping to do MCO via New York in October. Just need a UC sale to fall my way soon. And once again, so sorry for the tardiness of the report. Bad form, and I'll try not to do it again.
Last edited by mdvipond on 08 Jan 2012, 13:25, edited 4 times in total.
However, I too have been reading the Tripadvisor reviews and must say I'm a little surprised at the new manager's popularity. It seems he appeals more to 'new' guests, and a little less to many of the 'regulars'. Nice enough bloke though, and I'm sure he'll settle in. Someone should really confiscate his shovel though.
I think I've expereinced your Barbados lounge 'loungers' in almost every lounge (and railway carriage and bus and bar and .......). Don't they just pee you off? 
