Freelance Writer and mother of four children, which keeps me on the verge of insanity. I love choco...
Freelance Writer and mother of four children, which keeps me on the verge of insanity. I love chocolate and my partner and find Olympic rower Matthew Pinsent incredibly sexy
Member since:21.06.2000
Reviews:38
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NB This opinion has been moved across from the Wales General category, since this review is not representative of Wales as a whole, nor Haven Holdiay Centres. Wales is a beautiful country and the people are extremely friendly and it is unfortunate that we had an unpleasant experience at this particular Haven centre. ***************************************************
If you can picture a cemetery on a good day i.e. sun shining, a few people milling around looking miserable and perhaps the very distant sound of excited, childish screams from a local swimming pool, then you’ll have a fairly accurate image of the Hafan Y Mor Holiday Park, North Wales in October.
When we decided to book an Autumn break at a Haven Park, upon the recommendation of a few misguided people, we spent some time scouring the brochure for a site that was situated in a picturesque part of the country, together with plenty of entertainment for teenagers.
In the promotional leaflet, an illustrated map of the UK was scattered with dots in varying colours, which indicated how lively the parks were and where they were situated. Using this coding as a reliable reference, which ranged from red for “all action” to green for “relaxing”, we opted for “all action”, to ensure that my teenage daughter and son had plenty of activities with which to occupy themselves. This would free up my partner and I, accompanied by our eleven-month-old daughter, to explore the surrounding countryside at our leisure.
The facilities and clubs available for babies wasn’t really a consideration, since something as simple as a paper bag could keep our baby daughter amused for hours.
My partner and I also love mountainous scenery, so with this and the entertainment aspect in mind, we duly booked a Gold 8 three-bedroomed caravan at the Hafan Y Mor park, between Criccieth and Pwllheli in North Wales, which allegedly combined all of the required elements.
We discovered that the park was, indeed, set within sight of the Snowdonian mountains and Tremadog Bay, but in a location so remote that the basic facilities available in the surrounding “towns” made us hope that we didn’t befall some life-threatening accident, or come down with a plague-like illness.
The local hospital, which you would miss if you happened to blink whilst driving past, appeared as though it could cater only for minor flesh wounds, or scratches, to be more exact. If you required anything more than a couple of paracetamol, I presume that you would need to be airlifted to the nearest major hospital.
At every bend on every road, which must have been designed by someone with a serious alcohol problem, the words, “Slow” and the Welsh version, “Araf” were painted in bold, white letters. Every road sign has the Welsh interpretation printed above the English information, with hundreds of consonants joined together to form words like, “Ffyddlywyddlysmelllydogg”. I reckon it’s all part of some ploy to curb speeding.
We passed one of the locals standing precariously on the edge of the pavement, as we shot past at some law-breaking speed. The woman in question, who was rather wide of girth, with long, unkempt hair and a number of absent teeth, glared at us as though we had just landed in a space ship. “If she had a club, she’d be almost Neanderthal”, commented my ever-complimentary partner, who considers everyone who comes from a region outside Tetbury as weird, in one way or another. Oh, unless they support Manchester United football team, that is.
Mind you, 80% of the inhabitants of Tetbury whom I have met, have some deep psychological or antisocial behavioural problem, so it’s understandable that they would think it was everyone else who was peculiar.
Upon arrival at what appeared, at first glance, to be a sprawling caravan site, we checked in at reception before negotiating the one-way road system around the site. We circumnavigated the park twice before locating our three-bedroomed, six-berth caravan, which had been painted green, to blend in with the grass, I presume.
By the time we arrived at our exclusive tin box, we had acquired an interesting assortment of fellow campers attached to our bumper, who must have assumed that the road was exclusively for pedestrians. It would have made more sense to implement a no-motor-vehicle law on the site other than to park and unload at your accommodation, but with obvious concessions for disabled people, because nothing was within unreasonable walking distance.
