Garda House

Ah, the sweet sting of dashed hopes. This place, a beacon of mediocrity nestled oh-so-conveniently in the heart of town, promised much but delivered the bare minimum (and by minimum, we mean grime). The towels, bless their threadbare souls, wouldn't dry a cat's paw. Dust bunnies frolicked freely, and the décor screamed "thrift store chic" (emphasis on cheap). A symphony of dysfunction awaited in the bathroom: the washing machine, a monument to futility, the sink spewing only cold indifference. A shower with the auditory charm of a jet engine and a lingering scent of sewage added to the ambiance. The cupboards, a treasure trove of forgotten detritus, held tea and coffee so stale they might be considered historical artifacts. All in all, a stellar choice for those seeking a taste of neglect and a complete disregard for the concept of hospitality.