THE GREAT P&O CRUISE DIARY
Part One: The Mystery of the Missing Suite
I’m sure many of my regular readers will know that, over the past 35 years, I have spent rather a lot of time on cruise ships.
From the Baltic to Bora Bora, I’ve travelled as both crew and passenger and have been fortunate enough to work aboard some of the finest ships in the world.
So I’m not exactly new to this.
Our go-to cruise line has generally been Saga. Their smaller, boutique-style ships, all-inclusive service, fine dining and superb customer care are a real treat — albeit a rather expensive one.
Then there’s Cunard.
My association with Cunard goes back some 35 years, when I worked as an entertainer aboard the wonderful Vistafjord. I later worked aboard QE2 and Cunard Countess, among others, and in more recent years we’ve travelled aboard Queen Mary 2 and our particular favourite, Queen Victoria.
We’ve even occasionally splashed out and travelled Grills Class.
Then there was MSC.
We had such a bad experience with MSC that we actually went back for a second cruise, just to make sure the first one wasn’t some sort of freak occurrence.
It wasn’t.
So, having previously enjoyed a couple of cruises aboard P&O’s Britannia, we thought: “Why not grab a quick seven-day Greek cruise?”
It was departing from Malta, one of our favourite places, and as this was intended as a surprise birthday cruise for Sarah, it sounded perfect.
What could possibly go wrong?
Well, pull up a chair.
The booking itself was remarkably straightforward. A telephone call with a very helpful P&O representative — P&O, incidentally, being part of Carnival Corporation, the same group as Cunard — and shortly afterwards the automated booking confirmation arrived.
Lovely.
Then came the opportunity to bid for an upgrade to a bigger cabin.
Not just a bigger cabin, either.
A suite!
I put in what I thought was a rather cheeky bid and, surprise surprise, it was accepted.
Another £650 disappeared from my bank account and our new boarding passes arrived showing our upgraded cabin.
Excellent.
We booked some speciality restaurants and started looking forward to the trip.
Then, about two days before departure, the wheels started coming off the P&O charabanc.
We had received no flight information.
Nothing.
So I called P&O.
After waiting TWO HOURS, I discovered the office was now closed.
But not to worry! I was assured we would receive a call back.
Twenty-four hours later…
Nothing.
No call.
No information.
No clue who we were flying with.
Meanwhile Sarah downloaded our luggage labels, only to discover that our suitcases appeared to be going to a completely different cabin from the one printed on our boarding passes.
Interesting.
Another call to P&O.
Another one hour and 40 minutes of my life spent listening to hold music.
Eventually I spoke to somebody who told me there was nobody available who could advise me.
Wonderful.
I explained that we would be leaving home at 5am and arriving at the airport at around 8.30am.
Surely somebody would call?
Fast-forward to 8.30am on departure day.
Guess what?
No phone call.
So there I was at the airport, spending ANOTHER hour on hold, right up until we were virtually due to take off.
By this point I had probably spent enough time listening to P&O’s telephone system to qualify as a member of staff.
Thankfully, when we landed in Malta, everything suddenly worked beautifully.
Straight onto the coach, swiftly transferred to the port and before long our boarding passes were stamped.
“Welcome aboard!”
Fantastic.
There was only one slight problem.
Nobody seemed particularly sure where we should go.
Still, we eventually found our cabin.
Our upgraded cabin.
The cabin printed on our boarding passes.
The cabin we’d paid the extra £650 for.
And…
THE DOOR WAS LOCKED.
Not “your key isn’t working” locked.
Not “technical problem” locked.
No.
Our cabin had apparently been given to somebody else.
Another couple were enjoying our upgrade.
Perhaps they could send us a postcard.
So back down to Reception we went.
Not to worry, we were told. We had another cabin.
And apparently it was “very similar”.
Now, “very similar” is a wonderfully flexible expression.
Buckingham Palace and my garden shed are both buildings. Technically, therefore, they are “very similar”.
We arrived at our replacement cabin and discovered what appeared to be one of the smallest cabins ever created by mankind.
Yes, it had a little balcony.
But once the bed had been squeezed inside there was just about enough room left for the world’s smallest fridge and, provided nobody inhaled too deeply, two human beings.
So, naturally, I called Southampton.
Again.
Another hour on the telephone.
I was told to go back to Reception and demand the cabin we’d been allocated and paid for.
Excellent.
Back to Reception.
Another half-hour.
“Please return to your cabin, sir. We will call you.”
So we returned to our cupboard — sorry, cabin — and waited.
And waited.
And waited.
No call.
At around 9pm we rang Reception.
This time I spoke to someone who seemed genuinely baffled as to why I might be slightly disappointed at paying £650 for an upgrade, receiving boarding passes for it, arriving at the cabin to discover someone else was living in it, and then being put somewhere entirely different.
The conversation ended when they put the phone down on me.
Customer service at its finest.
We called again and were eventually given an envelope inviting us to meet the Reception Manager.
To be fair, he was extremely polite and apologetic.
He explained that the ship was completely full.
This was slightly confusing because someone from the hotel department had suggested it was around 70% full, but by this stage I had given up trying to understand the finer details.
We showed him the documentation.
We showed him the boarding passes.
We showed him proof that the additional £650 had left my account.
He apologised and said that if something became available, he would get back to us.
So here we are.
Partially unpacked because there aren’t enough hangers, sitting in the cabin we didn’t book, wondering whether the people in our actual cabin are enjoying themselves.
Oh, and I nearly forgot my favourite bit.
Every time we went to Reception, we seemed to be offered a complimentary bottle of wine.
A very kind gesture.
Except we have already paid for the full onboard drinks package.
So offering us a free bottle of wine is rather like apologising to someone at an all-you-can-eat buffet by giving them a complimentary sausage.
So, let’s recap Day One.
We booked the cruise.
We paid for the cruise.
We paid another £650 for an upgrade.
We received confirmation of the upgrade.
We received boarding passes for the upgraded cabin.
We didn’t receive our flight information.
We spent hours on the telephone trying to get it.
We eventually arrived aboard and discovered somebody else had been allocated the cabin printed on our boarding passes.
We were given a cabin we didn’t want, near a noisy pool bar.
We then spent around six hours waiting, phoning, visiting Reception and very politely asking if we could perhaps have the accommodation WE HAD ACTUALLY PAID FOR.
Southampton says it’s the ship.
The ship says it’s Southampton.
And presumably our missing suite is somewhere in the middle of the Mediterranean having a thoroughly lovely time without us.
Meanwhile, Sarah’s surprise birthday cruise isn’t exactly going according to plan.
But never mind.
It’s only Day One.
There are six days left.
What could possibly go wrong?
Will there be a Part Two?
At this rate, there could be a box set.
Will we ever cruise with P&O again?
Erm…
No.