Our accommodation was perfectly situated on the outskirts of one section of the park, which meant we weren’t surrounded by hundreds of prying eyes from neighbouring caravans. However, we were visible through a couple of windows and, after spotting a teenage lad steaming up the window of his abode, as he drooled lustfully through the glass at my 14 year old daughter, we decided to keep the curtains permanently shut.Our caravan was well equipped, with a hob, oven and grill, microwave, fridge, freezer toaster and TV, although a washing machine would have made it complete. Instead, we had the option of swilling out our smalls in the kitchen sink or traipsing to the other side of the park to use the one and only launderette, which had a limited number of washers and dryers.
The bedrooms, or large cupboards, comprised of one double-bedded room and two rooms containing two single beds each. My daughter had the privilege of having a cot rail fitted to the other bed in her room, to accommodate our energetic 11 month old. Unfortunately, there was not enough room in the caravan to erect a travel cot. In fact, there wasn’t enough room to erect anything. So much for honeymooners.
Now anyone wider than 18” would encounter a serious problem squeezing through the narrow bedroom doorways. If you imagine trying to fit a large, round ball into a small, rectangular box, you will have a fairly accurate picture. Additionally, it was impossible to have more than one door open at any one time because of the close proximity of the rooms, which would either cause a collision or knock out a passer-by.
There was, however, excellent utilisation of the limited space, with cupboards and units ingeniously fitted around and above the beds, but very little room in which to manoeuvre bodies, arms and legs.
As I unpacked, cracking my bony parts on sharp corners at regular intervals, I could hear resounding thuds and crashes from the nearby rooms, followed by a string of expletives from the children.
After applying soothing balm to our bruises, we perused the advertising leaflets that were provided before venturing out to explore more exciting domain. What we discovered, however, was that many of the advertised activities were restricted to the summer season, meaning that the “all action” centres should have been re-classified as “relaxing” or, more appropriately, “dead”.
The “Useful Information” page included a section on Bed Linen, stating, “Please do not remove these from your holiday home for any reason, especially sunbathing and fancy dress.” Sunbathing? Fancy dress! I suppose that the lack of entertainment may cause some visitors to organise their own social extravaganza of the Toga or Beach Party nature.
Bearing in mind that we arrived at the site at around 6pm, even the activities and facilities that were allegedly still available in October, appeared to have shut up shop for the night, including the swimming pool and anything that could be regarded as a decent eating venue.
In ravenous desperation, we homed towards a bright light that beckoned us into the world’s smallest Harry Ramsden’s, a shabby little eatery containing approximately four tables. We opted for takeaway Fish ‘n’ Chips in a box, necessitating large withdrawals from the bank.
The young lad who served my partner gushed, “Great here innit?” My partner, not being the world’s most tactful of souls, responded with one of his incredulous, “Are you on day release from the local Sanatorium?” type of looks, followed by an, “If you say so, mate”, before ushering us out into the bitter, night air of this (dis)pleasure centre.
The first night was spent trying to regulate the dual sauna/freezer heating system. The control switch was in our bedroom, but had the effect of heating our room to 200 degrees Fahrenheit, whilst maintaining subzero temperatures in the rest of the caravan.
The following morning’s shower came, therefore, as no surprise. The heating control was numbered from 1 to 10, with the assumption that level 1 would be cold and level 10 would be scalding. However, after setting the control to level 5, to what I thought would be pleasantly warm, I was immediately shrouded in a steam fog, with water that would induce a third-degree burn gushing from the showerhead. Thankfully, I had taken the precaution of not stepping into the cubicle until I had achieved the perfect water temperature.
In actual fact, level 1 was hot, level 5 was conducive to losing several layers of skin and level 10 was burn to death.
My son, who was the last one to use the shower and who is obsessed by numbers and statistics, emerged from the shower booth enquiring, “What number did you have the shower on?” “Number three”, I said, continuing to read my magazine. “I had it on number six”, boasted my asbestos-skinned son. “Number six?” I replied in amazement, as I looked up, half-expecting to be addressing a large blister.
The morning light afforded us the opportunity of fully appreciating this adventure playground (for the deceased).
