A few years ago, we went on a 3-generation family trip to Cornwall. The younger lot, i.e. me, DH and DSF, went on what was billed to us as 'a little walk' from where we were staying in Boscastle along the coast to Tintagel. It was totally missold, and by the time we had dragged our sweating, sunburnt and dehydrated carcases to within eyeshot of said Arthurian ruins, we were gagging for some rest and sustenance.
Lo, on the horizon we beheld civilisation in the form of a red brick hotel calling itself Camelot. Slightly dissonant, but fat, thirsty beggars cannot be choosers. So we heaved ourselves towards this oasis and opened the doors.
It was rather bereft of people, but not of paintings or objets d'art. The place was practically covered in great big abstract paintings which, upon closer inspection, were also strewn with glitter stickers. They were like something out of a 4 year old's fevered unicorn dream. I must admit I emitted a mild snigger or two, but I was so parched I continued the search for the bar. It was several rooms away, past the obligatory round table.
We sat. We found what we thought was a menu on the table but it turned out to actually be a puff piece asking whether a certain painter was the greatest artist in Britain. So we totter over to the actual bar and find a rather nice but nervous looking Eastern European woman serving. We asked for cream tea (because Cornwall), but were informed they had stopped serving food. So we just got drinks and crisps.
Off we toddle back to our seats. We peruse the puff piece and snigger a bit. Mild sunstroke is setting in at this point, as is lightheadedness from hunger and thirst. I may have unleashed my inner art critic a little too loudly, because suddenly, who should arrive but that certain painter, who stomps in, shoots us the filthiest look I have ever seen, unhooks the painting I had critiqued from the wall (complete with glittery Spider-Man sticker) and flounces off with it. We giggle a lot but are now also a tad uncomfortable.
Then, a man comes towards us, swathed in a light suit and suave smile. He crouches down at the table and tells us he's the manager. We make very small talk and then ask why he didn't do cream teas. He gives us a look up and down and says, 'It's probably for the best that we don't, isn't it?'. I blink. It's all starting to feel a bit Royston Vasey.
He then asks us, completely out of the blue, whether we want to enter the Light Box. We all look at each other and then, all at once, decline as politely as we can. He stands up, shoots us yet another filthy look, and leaves, muttering something undeniably insulting if inaudible. I worry he's going to come back with an axe.
We take our pots back to the nice lady at the bar. I lean over and ask her if she's happy here. She turns the most doleful eyes on me I've ever seen and intones, 'I wish I'd googled it first.'
We unanimously and somewhat hysterically decide we'd rather not end up in tonight's stew and skidaddle. Halfway down the drive, we look at each other and wonder whether we should have rescued nice bar lady, too. We feel slightly guilty but also glad to be alive and free and not chopped into little bits in the Light Box.
We did google it later. Turns out they're some kind of Russian-funded Scientologists. We still count ourselves lucky we're all alive.