The Olivia Court hotel was as step up from the still modest number of B&B's we'd stayed at; even our beloved, much missed Buchan in Edinburgh had its dearth of bathrooms and largely inedible wholewheat toast to take a tiny fraction of the shine off our stay. But here at our Christmas accommodation on the English Riviera we were at a place with all the comforts of home - and given that we were living in a cramped, cold and gloomy dwelling, it also had all the comforts we never had at home. One comfort, however, went unappreciated by me. The first night we were served pâté as part of our dinner and I looked at it askance. I wasn't exactly sure why there was a pile of wet cat food on my plate and I was determined not to eat it under any circumstances. (The following night, after picking at a piece of fish that I'd similarly turned up my nose to, the exasperated manageress asked me, "So what do you like to eat?" I must say they whipped up quite a nice omelette for me the night after)
Such service and in a town noted for one (fictional) hotel and its (equally fictional) hot-tempered manager and buffoonish staff. If one plays a game of word association involving TV shows and the towns and cities in which they're set this one would top the list. Torquay? Fawlty Towers.
I wasn't yet a fan of the show but I was already aware of it. Perhaps that's why I seemed to notice an over-abundance of hotels, B&B's and guest houses in and around Torquay - although I suppose it's as much to do with Devon's status as a magnet for tourists more than anything else. (Did it ever occur to John Cleese to set such a lousy establishment in an equally lousy English town? Perhaps it stretched believability that a hotel in, say, King's Lynn would attract guests in the first place - and I say that as someone who once spent a night there!) Do the hoteliers of Torquay consider the sitcom to be a saving grace or the band of their existence? While morticians and funeral directors have spoken of how Six Feet Under has helped aid the public's perception of their trade, Devon's hotel industry must be sick to death of hearing guests go on about Basil and Manuel. Either that or they just act like the bloody show never existed, much like the owners of the Olivia Court.
Such service and in a town noted for one (fictional) hotel and its (equally fictional) hot-tempered manager and buffoonish staff. If one plays a game of word association involving TV shows and the towns and cities in which they're set this one would top the list. Torquay? Fawlty Towers.
I wasn't yet a fan of the show but I was already aware of it. Perhaps that's why I seemed to notice an over-abundance of hotels, B&B's and guest houses in and around Torquay - although I suppose it's as much to do with Devon's status as a magnet for tourists more than anything else. (Did it ever occur to John Cleese to set such a lousy establishment in an equally lousy English town? Perhaps it stretched believability that a hotel in, say, King's Lynn would attract guests in the first place - and I say that as someone who once spent a night there!) Do the hoteliers of Torquay consider the sitcom to be a saving grace or the band of their existence? While morticians and funeral directors have spoken of how Six Feet Under has helped aid the public's perception of their trade, Devon's hotel industry must be sick to death of hearing guests go on about Basil and Manuel. Either that or they just act like the bloody show never existed, much like the owners of the Olivia Court.
My pâté largely untouched, we went to the lounge where my sister and I could occupy ourselves by giving lots of attention to Sophie, the hotel's very sweet beagle. The TV must not have been on or else we would have already heard the grim news. Suddenly, one of the staff came in and told us: a Pan-Am jet had just crashed in southern Scotland.
Lockerbie - for a time at least - would go on to be as synonymous with aviation terrorism as Toquay would be with malevolent hotel proprietors. Much like Aleppo, Chernobyl, Columbine, and Ypres before and after it, it went from being an unremarkable, nothing town to one forever linked with tragedy.
For me, and this will sound heartless, the tragic news lasted only about as long until the shock wore off. Being on a trip, we weren't especially inclined to be watching TV - I can only recall tuning in to Neighbours and the Top of the Pops Christmas Special while we were in Devon - so the heartbreaking news was something we could easily avoid. (Upon returning to Laindon, it seemed like all the reports from Lockerbie were about the families of the victims coming to Scoland primarily from the U.S. which gave the disaster seem much more like something that had happened in America rather than in Britain)
The next day, we headed out to Land's End at the tip of Cornwall. The day after, it was Kent's Cavern, a spot that only stands out due to having sprained my left ring finger after tripping on the steps in front of the Olivia Court. I spent the rest of the day, as well as much of the next, with my hand awkwardly - not to mention embarrassingly - pressed up to my chest. That afternoon we went to see Who Framed Roger Rabbit? which was practically ruined by the sweet popcorn my parents purchased by mistake (I tried warning them but to no avail).
And, finally, we come to Christmas Eve. The couple that ran the Olivia Court invited guests to go with them to a church service and my mum accepted on behalf of her otherwise reluctant family. An evening service, I discovered, was a good way to whet one's appetite before Christmas but my first time going to church wasn't something I looked forward to doing again. On the way back to our hotel, I began to get excited for Christmas.
~~~~~
young Paul's favourite: Especially for You
older Paul's retro pick: Left to My Own Devices
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