Almost everything was bad.
Every January I try to escape Britain’s gloom for sun and wine that doesn’t cost £8 a glass. I convince my long-suffering husband to log off and join me on my yearly escapades to sunny and cheaper places like Sri Lanka and Costa Rica. In January 2025 I was itching for a new destination and ‘the Egypt saga’ was set in motion.
Cut back to Christmas 2024 when, fuelled by mulled wine and poor judgement, I was doom-scrolling and found a deal that stopped me in my tracks: almost four weeks in an all-inclusive resort in Hurghada, flights included, for just under £1,700 for both of us. I booked immediately. No research. No caution. I was so giddy with the adrenaline of having bagged a bargain I forgot the first rule of resort booking: always check the reviews. Always.
“How bad could it possibly be though?” I dreamed as I packed. As a freelancer I intended to ‘work’ during my extended jaunt – preferably with a pina colada in hand like I have seen other smug ‘world citizens’ do on Instagram. My husband stayed suspiciously quiet.
Our budget booking promised a “four-star resort and aqua park and private beach” so I was fully expecting spacious, stylish rooms with plush bedding, multiple delicious dining options, and peaceful pools and spas to unwind in after a busy morning doing important writing and sharing my new life on Instagram. In a plot twist no-one saw coming what we actually got was a rundown bargain-bin resort that clearly hadn’t been updated since 1987 with the ‘private beach’ a bus ride away.
While certain parts were pleasant (I really liked the towering palm trees, our room balcony, and the abundance of resident cats) there were vast areas that needed an update and some serious deep cleaning.
Shabby and dirty room decor, exposed wiring, freezing cold pools, and screeching groups of budget holiday punters who were already drunk by 10am. It seems Egypt’s idea of four stars is very different from mine. “Swanky”, apparently, is a relative term.
Because I’m “annoyingly positive” (according to my family) I earnestly declared that we would make “the best of it” while stepping over broken paving slabs as Pharrell Williams played on loop. However my eternal optimism eventually faltered when I tried to work.
The “free wifi” was confined to the smoke-filled chaotic lobby where everyone was glued to YouTube on their phones. You couldn’t send so much as an email as the connection was utterly dire. This meant we had to buy local sim cards with data, which felt like being back in the dial-up era. Work completely stalled so we headed to the pool, abandoning all hope of finishing my mountain of assignments. Future me could sort that out.
If blaring 2010-era music was stressful being hassled by resort staff while lounging by an icy pool was worse. Headphones, fake naps, and avoiding eye contact didn’t help. Every 20 seconds someone asked if we wanted a photoshoot, a massage, or tickets to the resort party. Yes, a party you’ve technically already paid for. Joy. To be fair I know next to nothing about all-inclusives. Most of my travel has been DIY so I was unprepared for many aspects of resort life.
I totally appreciate that staff earn most of their money from commissions but I’m only human; I have only so much patience for endless sales pitches when I’m trying to relax and drink lukewarm wine at 11am.
Back in our extremely basic room (certainly no Egyptian cotton sheets here) sleep escaped us as deafening music went on into the early hours. I’m pretty sure I now know all the lyrics to Rihanna’s Pon de Replay. Come, Mr DJ, won’t you turn the music down? I am old and tired.
Food-wise I also hadn’t considered how eating the same reheated trays of dubious pasta, watery stews, and charred meat from the all-inclusive buffet could get quite repetitive. And, yes, prompt several frantic loo dashes.
On top of that there was an awkward expectation to tip every time we sat down to eat even though the whole point of “all-inclusive” is that you’ve already paid to serve yourself from the questionable buffet.
Salvation did not arrive in the form of alcohol. The wine tasted like dishwater, the cocktails like ground-down Fruit Pastilles, yet I remain in awe of my fellow Brits who somehow managed to down enough terrible booze to render a rhino comatose.
The worst part, really, is that I’ve been to Egypt’s historic capital, Cairo, enough to know that Egyptian food and drink are worth celebrating.
Koshari, ful medames, tameya, grilled kebabs, stuffed vegetables, molokhiyya: I was ready to feast like a queen. Instead local options at the resort were sparse and what they did serve was a pale shadow of the rich, fragrant dishes I’d enjoyed in Cairo. One mediocre bite and I mourned my lost koshari (a bonkers mix of grains, legumes, and pasta).
