I started my stay at the Royal Victoria in Belfast, one of the flagship establishments of the UK's NHS (National Hotel Services), with eager anticipation. I checked in quite late - at approximately 11 pm but the reception desk was still open and manned by a very pleasant young man. He seemed to forget to get my credit card details for incidentals, but as I was to find out later, this wasn't necessary.
I was asked to take a seat in the Lobby - I can only assume my room wasn't ready. It was then that I noticed that a lot of other people were waiting in the lobby also.
It wasn't long before I was called back to see the concierge, her name tag said Triage which I assume is a Gaelic version of Trish. She had a lot of questions to ask, some of which were a little intimate but I'm sure she just wanted to make sure my stay fit my personal needs. Triage (Trish) seemed to know I’d been feeling pain in my lower abdomen. She even took a blood sample which is a level of service I haven't experienced in a hotel before. She then escorted me to my room, which looked uncannily similar to the Lobby I had just been in. I hadn't realised that I'd be sharing with others. I assume it's a cultural thing. I used to live here, was born near here, even. But it's been years since I'd visited Northern Ireland. Clearly several things had changed. For one thing the weather wasn't as advertised. Nobody, but nobody, coming to Northern Ireland is prepared for 27°C, sunshine and a light sea breeze. Of all the things Northern Irish weather has been described as, "just lovely" is not one of them. "Gruelling" is the most common, with " Harrowing" the runner-up.
The Giants Causeway has also changed. It was more crowded than I'd ever seen it when we visited earlier that day. I suppose when you designate somewhere as a World Heritage Site, people want to visit. My family were a bit underwhelmed also - see my son’s review (⭐️⭐️ Hexagonal volcanic rock columns? - not perfect hexagons). There's no pleasing some people. But I digress - that was the day trip, this is the hotel review.
There were a few pros and cons to the first night’s accommodation, which I hope will be useful for those wondering whether or not to book their next holiday here.
Pros
Free Wifi
Vending machines in the room
Clean
Flat screen TV x 2
Lots of seating
Ensuite bathroom
Cons
No charging stations so unable to use free wifi when my phone died after the first five minutes.
Room service came in at 6 am without knocking to fill vending machines, noisily.
The cleaner came in without knocking at 1 AM, 3 AM, 5 AM and 7 AM, noisily.
One flat-screen turned off. 10 feet off the ground.No remote.
The other flat-screen TV has only one channel - tuned to a Windows error message. No remote.
Seating mostly occupied. Seating seems to be in place of horizontal beds.
Ensuite bathroom facilities shared and smell of Dettol and vomit.
A few of the other occupants seemed to be managing to sleep. I'm wondering if this is another new Irish thing. The Japanese capsule hotel craze has definitely taken off. It does seem stereotypically Irish to think of an upright hotel bed in a shared room and I'm not sure it's going to catch on in the same way.
New guests came in every few minutes and some told me that they'd already been here for hours. At least that's what I think they said. The Northern Irish accent is a funny thing. I have had one myself, congenitally and then in a relapsing/remitting pattern as I've moved around and married an English rose who sounds like HM QEII. My son taught me a couple of years back that anyone can learn to say “razor blades” in an Australian accent, by saying “rise up lights” in pretty much any other accent. Similarly, anyone can say “Northern Ireland” in a Northern Irish accent by phonetically pronouncing “Norn Iron”.
Some Norn Irish people, I can understand just fine but one roommate from this night felt she needed to tell me her husband's life and medical history. I think it was revenge, because she was jealous that he was able to take regular sleeping breaks in between their cigarette smoking and she, like me, couldn't sleep. Even though this lady hails from 10 miles away from where I grew up, I could understand only 2.8% of the content of what she said - if you don't count the fillers that the Norn Irish add to their sentences (much like the ”eh”s that Canadians use).
What I hear from this lady sounds like ”Noar, Nwar, norgin so it is, like, noar nwar neeg seizure so he did, like ya know, like. Noar nwar neglin noonie head like kills so it does. Noar nwar naggie noo eight hours, feckin ridiclious so it is”. Thankfully I was able to decipher enough to look sympathetic and nod rather than reply, ”18° and a full moon”.
