With the BBC drama Two Weeks in August and the return of The Four Seasons, TV shows about disastrous holidays are having a moment. Guardian readers share their own tales of holidays from hell.
‘I didn’t think too much about the quiet, empty place’
In early 1969, my parents booked a holiday in Belfast for one week and a bed and breakfast in Dublin for another. When we arrived at The Elsinore Hotel in Belfast, there wasn’t another car in the parking lot and the hotel was empty except for the elderly owners. Being 12, I didn’t think much of the quiet, empty place. The owners invited us to the dining room every evening, and we enjoyed great meals. Pictures of JFK and the pope adorned the walls, and as a Catholic family, the hosts made a big fuss of us.
A few days after returning home, my dad and I watched the news as the BBC announced that a bomb had destroyed The Elsinore Hotel, the purported meeting headquarters of the IRA. My dad spilled his dinner, shouting “Good God!” Imagine a solitary car with an English number plate in a lot frequented by IRA leaders? We survived because we were a Catholic family of redheads, even though we were English. — Marcus Graham, Florida, US
‘My husband ended up walking barefoot because of his blisters’
Our honeymoon in 2008 was like a Laurel and Hardy sketch, done in silence. We weren’t speaking after my husband got so drunk at the wedding we couldn’t do the first dance. Then everything went wrong: our car broke down, we got a hire car, and at the resort they told us our accommodation was two miles out of town with no transport because of a religious feast day. We walked uphill in baking sun, a wheel fell off my suitcase, and my husband walked barefoot due to blisters. The restaurant was closed, so we had frozen pizza. My husband said we could have eaten the box and it would have tasted better. We’re still married 18 years later. — Fiona Irwin, 52, Hull, England
‘The water was red from my blood’
About 20 years ago, I went to Fiji. I can’t swim and fear deep water. But it was so hot that going in seemed sensible. My friend and I rented kayaks and stayed close to land. My friend got excited about a “reef break” and paddled farther out. The water got rough, and I lost control. I shouted, and he said “Ride the wave!” I saw him ride a wave to shore. Then a wave crashed over me, and I was underwater, no kayak, no lifejacket. I kicked and felt something solid but painful—coral. I pushed up, cutting my foot, and got my head above water. The water was red from my blood. That’s when shark fins appeared. I thought, this is it. Then something hit my back—a surfboard. A hand pulled me on board. The surfer paddled us to land. My friend mentioned the sharks, and the local laughed: “They won’t kill you, might take a nibble.” We bandaged my foot and had several beers. — Tim Halliday, 47, Madrid, Spain
‘I pictured the missile approaching the shore’
Our first day in Ka’anapali was spent snorkeling. The next morning, our phones beeped: “Emergency Alert. BALLISTIC MISSILE THREAT INBOUND TO HAWAII. SEEK IMMEDIATE SHELTER. THIS IS NOT A DRILL.” A wave of nausea hit. I asked about a bomb shelter; the barista pointed to a sign with a dancing couple. People stared at their phones, dazed. We decided against the basement ballroom. Alison fainted; I carried her to a chair. When she came to, she said, “Take me to the beach.” We watched the waves. I pictured the missile approaching, a composite of childhood nightmares. We called people but no one answered. Then a second text: “False Alarm.” Thirty-eight minutes of vacation stolen, but my souvenir was a glimpse of eternity. — Benjamin Malay, 56, Seattle, Washington, US