So why, you might reasonably ask, did we not call it quits, check out, and head home after failing spectacularly to live the #nomad dream?
To take a short break from being a negative Nancy what actually saved us from despair was the town of Hurghada itself. This seaside strip is the second biggest town on the Red Sea and is one of Egypt’s busiest holiday destinations. Home to world-renowned coral reefs, bazaars, bars, restaurants, and hotels there’s actually plenty to do once you step outside the resort. Rather than wallow in buyer’s remorse we spent as much time as possible exploring Sakalla, the frenetic town centre, Hurghada’s marina, and the kaleidoscope-coloured coral reefs.
Who needs tacky poolside entertainment when, for around £25 each, you can hop on a dive boat and swim among shoals of fish and even pods of dolphins as you explore vibrant coral reefs? I honestly couldn’t believe that we witnessed dolphins in the wild in turquoise waters for less than the cost of a sad lunch in Britain.
This is what you need to come to Hurghada for – not cheap resorts but instead to float in clear waters as clownfish, angelfish, and parrotfish dart in and out of reefs.
Over in Hurghada’s surprisingly swish marina we discovered a large yacht harbour lined with shops with restaurants and buzzing bars offering outdoor seating. Here we escaped the beige hotel buffet and feasted on meaty shawarma and sweet, flaky baklava.
There are also plenty of excursions and day trips from Hurghada to keep you busy. Instead of paying the resort’s extortionate prices we haggled with local operators like seasoned diplomats. Best decision of the trip.
We booked a day-long desert safari by quad bike and 4×4 vehicle, including dinner and stargazing in a traditional Bedouin village, for around £23 each including pickup.
Hurghada sits at the edge of the Eastern Desert – a vast sweep of volcanic hills, sand flats, stony plateaus, and wind-carved gullies that look like a film set. It stretches from the Nile to the Red Sea and is where tourists head for quad biking, camel riding, and desert camps.
First they handed me my own quad bike. Within minutes I was tearing across the desert like I’d been cast in Mad Max, sand smacking me in the face as I tried to remember whether I’d purchased travel insurance. The desert rolled out around us in every direction: golden ridges, jagged red mountains, and the glorious sound of silence.
After my brief yet glorious action-hero era we swapped the quad bikes for a jeep. The driver treated dunes like a Top Gear challenge, launching us over rises and plummeting into valleys with the latent enthusiasm of a man who has never Googled “spinal compression injury”.
The scenery was astonishing: jagged dark-red mountains in the distance, rippled sand glowing gold, and long stretches of valley that made Britain feel very far away indeed.
Eventually, after enough bumps to rearrange my internal organs, we reached a small Bedouin village where we sipped sweet tea, learned about desert life, and watched a spectacular sunset.
As the sun dropped behind the mountains the whole landscape exploded in colour and, for the first time for the entire trip, I actually stopped complaining.
But the serenity didn’t last. Because eventually we had to return to our subpar resort where music boomed, food was abysmal, and the pool was arctic cold. And that’s when it hit me – perhaps the issue wasn’t Egypt.
The problem was my delusional belief that I could be a ‘digital nomad’ in a super-budget place where the wifi barely loads a weather app. Instagram told me I could work carefree from a sun lounger, cocktail in hand, living my best life. Reality suggests I need an actual desk, a functioning internet connection, and maybe fewer drunk tourists vomiting into a nearby plant pot. Yup, British people take all-inclusive bars extremely seriously.
Here’s the thing I should have known by now. In travel, as in life, you get exactly what you pay for. During my 20s, while backpacking on the cheap, I stayed in three-dollar-a-night hostels with sanitary conditions so questionable the Red Cross would have intervened.
I’m older now though. I like comfort and have learnt the hard way that “four-star” can mean very different things depending on the destination.
As an introduction to resort life this was certainly character-building. And while Hurghada itself was brilliant I have accepted that working in all-inclusive is a fantasy best left to influencers who only have to upload a single staged #blessed photo and lie down on the lounger again.
It’s safe to say that lessons have been learned and my ego has been checked. This travel writer has been suitably humbled and will do better. Next time I’ll stick to my DIY trips, read the fine print, and stop pretending a resort pool is a suitable workspace.