To complement the party atmosphere there's a game of musical chairs run by Triage and people come and go throughout the night. About 2 am the room goes quiet as people resign themselves to no sleep and they sit with resentful looks on their faces. Some are so resigned to the prospect of no sleep until Triage calls their name that they visit the vending machine for an endless supply of instant coffee. But every time Triage sticks her head through the door, everyone suddenly sits up straight and cranes their neck to hear if their name is at the top of the list. It feels like what I imagine a Bingo Hall might be like when the cards are getting fuller. I’ve never played Bingo, for the same reasons I've never had a blue rinse or worn a crimplene dress, but even that feels like a better idea than what I’m doing now. As the night drags on, the room empties as people's upgrades are approved. First it's the two fat ladies - 88! with their gall bladder attacks. Then its legs 11, or more accurately 1.5 - her right leg is at a funny angle. Number 1 - Kelly's eye is very red and swollen.
At a few minutes after 3 AM, Triage’s door opens and she steps into the room. Necks crane and good ears swivel towards her like satellite dishes, bingo markers hovering over bingo cards. The room remains silent but with an air of anticipation and not a little tension. But Triage isn't as confident as she has been up to this point. She stumbles over the pronunciation of the name on the clipboard in front of her. ”Mr Ali Al....” she stutters.
”Mr Ali Alf....”Then she finds her voice and confidently announces
”Mr Ali Alfekyall” in her broad Norn Irish brogue.
The whole room erupts in raucous laughter, no one is silent except for Ali and Triage. She has turned a dark shade of crimson and Ali hangs his head as he crosses the room. He's in the far corner, and so has a fair way to go to get away from his new found infamy. Everyone is still laughing and my belly hurts with every chuckle. I try to control it, but the laughter around me is so pure and unbridled and mixed with the wheezing and uncontrollable coughing from the chimneys opposite me, I can’t hold it back. Tears of joy run down my right cheek and tears of pain take the left. Gradually the room settled down and returned to some semblance of silence again, albeit with some brief outbreaks of sniggering that showed some local spread but not a repeat of the outbreak that there was initially.
I find it very difficult to sleep upright at the best of times, so this new trendy room didn't suit me well at all. I was also still having a nasty pain in my belly which I had mentioned to Triage at the beginning of the night hoping she might have some complimentary ibuprofen in a drawer somewhere. She asked a lot of questions about the pain - and that was only some of the intimate things we discussed - but none of it led to her actually looking for any analgesia. Sleeping whilst in pain and vertical- not a great combination. However - when in Rome and all that- I gave it my best shot. By 6:30 AM I had finally dozed off only to be woken by Triage at 6:45 AM who wanted to ask me some more intimate questions. She looked at me a little strangely and I realised there was an imprint of my left hand and wedding ring on my left cheek and my beard was a little matted from 15 minutes of deep sleep drool. I asked her if she had found anything for pain so I could try to sleep. By the look on her face, she had forgotten about the pain killers and she quickly went off to find some. By 8:30, and having had no more sleep, I found myself needing a wee trip to the loo - I was definitely getting back into the Norn Irish - but whilst still midstream, through the heavy bathroom door I heard Triage’s dulcet tone saying loudly “Nerpna Fnawtad” then a pause then again “Nerpna Fnawtad”. It was barely recognizable but it elicited the correct response from my sphincter and I leapt for the door shouting "Bingo!". As suspected Triage had been calling my name. I directed a quick “Thank you” to the big guy upstairs that I hadn’t missed my musical chair. She took me back and introduced me to another lady called Judy Doctor. Judy asked me more about my belly ache and even wanted to prod and poke it a bit. She seemed concerned when I nearly became the first Norn Irish-Canadian to enter orbit.