After a full-scale, consoling fried breakfast, we decided to check out the delights of the swimming pool, complete with domebuster tubes for the thrill seekers.
I had no choice but to join in the fun and expose my voluptuous proportions to the world, since the viewing gallery for non-swimming spectators, was at the top of a long flight of steps. This would be difficult enough for a couple with a pushchair, but for a lone parent and child or a wheelchair bound person, it would be practically impossible. There were no lifts or vehicle-friendly ramps, just thirty or so “get-lost-if-you’re-under-three-or-disabled” concrete steps.
Maybe this was what the brochure meant by “all action”.
The small changing area housed an even smaller number of miniscule changing cubicles, whose dimensions would accommodate one small skeleton. Certainly not an ample-figured mother and child. Unfortunately, there was only one pull-down baby-changing table attached to the wall at end of the toilet area and a queue of frustrated mothers, with equally aggravated babies.
When I sat on the seat in the changing cubicle, my chest touched the door. As I attempted to support an irritable baby with one hand and change into my costume with the other, the contents of my bag regularly spilled onto the floor and rolled underneath neighbouring cubicles. Similarly, miscellaneous bottles of shampoo, shower gel, deodorant and the occasional tampon travelled into my cubicle, before disembodied hands from the adjacent sardine tins would swiftly retrieve their personal artefacts.
After a struggle that was akin to performing a Houdini escape act, which included cramming all of our belongings into a locker, courtesy a non-refundable charge, imagine my delight at discovering that the baby pool was closed. There was no explanation for this, no sign explaining that someone had emptied their bowels in the pool and that it was being cleaned as a result, just a rope cordoning off the area like a crime scene.
After securing a damp, plastic seat overlooking the pool, I had enormous fun watching other people, especially those whose quivering, cellulitey bits that made me feel so much better about my own body.
Lunch was purchased at the centre’s Everydays’ (In)convenience store and consisted of a semi-fresh loaf, a few slices of rubbery cheese and pre-packed, sliced rat. I think it was ham actually, but you wouldn’t be able to tell the difference. As we chewed our way through the culinary delights of the on-site supermarket, we promised ourselves a drive out into the neighbouring towns in search of a slap-up evening meal later.
That afternoon, we explored all the other possibilities for non-stop entertainment.
Our options included the Boardwalk Games’ and Music Bar, an Amusement Arcade and Go-Kart racing.
The Boardwalk was like a working men’s social club; a huge, smoky room, containing a central bar, a large projector screen broadcasting the latest football match, a number of slot machines and racing car simulators, a one-lane ten-pin bowling alley and a compact eating area called Café Hafan, which served large cups of expensive, watery coffee.
A short walk across a bridge took us to the Go-Kart area, which would have cost us £4 for the privilege of a short drive around a track that was marginally larger than a Scalextric Set. The glum expressions on the faces of the only two children who were experiencing the delights of this uninspiring diversion made me hope that their parents hadn’t booked for the entire week.
Those expressions were indicative of a society that is raising a nation of spoilt, moronic kids, who expect to be entertained constantly, who’d rather sit mindlessly in front of computergames all day and who do not have the ability or aptitude to create their own fun. They learn only how to shoot people with virtual guns, how to be rude, aggressive and offensive and how to be ungrateful for everything - unless it has a huge price tag.
Unfortunately, they don’t learn the basics of reading and writing, social interaction and good manners, or how to survive at a tedious holiday centre.
Thankfully, however, my teenage son and daughter have been raised to appreciate the small pleasures in life, are easier to please and were simply appreciative of the fact that they had the opportunity of enjoying a break away from home.
The promise of culinary delights in the evening instilled a modicum of enthusiasm for the rest of the afternoon and until we departed in the early evening for, what we hoped would be, a fairly short drive to the nearest Harvester or similar.
Following an hour’s driving in directions east, west, north and south of Haven, over barren hills and vales and through uncommercialised towns, my partner was threatening to eat the raw eggs that were in the boot of the car.
