bza1980
Family · September 20254/10
I’m not a wealthy man, so I don’t travel with my wife and daughter expecting five-star luxury. We’ve stayed in all sorts of hotels, motels, and B&Bs. But the H·TOP Royal Star? Easily the worst of them...I’m not a wealthy man, so I don’t travel with my wife and daughter expecting five-star luxury. We’ve stayed in all sorts of hotels, motels, and B&Bs. But the H·TOP Royal Star? Easily the worst of them all. If this is “Royal,” then I dread to think what the budget option looks like.
First red flag: no real YouTube review videos of the place. Now I know why. Nobody survived long enough to upload one.
We booked with Jet2 Holidays (our third time with them, shame on us), and once again their “support” was about as useful as a chocolate teapot. Our flight left at 5:55 a.m., meaning a delightful 2:00 a.m. wake-up call. Who’s hungry for breakfast at that hour? Not us. We grabbed some sleep on the plane, landed in Girona, and then got slapped with Problem No. 1: the car rental desk. Apparently, wealthy people don’t just rent cars — they need a full life story told at the counter — so we stood in line for over an hour before finally getting keys.
We rolled up at the hotel just after noon, checked in, and were told: “Your room will be ready at 2:00.” Fine. Off to the beach, which was actually the best part of the day. At 1:00, starving, we dashed back for lunch — only to be told, “No lunch, just dinner.” So, we’d been awake since 2:00 a.m., had eaten nothing but airplane air, and now had to wait until dinner. Brilliant start.
Next, the lifts. Two tiny lifts for the whole hotel, each with space for about five humans (or three humans and one suitcase). We queued 20 minutes just to avoid carrying three 20kg suitcases plus cabin bags up five flights of stairs. At the hotel entrance, we’d already noticed a crowd of smokers puffing away, because that’s the only designated smoking area. Nothing says “holiday in paradise” like dragging your luggage through a fog of Marlboro.
Finally, the room. First attempt: key card doesn’t work. Back down five floors. Second attempt: success! Except… only two beds, even though I’d booked for three. Back down again, this time with another unlucky guest whose key also failed. Eventually, they wheeled in a third bed. By then, I’d done enough stair runs to qualify for the Barcelona marathon. Oh, and the room was so small that only one suitcase could be opened at a time. Cozy, if you like that sort of thing.
But the real gem? The bedding. It stank of human sweat, especially the pillows. Nothing says “sweet dreams” like wondering whose head last fermented on your pillow.
Dinner? A comedy show. Tomatoes as green as Granny Smith apples, served at both dinner and breakfast. In Spain! Tiny glasses for wine, tap water that tasted like pool chlorine, and chips that somehow managed to be cold at the exact moment the restaurant opened. Poached eggs? Forget it. Flavour? Forget it. The salads looked okay, but let’s be honest — nobody books a Spanish holiday to eat cold lettuce.
And just when we thought it couldn’t get worse… the last two nights turned into a full-blown youth hostel. Several hundred teenagers arrived for a nearby sports competition. Picture this: doors slamming, shouting, running in corridors at 2 a.m. Forget sleeping — it was like trying to nap in the middle of a school playground at break time. Romantic holiday with my wife? More like supervising a school trip we didn’t sign up for.
To sum it up: Royal Star? More like Faded Lightbulb. Between the sweaty pillows, green tomatoes, and teenage riot nights, this place deserves a medal — for teaching me never to book here again.Show More
