Joanlee's Rule No. One: Always be kind to travel and tourism staff
It's shocking how awful tourists can be, often ranting at airline employees or hotel workers for things
that are entirely out of their control. And yet these are the people who control room assignments, upgrades and the quality of your whole experience. Like any human, they're more inclined to favour people who've treated them with respect.
that are entirely out of their control. And yet these are the people who control room assignments, upgrades and the quality of your whole experience. Like any human, they're more inclined to favour people who've treated them with respect.
Joanlee's Rule No. Two: Always dress presentably enough to look like you might be in first class
Travel staff are all about protecting their brand. They don't want anyone in the premium sections who can't act like they belong there. For your best chance of an upgrade, look and act worthy of one.
I don't know if following these rules was the direct cause, or if we just won a lottery, but we ended up spending our last night in Antigua in one of the island's most expensive and exclusive resorts. We weren't supposed to be on the ground at all, but local engineers needed more than two hours to figure out how to remove our plane's engine casing to replace a part, and by the time they had us ready to fly, the pilots had gone over the limit of time they're allowed to work at a stretch. So we were stuck for the night on a Caribbean island in high season, in need of approximately 170 rooms to hold exhausted and hungry passengers who'd boarded the plane at 3pm and been released back into the terminal four hours later. I honestly thought we might be sleeping at the airport.
Another two hours passed. The Virgin Atlantic flight crew rolled trolleys off the plane to do what they could for us. Unfortunately, health and safety rules had demanded the trashing of all the hot food, and customs restrictions prevented the serving of alcohol, but they were there for us. The captain, who had given us regular status updates throughout the attempted repair, was working the crowd. He stood stoically as people complained, and greeted each new passenger with a smile and heartfelt concern. I told him this was the best management of a significant flight delay I'd ever experienced. A PR triumph. I meant it.
Around 9pm, they allowed anyone who had somewhere to go to reclaim their luggage and head off until summoned by text message to return. Those of us without options waited in the terminal while Virgin Atlantic and the airport's information desk searched for housing options. An hour later, we were invited to grab our luggage and then queue up for room assignments. Piers went for the bags while I headed for the queue; confident I'd spot him in the crowd thanks to height, double-breasted blue blazer, old school rugby shirt and panama hat. Eventually at the desk, a member of the flight crew smiled at us, said she thought we would enjoy ourselves, and sent us to Hermitage Bay.
We had another 40 minutes to wait for a taxi, since, unsurprisingly, few of the island's force were on duty by this time. Which gave me time to search the internet and quickly see that the lady at the desk wasn't kidding. The number of "best" lists this 5* hotel appears in boggles the mind, most notably Conde Nast Traveller's Best All Inclusives in the World. Another quick search told us the room rate ... had we walked up on our own ... would be £1,500 a night. Their web site also informed us that "while the hotel is close enough to accommodate day trips into town or excursions around the island, a private, unmade road separates Hermitage Bay from the rest of the world, contributing to its seclusion." Translation: you will have a bone-shattering journey from the airport before you even pull off the main roads, then be subjected to two miles of slow navigation and jarring bumps over perilous terrain in near complete darkness before you reach our heavily-guarded gate, where a sleepy security guard may be a bit slow to respond to your presence.
Once in, however, we glided down a verdant lane between lush tropical gardens to arrive at a Polynesian-style, open-sided welcoming pavilion, where I almost expected Mr Roarke and Tattoo to be waiting. (If that's a cultural red card, read more here.) Instead, a small team was still awake in the otherwise silent resort to guide three lucky couples to our destiny in swift, silent golf carts. Alighting onto gravel paths and surrounded by a concert of chirping crickets, singing frogs and the murmur of the sea somewhere nearby, we wound up some stone stairs ... staff carrying luggage, of course ... to end up at the front door of our villa.
It was a lot to take in, at nearly 1 am and after the madness of the day. A free-standing, Asian-style
pavilion built into a jungle-covered hillside. Our own generously-sized plunge pool, part of a wide verandah that wrapped around two sides of the building and featured a collection of cushioned sofas, chairs and tables. We could have comfortably hosted a cocktail party for a dozen. Inside, in an interior of black ebony and billowing white draperies, a towering four poster, looking towards a wall of plantation shutters that could be opened completely to take in the view. Through a door, the bathroom ran the width of the building, with an enormous free-standing tub. Beyond that, an outdoor shower allowing you to wash while communing with the flora and fauna. And, making no distinction between airline refugees and real guests, there was a club sandwich and a plate of exquisitely carved fruit waiting to banish memories of airline snacks.
We had just 12 hours to enjoy this paradise. I hated to waste time sleeping. (Even though the thread count on the sheets and the feather density of the pillows was exquisite.) By 6am I was back on our verandah, listening to the birds wake up and watching dawn's fingers paint the sky. I headed for the sea, which was close enough to hear but obscured by vegetation. The beach here is a wide, gentle curve of powdery sand stretching at least 300 metres. On the western, Caribbean, side of Antigua and sheltered by hilly promontories, embraced by the arms of a broader bay, this is the stuff of dreams. Unlike our original hotel, there was no sea grass here. I waded out more than 50 metres and was still waist-deep with smooth sand beneath my feet. And I was entirely alone.
