"I returned to the Limak Lara this January because last year it was lovely and because memory is a liar that speaks confidently. This time the price was around a third higher. I assumed this meant progress. Growth. A better version of the thing I already liked. What I actually bought was a lesson in how to quietly drain joy from a guest without ever quite admitting that is what you are doing.
Let’s be clear at the outset. This hotel is held together by its staff. They are exceptional. Warm, funny, professional, and capable of remembering returning guests while working within what increasingly felt like a cost-saving exercise. Many recognised me. I recognised them. There was a shared look. You know the one. The look people exchange on sinking ships while the orchestra keeps playing.
The building itself remains beautiful. Vast public spaces. Grand entrances. Big rooms. Lovely bathrooms. The shower still involves a step down that feels like it should come with light mountaineering advice. There are no slip mats, so every morning began with me whispering “not today” to the tiles. This year there were bathrobes already in the bathroom, which last year required a special request. A small win. I clung to it.
The default TV channel, and the screens dotted around the hotel, play a looping promotional video of an achingly white family gliding through empty Limak hotels, laughing effortlessly and having the time of their lives. I watched it more than once and thought, I want that holiday. I did not appear to be on it.
Now. The vibe.
Occupancy was low, and the effect was that anything suggesting life after sunset was quietly scaled back. The buffet shrank. The Oasis Bar, previously the one place where evening entertainment reliably happened, was shut for days at a time because heating it costs money. Fair enough. Capitalism wins again. This left two evening options. The Lobby Bar or the Patisserie.
The Patisserie featured a DJ with a playlist of twelve 80s songs and absolute faith in them. Same songs. Same order. Every night. I gave him one evening. By the fourth run-through it began to feel genuinely disorienting. I left mid-track and did not return. To this day, synthesisers make me tense.
From then on, most evenings were spent in the Lobby Bar, drinking quietly and watching footballers hydrate.
Ah yes. The footballers.
Last year there were a few. This year they were everywhere. Turkish teams. Azerbaijani teams. German teams. They filled the buffet, the bars, and even the lifts. Ordinary holidaymakers were outnumbered two or three to one, turning meals into a tactical exercise. I learned to approach the buffet cautiously, like a nervous meerkat. It was difficult to see how a luxury five-star experience could comfortably coexist with what felt like a full-scale football training camp.
Then, on Sunday, a full week into the stay, the Oasis Bar reopened. With live music. A development so unexpected it briefly felt like a clerical error.
I have seen the performer before. He looks like a man accustomed to playing to half-interested adults while children run about, which was fortunate because that is exactly what he was given. The singer, who has the air of someone who might install boilers during the day, was joined by a woman who may have been his wife. Possibly his mother. It was hard to tell. The lighting was not generous, but she gave off strong “can fit you a new radiator” energy.
Despite the picture I am painting, I felt grateful. After days of nothing, even this modest offering felt like civilisation returning.
Several children were rollerskating across the polished marble floor, which felt less like entertainment and more like the sort of situation that produces laminated incident reports. As the week progressed, the escalation was swift. Scooters appeared in the hotel shop. The lounge bar briefly became a racetrack.
The Oasis Bar remained open for the rest of the week, presumably because occupancy increased, although this coincided with the arrival of yet more coaches full of footballers. The second week, if you will forgive the pun, kicked off reasonably well. The Animation team, barely sighted in week one and previously discussed in abstract terms only, suddenly materialised. There was darts. There was boccia on the beach. Morale flickered.
Then Thursday arrived with a thunderstorm that did not abate, cancelling all outdoor activity and neatly exposing a core issue. In winter, when it rains at the Limak Lara, there is very little to do indoors beyond eating, drinking, or quietly reassessing your life choices.
Now we must talk about the buffet.
There is a Vegan Corner. Or rather, there was, briefly, like a mirage. It vanished around day two. Not that it mattered much, as it consisted mainly of boiled carrots and the same lentil soup available elsewhere. I appreciate the acknowledgement that vegetarians exist. I question the execution.
Every dish is labelled in Turkish, English, and German, complete with calorie information. All they need is a small “V”. Instead, you gamble. A dish called “Vegetable Something” will often contain chicken, beef, or some unidentified protein lurking quietly within. I trusted nothing. Especially not vegetables. Especially not anything described as Mediterranean.
To be fair, halfway through the second week, a Paneer Curry appeared among the confusion. It was labelled “Indian Cheese Curry”, which felt both vague and faintly apologetic, but I recognised it immediately. After two weeks of culinary guesswork, it was the best thing I ate on the entire holiday. I hoped it would return. It did not.
So yes. The Limak Lara is still beautiful. The staff are extraordinary. Turkey in January remains a gift. But this stay felt hollowed out. Underheated. Under-entertained. Overseen by footballers. Occasionally rescued by a paneer curry and a man who may or may not fix boilers for a living.
I paid more.
I received less.
I memorised a DJ’s playlist against my will.
Next January, I will book somewhere cheaper. At least then the disappointment will feel proportionate."
