No Room at the Inn

Welcome to what is rapidly evolving into my Saturday Substack. But don’t be angry with me for posting on Saturday, when it’s supposed to be Friday, because I’ve got an excellent excuse for once again being late this week.

First of all I should explain that I’ve only just got back from an exhausting and incredibly hot week of watching the tennis tournament in Eastbourne. The quality of the tennis was excellent but, somewhat surprisingly, there was more excitement off the court than on it. Let me explain. Rose (my wife) and I love tennis and the tournament at Eastbourne is one of the sporting highlights of our year. Because I’m not driving at the moment for medical reasons, I thought it would be a good idea if this year, instead of catching a train there and back each day, we should stay in Eastbourne for a few nights and then come home on Friday.

And so no sooner had we bought our tennis tickets in March, I think it was, than we began researching suitable accommodation. We soon found what looked like a nice clean place within a comfortable walking distance of Devonshire Park, which is where the tennis is held. We received a confirmatory email followed at intervals by further emails explaining that our trip to Eastbourne was looming ever closer.

Because we were in no particular hurry, we set off at about 7pm and arrived at the right address at about 9pm. Following the instructions, we opened what we believed was our front door only to be confronted by a startled middle-aged lady who claimed to be renting the flat. I then telephoned the owners in the hope of clearing up the confusion only to leave a desperate message on their ansaphone machine asking that they ring me asap. They didn’t but the startled lady rang what she understood to be the owner who confirmed that she was the rightful occupant.

By now it was 9.30pm and a dejected Rose and I set off with our suitcases to try and find somewhere to sleep. All the hotels we tried told the same story, they were full. Feeling like Mary and Joseph as they shlepped around Bethlehem, we too were becoming increasingly tired and depressed. Without a star to guide us, I wondered if we might end up spending the night on the beach.

More in desperation than anything else, Rose rang my cousin Andy, who had told us that he, too, was going to be at the Eastbourne tournament. Hallelujah and praise the Lord, he spoke to the concierge at his apartment block who told him they had had a last-minute cancellation and there was, indeed, one vacant flat. So excited was I by this news, that I gave a comparatively huge tip to the taxi driver who drove us there. Although I’m understandably biased, the apartment looked beautiful but, sadly, was only available for that one night. And so the next morning, we resumed our search and quickly found the York House Hotel, which is on the seafront and was reminiscent of the days before Benidorm when the English holidayed at the seaside.

I finally got hold of our contact at the original flat who told me that she had ceased working for the company that owned it nearly a year ago. I also got hold of Booking.com, the agents who rented the flat to us. That particular battle will doubtless be featured in a future Substack and, who knows, it might very well be resolved in a Small Claims Court.