I’m drinking vicariously through my dad – it’s the only way I can cope

It turns out that staying in this hotel in Cornwall during Covid is like being in my own private episode of Fawlty Towers. My friend Chloe, who came with us, said it was the worst service she had experienced anywhere in the whole world. Mind you, she usually stays at five-star boutique hotels in Bali – not a weather-beaten hotel on the Lizard peninsula with Storm Francis battering the coast.

I was surprised as it’s normally top-notch. But clearly the coronavirus pandemic has impacted the day-to-day running of the place. There is a hoover outside in the corridor, which we are encouraged to use as the cleaners can’t come into our hotel rooms until we have vacated them for at least three hours. “That’s convenient,: I think to myself. ”Get the guests doing the cleaning!"

Dining tables are scattered all over the ground floor to keep guests socially distanced, meaning we eat dinner in the hallway one night.

The hotel called me before we arrived with confusing time slots for mealtimes to restrict the number of guests eating all at once. But I simply couldn’t believe it when the only available time left for breakfast was 6.30am.

“It’s supposed to be a relaxing mini-break,” I said. “Not setting our alarm clocks at crack of dawn.” But sadly all the later breakfast slots had been snapped up.

Even the outdoor pool has a 30-minute time slot per family but it is so cold nobody wants to go out there anyway – except Lola and Liberty. It was a fun idea to celebrate my dad’s 88th birthday in Cornwall, but it makes a two-week quarantine period after a trip abroad seem appealing.

My dad has a room overlooking the pool. I FaceTime him so he can chat to us and wave from the window while sheltering from the gale-force winds.

Soon my sister Rebecca, her boyfriend, and their two children arrive: they are staying in a nearby yurt with a wood burner.

“Sorry we are late,” she says, looking windswept. “We just had to bury a ferret.” Lola and Liberty are excited to see their two nine-year-old cousins and scream with joy. “Thank god they are happy,” I think as I desperately want to sleep.

My sister had just found a local beach that you have to clamber down to by rope. Her family never stops exercising. Already this morning they have been running along the cliffs, surfing, and playing tennis. She even jogs on the spot as she talks to me – but that might be to keep warm.

Chloe returns from glass painting in the local arts and crafts centre and is off horse riding with her two sons. How do they all do it? I’m legless with exhaustion just dealing with breakfast.

I give the kids their iPads and settle down for an afternoon nap in our room. We’ll be meeting later in the lounge area for my dad’s birthday. When we congregate, I say to my dad: “Let me order you a double gin and tonic dad,” in a tense voice. Then I add: “Look, why don’t you just have an Irish coffee on the side to wake up too?” 

At the table, I’m getting all heated about having enough alcohol. “Why don’t you get a few bottles of prosecco, and two bottles of red and white wine?” I order my dad another G&T. “Just enjoy yourself – get drunk!” I cheer.

I realise I’m drinking vicariously through my dad. It’s the only way I can cope as I’m stuck on the fizzy water.

Let’s hope the service is better than the night before when we had to wait two hours for the crab to arrive. We’ve managed to book dinner early at 6.45pm for the sake of the kids, but the food hasn’t arrived by 8pm.

“Hello, sorry to bother you again” I say. “Is the kid's pasta coming soon?”

There’s been some mix up – again. They thought we wanted all the courses together, including starters, main courses, and all the kid's food.

Thirty minutes later and a lemon butter arrives for my sister’s fish. Then the waitress walks towards us with her lemon sole and it slips off the plate on to the floor. The waitress doesn’t know what to do with it so she just leaves it and turns back into the kitchen. It lies there for about 10 minutes until she comes out and quickly scoops it up, before vanishing again behind a screen.

The hotel has been closed for months due to Covid-19 and it seems they can’t cope with the change in pace. The kids are high on Cherry Coke and it’s 10pm by the time they have had their ice creams.

Chloe takes my children up with her as Liberty has fallen asleep with her head on a plate after trying to put two peas up her nose. I’m left with my dad, who has had a few too many whiskeys.

“Come on dad let’s get to bed,” I say.

He falls backwards as he holds on to his chair to get up. All the staff run over to help. I ask a waiter to help me get him upstairs but when I tell him he’s 104, the waiter thinks I mean his age, not his room number.

“Congratulations,” says the waiter in a mask. “I’ve never met anybody over 100 before.”