Like all of Antigua's beaches, Hermitage Bay is technically public. But getting here, if you weren't a guest of the hotel, would necessitate either a very strenuous hike or drop-off by boat. Thus even when people started coming onto the beach mid-morning, the ratio of empty sand to human being was impressive.
Eventually I climbed back up to our jungle eyrie to entice my husband to breakfast. This took place in the rambling, open-sided, beach-side, Asian-style pavilion at which we'd first arrived the night before. Hermitage Bay is all-inclusive, but you won't find any buffets here. Meals are in a full-service restaurant, served by gracious locals who look to be wearing couture designed specifically for the hotel. Our waitress encouraged us to sample a range of delights from Caribbean eggs to French toast. A side of avocado was a must; they'd just ripened and been plucked from the garden. The pastry basket was tempting, but was it too much? No, she insisted. And, sure enough, the pastries were bite-sized miniatures of all the classics, flaking to buttery shards on our tongues.
We retreated to our villa for the rest of the morning. Lounging on sofas, soaking in the plunge pool, watching birds flit from one colourful bloom to another. All accompanied by gentle music floating over from the spa next door. Our return to the airport came far too quickly, but the hours of the delay will live in memory forever. Poor Ocean Point. Twelve hours at Hermitage Bay became our headline experience on Antigua, despite nearly two weeks at the other resort. Which raises an interesting question.
Is it actually worth spending three times as much, but going for 1/3 of the time, to have a more exceptional experience? I'm not sure. And I can't imagine ever feeling that I could justify a rack rate of £1,500 a night. But if Virgin Atlantic ever wants to disrupt my travel again for such an experience, I'm in.
Once in, however, we glided down a verdant lane between lush tropical gardens to arrive at a Polynesian-style, open-sided welcoming pavilion, where I almost expected Mr Roarke and Tattoo to be waiting. (If that's a cultural red card, read more here.) Instead, a small team was still awake in the otherwise silent resort to guide three lucky couples to our destiny in swift, silent golf carts. Alighting onto gravel paths and surrounded by a concert of chirping crickets, singing frogs and the murmur of the sea somewhere nearby, we wound up some stone stairs ... staff carrying luggage, of course ... to end up at the front door of our villa.
It was a lot to take in, at nearly 1 am and after the madness of the day. A free-standing, Asian-style
pavilion built into a jungle-covered hillside. Our own generously-sized plunge pool, part of a wide verandah that wrapped around two sides of the building and featured a collection of cushioned sofas, chairs and tables. We could have comfortably hosted a cocktail party for a dozen. Inside, in an interior of black ebony and billowing white draperies, a towering four poster, looking towards a wall of plantation shutters that could be opened completely to take in the view. Through a door, the bathroom ran the width of the building, with an enormous free-standing tub. Beyond that, an outdoor shower allowing you to wash while communing with the flora and fauna. And, making no distinction between airline refugees and real guests, there was a club sandwich and a plate of exquisitely carved fruit waiting to banish memories of airline snacks.
We had just 12 hours to enjoy this paradise. I hated to waste time sleeping. (Even though the thread count on the sheets and the feather density of the pillows was exquisite.) By 6am I was back on our verandah, listening to the birds wake up and watching dawn's fingers paint the sky. I headed for the sea, which was close enough to hear but obscured by vegetation. The beach here is a wide, gentle curve of powdery sand stretching at least 300 metres. On the western, Caribbean, side of Antigua and sheltered by hilly promontories, embraced by the arms of a broader bay, this is the stuff of dreams. Unlike our original hotel, there was no sea grass here. I waded out more than 50 metres and was still waist-deep with smooth sand beneath my feet. And I was entirely alone.
Like all of Antigua's beaches, Hermitage Bay is technically public. But getting here, if you weren't a guest of the hotel, would necessitate either a very strenuous hike or drop-off by boat. Thus even when people started coming onto the beach mid-morning, the ratio of empty sand to human being was impressive.
Eventually I climbed back up to our jungle eyrie to entice my husband to breakfast. This took place in the rambling, open-sided, beach-side, Asian-style pavilion at which we'd first arrived the night before. Hermitage Bay is all-inclusive, but you won't find any buffets here. Meals are in a full-service restaurant, served by gracious locals who look to be wearing couture designed specifically for the hotel. Our waitress encouraged us to sample a range of delights from Caribbean eggs to French toast. A side of avocado was a must; they'd just ripened and been plucked from the garden. The pastry basket was tempting, but was it too much? No, she insisted. And, sure enough, the pastries were bite-sized miniatures of all the classics, flaking to buttery shards on our tongues.
Is it actually worth spending three times as much, but going for 1/3 of the time, to have a more exceptional experience? I'm not sure. And I can't imagine ever feeling that I could justify a rack rate of £1,500 a night. But if Virgin Atlantic ever wants to disrupt my travel again for such an experience, I'm in.
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