Then she informed me that my blood test results entitled me to an upgrade....a bed upstairs.....but not with the big guy (another thanks) and also not just yet. I did think she said that I’d be able to see the Sturgeon up there, but I think that was just her bigging-up the view(I’m beginning to think they know I’m writing a review) - and I doubt that Sturgeon are native to Belfast Lough. So first I was moved to another shared room. This one had big maroon leatherette recliner chairs in it. They lose another star from me though because the chair assigned to me seems to be the only one of the eight available that doesn't actually recline. It does have some actual padding on the seat and a back to it that reaches higher than my waist and so I start the process of matting my beard again. After a couple of hours of fitful sleep, a nice man comes to wheel me up to the penthouse suite. Just as he wheels me away, my family arrive having been elsewhere, reviewing more conventional accommodation. The Bell Boy tries to lose them, but they catch me up and I tell them a little of my night's experience.
Word has definitely spread that I’m writing a review because the bell boy wants to show me the intermediate room before we get to my own suite. Clearly they are trying to be cutting edge here because this room has a bed unlike any other I’ve ever seen. He seems keen that I try it for size and I oblige. There’s no mattress and the plastic box spring has a shallow v on a very narrow frame with a recyclable paper sheet- how very green! The headboard is the most striking feature however. It is a huge yellow Donut and as I lie on my back, nestled in the V , the bell boy who brought me up here, goes behind a glass screen and his colleague takes me through a series of breathing exercises as the bed slides into the Donut and out again. The Donut spins menacingly and makes a lot of noise. I make a mental note for the review- unconventional Simpson-esque spa experience - possibly cured of donut addiction but claustrophobia a little worse.
They seem to be sensitive enough to realize I don’t like this room very much and I’m quickly on the move again. This time the bell boy wheels me to floor 6B. There is more shared accommodation here, but with traditional horizontal sleeping arrangements. I’m wheeled straight past these though and into a private room. My family can’t join me until I’ve run through some more intimate questions from room service. Nice blue uniform for the room service ladies but she mentions me seeing the Sturgeon again and I look disdainfully at the window, and back at her.
“Not going to be seeing much out there”I tell Hester (for that is her name) which I assume is Norn Irish for Esther. The look she gives me makes me think she can’t understand my mid-Atlantic accent but is trying to be polite. She says that before I see the Sturgeon, Judy has recommended something. I think this has been part of the plan all along because, what seems like weeks ago, but was in reality last night, Triage fitted me with this nifty device which she said was for the pain relief which never came.
Judy had obviously recognized that I needed something and had passed the message on to Hester in room service. But it must be the really good stuff, if Judy and Hester are expecting me to be seeing large fish from the sixth floor overlooking a hotel courtyard. However when it arrives, the label says it's Paracetamol. This is one I'm familiar with. In fact I know how to say it in three languages - English, Canadian English and Italian (Paracetamol, Acetominophen and Paracetamolo - I kid you not). I'm pretty confident about two things : one - it's going to do diddly for the amount of pain I am experiencing, and two - no hallucinogenic fish are going to be appearing at the end of my bed.
When my family left to return to the purpose of their vacation, I tried to sleep knowing that at last I am horizontal but am also attached to intravenous paracetamolo. Sleep eludes me and instead I decide that at least I can take some more traditional vacation photographs. My wife tells me I never take enough photographs. The hot dog legs challenge is one internet challenge I haven't fully embraced to this point and as I consider that, I begin to wonder if the tide pod challenge might be related to my belly pain in some way. Regardless, the picture doesn't quite turn out how I hoped.
I'm telling myself that the problem is that the background view is not as pretty, and not that my hot dogs look like they were rolled in honey and then used to brush a horse. You can make your own assumptions but comments about my feet will not be well received.
Shortly after the pain killers (can they be called that if the pain gets away with only minor injuries ?) come the antibiotics, but I still haven't seen any sturgeon. To my surprise though, a much dryer and less-scaly-than-I-was-expecting gentleman does show up and introduces himself as Mr Jones, one of the Colorectal Sturgeons. He tells me the donut revealed that I have a nasty case of Diverticulitis and that I will get to stay at the Royal Victoria for a few more days. I tell him that as long as I can keep the horizontal bed, he's got himself a deal. Well, this certainly wasn't how I expected my vacation to go, but little did I know it was just the beginning of my journey from doctor to patient.
STILL TO COME
Tuscan concussion
Cornish Pasty
Menarche at 45
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