We passed a couple of empty, intimidating restaurants - that looked more as though they would offer children as a menu item, rather than welcome them - and one Little Chef, or rather Microscopic Chef.
“I refuse to eat at a Little Chef on principle!” spouted my other half, who frequently patronises this type of establishment whilst en-route to and from business clients.
Another hour later, we were all seated in the abovementioned doll’s house being served by the female version of Psycho’s Norman Bates, sporting the same bright, piercing gaze emanating from beneath dark brown eyes. A look that communicated a message of, “I’m being overbearingly helpful and nice but I’m going to stab you repeatedly with a meat cleaver when you leave, because really I’m a serial killer with a partiality for English blood.
We arrived back at the site relatively unscathed, save a number of aching limbs and numb bums following a two hour journey along the darkest, most tortuous and bumpiest roads this side of the Atlantic.
Our final, full day in Wales was spent driving around the splendid Snowdonian scenery and making appropriate “Ooh” and “Ahh” sounds at every cascading waterfall and spectacular craggy outcrops.
This area is definitely a walker’s paradise and probably best suited to those who enjoy the feeling of the bitter wind and icy rain slapping harshly against their faces, who derive pleasure from talking to sheep and who aren’t particularly fussed about eating regularly.
For our last supper, we had no option but to sample the fayre at one of the other on-site eateries. We had a choice of two venues: The Afon Gardens’ Restaurant, which resembled a college refectory or “Happy Campers” canteen à la sitcom “Hi-de-Hi”, or The Lakeside Inn, which appeared more inviting. From the outside, at least.
We opted for the latter venue, but regretted our decision from the moment we entered the restaurant and waded through the remains of fodder carpeting the floor. It was probably one of the most unhygienic-looking places that I had ever had the privilege of visiting and I half-expected to see a colony of rats rummaging around in the debris strewn across the carpet.
We were forced to select the only remaining four-seated table. Number 13, no less. Our tabletop was glazed in an unsavoury layer of grease, with crumbs and remnants of the previous clientele’s dinner objectionably adhered to its surface.
When we requested that someone clean the table, an unenthusiastic lad with a bloodhound expression and hunched shoulders skulked across and proceeded to brush all the scraps off of the table into my lap.
Approximately one hour after we arrived, our meal was served - or rather flung at us from a distance of three feet. However, I can’t complain about the quality of the food, although the service and levels of hygiene left an enormous amount to be desired. Each time I moved an item of food on my plate, I half-expected to reveal a dead rodent nestling in the depths of my meal.
After chomping our way through Aberbell-y-ffullofSalmonella, or whatever the Welsh equivalent of crispy, coated chicken and chips was, we trudged back to our luxury tin cabin for one more night of the sauna/freezer experience.
I would like to stress that this particular centre was certainly not representative of Haven sites in general, since I know of many people who have experienced wonderful holidays at various other Haven parks across the country. I’m also certain that during the peak season, Hafan y Mor would be a trifle more lively, with more forms of riveting entertainment.
We certainly did “get away from it all” - meaning civilisation - for three days or so, but I have to say that the best part of the holiday was the splendid scenery, a break from gazing at my PC screen, no phone ringing and no bills through the post.
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I'm heading to Haven's Prestatyn site in June - hope my holiday's nothing like yours. I do know what you mean about those road signs though - they drove me mad on my last visit to Wales.
dottylotty 09.02.2004 01:00
I dont know if it was because of the time of year you went, but we went here last year in the summer and it was the best holiday we've ever had!
Your review did make me laugh however, and there were some very true points to it, lol @ the roads, and yes the caravan was compact, but then caravans are arent they? I have 2 kids and we all had a wonderful time, maybe you should try it again in the summer?
jessica23 11.04.2003 19:05
I was looking forward to going her next month,but not any more!! Could you get any more negative?
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Advantages: Excellent staff, very friendly and helpful. Good entertainment Disadvantages: Can be pricey if you like the amusements. Lots of energy needed for the hills.
Jun 17th, 2001
very helpful by (92%):
helpful by (4%):
somewhat helpful by (4%):
