Why a rubbish hotel can be a gift from the travel gods

Two weeks ago, I realised that I’d forgotten what a truly crap hotel felt like.

It might sound like an absurdly privileged statement but, in this job, you get the opportunity to stay in so many delightful, innovative and brilliant new hotels and resorts that it’s rare to come across a real stinker. It took a non-work trip – and my real holiday budget – to remind me what slumming it feels like. That was how I found myself at an affordable (but not shoestring) beach hotel outside of a D-list city in Italy: I don’t want to name and shame, so we’ll call it Hotel la Vita Acida (with no dolce vita in sight).

I was starting my trip with two free days to kill before my partner could join me in the Med, at which point we’d set off on a road trip. Being a sunshine addict, I’d stumped up as much as I could afford for two nights on the coast, not far from the airport, seeing it as welcome extra holiday time. The plan was to soak up the September sun, lying by the pool or at the glamorous-looking beach for the best part of two days, reading and sipping the odd Peroni. There was no need to base myself in a historic city or near a particular sight – I was merely going to chill, luxuriate and decompress.

Alas: at Hotel la Vita Acida, chilling is not on the menu. Grim faces greet you at the dated, Eighties-feel reception. There is a beach – more of a rocky promontory, really – but it’s closed, as there are some waves. Your eyes might flit to the comfy daybeds you spotted on the website: all empty, but you absolutely may not sit on them. They’re rented out to locals, a jobsworth employee explains, who “might” want to come and use them. Nobody does, but they might.

At Hotel la Vita Acida, you cannot swim in the pool, you presumptuous tourist. If you so much as approach the edge without a swimming cap, the jobsworth lifeguard will blow his whistle. Nobody has a swimming hat, this not being the 1920s or the Olympics, so nobody swims. Instead, a trickle of guests sits mutely around the roped-off swimming pool, listening to garbage trucks grinding down the main road, which is of course metres away.

At Hotel la Vita Acida, both the restaurant and the bar are closed. Sure, it’s off-season, but no one mentioned the roped-off atmosphere when you booked. With attitudes like this, you come to actively resent spending money there, anyway. Wallowing in nothing but disappointment, you’re left to sadly wander the ghost hotel, with no nearby shops, restaurants or beach clubs to escape to.

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After 24 hours, I discovered that the hotel did have one perk: a €10 shuttle to the nearest town. “Yes! Please God, anywhere!” I blurted out to blank-faced reception staff. Better to kill time wandering a high street than the hotel from hell, I reasoned. Paying the toll, I hitched a ride to Giovinazzo, a small Italian coastal town I’d never heard of. It was practically empty, but equipped with the essentials: a small, fountain-crowned piazza, a wave-splashed seafront and a handful of seaside trattorias.

And what a result: this wasn’t just a time-kill, but a treat. The weather having succeeded where my hotel had not, it ended up being one of my favourite days out in Europe ever. With no expectations to fall short of, the little port delighted. I pottered around between pavement cafes with peeling signs and rocket-fuel espressos, slipping out of balmy sun into independent shops toting sundresses and postcards, and dangling my legs over a sea-sprayed harbour.

Stacked with Italians’ holiday apartments, now deserted for the autumn, Giovinazzo had an eerie, time-trapped quality that was fun to photograph. Far from eager to return to base, I took my time admiring candy-striped canopies and foliage-smothered facades, Art Deco tiled curves and coral-painted blocks. I spent an indulgent hour perusing its enormous EuroSpar supermarket, gazing at aisles of pickled delicacies and European beauty products, as compelled as a gallery-goer at the Uffizi. Time was not of the essence: I lingered at its petite station, examining the onward routes; I greeted local stray cats.

The majority of my emergency day out, I decided, would be killed by a long lunch; the sort of long lunch that only glamorous European ladies can pull off, accompanied by several wine refills and a good book. Far from having to hunt out the right spot, the arrow-shape of the town’s harbour pointed right at my lunchtime saviour, seemingly the one ritzy joint in town, with miraculously affordable but Michelin-dainty plates, all celebrating the flavours of the region.

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Here, I whiled away the whole mid-to-late afternoon, dallying over starter choices, nibbling fresh ravioli with locally snared prawns and salty anchovies with creamy sauces. The house white, unsurprisingly at this point, was nectar from heaven.

The little town that could was not on my Italy itinerary at all; it wasn’t along my intended road-trip route. I’d never have stumbled upon it at all were it not for the sub-par experience at my hotel, meaning I’d have missed a real highlight of my holiday. As I made one last loop of the waterfront before sunset, I shrugged off the urge to decimate my rubbish hotel with a scathing TripAdvisor review, thanked it for its proximity to the town, and called it even.