Pilgrimage to Hopton: A Weekend at Potters

 

Potters Resort is our family’s ancestral holy site. I have been trekking here for thirty years, while the in-laws have clocked up nearly half a century. At this point, we are less guests and more part of the furniture.

Naturally, Eldest brought her boyfriend along for his grand baptism of fire, while Youngest stayed behind to work. This left Bruno the dog delighted and Amelia distraught. One member of the family was enjoying freedom from our nonsense. The other was presumably wondering why we had abandoned her.

We kicked things off with the essential pre-dinner cocktails, helpfully included in the price. This is one of Potters' great strengths. There is something wonderfully liberating about being handed a drink and knowing that, financially speaking, you have already paid for it.

Dinner was the usual Potters standard, as it was throughout the weekend. Decent pub food, perfectly edible and perfectly respectable, but nobody is going to be knocking on the kitchen door asking where the Michelin inspector is hiding.

After dinner came more inclusive drinks before the evening show. The performances have a sort of West End-lite glamour, with plenty of singing, dancing and a dash of comedy. If I am being completely honest, they were better back in the day when Potters had a live band, but for what you pay, they remain impressively polished entertainment.

After the show, naturally, there were more drinks. The in-laws opted for the fabulous hot chocolate, presumably because they still had some blood alcohol left to work with. There is always a singer performing in the lounge, but we decided that cards and an early night represented the height of sophistication.

Saturday began with the alarm going off at eight for the buffet breakfast. This is an unforgiving hour for people who have spent the previous evening treating the all-inclusive drinks package as a personal challenge.

The daytime activities at Potters are extensive and, unlike a certain other camp I could mention, they are all included. We opted for an early morning quiz, a cappuccino because it was far too early for a drink, and a game of tennis.

Naturally, I won.

I mention this only because several younger members of the party seemed to believe that advancing years had somehow compromised my sporting ability. It has not. My knees may disagree, but the scoreboard does not.

After the lunchtime show with Potters legend Mark Brewer, it was time for lunch. The in-laws went for their traditional sit-down lunch in the restaurant, while my daughter, her boyfriend and I were itching to try the new outdoor barbecue.

It was fabulous. Smoky, relaxed and exactly the sort of thing you want after a morning of competitive leisure.

Post-lunch brought pickleball and drinks, while Missus W disappeared off to do yoga and then cheerleading. Given the setting, I remain disappointed that they don't offer a hybrid cheerleading-yoga class. I would pay good money to watch a room full of middle-aged adults attempting downward dog while shouting, "Give me a P! Give me an O!"

We all reconvened mid-afternoon for Disney-inspired musical bingo and more drinks, before spending the rest of the afternoon playing cards and sipping yet more drinks.

At this point, the weekend had begun to develop a very clear rhythm.

Activity. Drink. Food. Activity. Drink. Card game. Drink.

Potters has essentially solved the problem of human happiness.

Dinner was at 6:45 sharp for the sake of World Peace. After dinner came our usual game of evening bingo. This isn't included, but beating the old grannies buying ten books each pays for the trip.

That is not technically how the economics of a holiday work, but it feels true.

Then it was the usual Saturday night sequence: show, drinks, music, cards. By bedtime, we were less a family group and more a loosely connected collection of people who happened to be wearing the same wristbands.

Sunday arrived with our traditional panic.

We got up early, had breakfast and attempted to cram approximately thirty activities into the remaining two hours. We failed spectacularly. There is a particular sort of Potters guilt that comes from looking at the activity timetable and realising you have somehow missed archery, shooting, cycling, dancing, a quiz and something involving a person called Dave.

The only sensible response was to have some drinks and then go to lunch.

The Sunday Street Fair brought old-fashioned games of chance, ticket raffles for increasingly mysterious prizes and the grand prize of throwing a cream pie in an entertainer's face. It is difficult to imagine a better example of British family entertainment.

By the evening, we opted for pool instead of bingo, alongside more drinks, more music and more cards. By now, the all-inclusive package was beginning to feel less like a holiday perk and more like a medically supervised experiment.

Sadly, Monday was home day.

By then, we were completely fun'd out, thoroughly lubricated by all-inclusive hospitality and carrying the vague sense that we had somehow spent three days being simultaneously exhausted and spectacularly entertained.

And that, really, is the Potters experience.

It isn't luxury. The food is decent rather than dazzling, the entertainment isn't quite what it was in the live-band days, and the whole place operates with the relentless efficiency of a very cheerful leisure factory.

But that's not really the point.

Potters works because there is always something to do, everything is ridiculously convenient, and the all-inclusive setup removes almost every opportunity to worry about money while you're there. You can quiz, swim, play tennis, watch a show, eat, drink, play cards and then somehow convince yourself that getting up at eight the next morning is a perfectly reasonable idea.

After thirty years, I suppose the fact that we keep coming back is the strongest review I can give it.

Classic Potters.

Absolute triumph.