The truth of being banged up in Hotel Quarantine, writes SIAN BOYLE 

For most people a four-star hotel is a holiday treat or a business trip necessity. But what if you’re confined to your room 24/7, apart from ten-minute ‘breaks’ with a security guard in tow.

In a brilliant dispatch this week, SIAN BOYLE revealed the chaos at Heathrow as new restrictions for travellers from 33 ‘red list’ countries — at high risk of Covid — took effect. 

Here, four days into her ten-day quarantine at an airport hotel — at a cost of £1,750 — she continues the tale.

MONDAY, Feb 15: DAY 0

It’s the first day of the UK’s new quarantine restrictions and I’m flying in from Portugal to test them out.

Prior to my flight to Lisbon, I had booked a ‘quarantine’ hotel in advance for my return — as required by law.

I am armed with a ‘key worker’ letter (as a journalist on an assignment in the public interest) should anyone enquire as to the purpose of my trip. But at no point during outbound and inbound journeys — via Paris as there are no direct flights between the UK and Portugal — does anyone ask me where I’m going or why.

Sian Boyle is four days into her ten-day quarantine at an airport hotel — at a cost of £1,750 (her room pictured)

The only documentation officials want to see (apart from my passport) is confirmation of a negative PCR Covid test within 72 hours of my flights.

At check-in desks on my return, I see passengers arguing with officials, or in tears, because they don’t have the correct ‘Covid’ documentation.

Five people are denied boarding at Charles de Gaulle. We touch down at Heathrow at 10.30am and the chaos continues. In passport control we red-list passengers are separated from the rest by barriers barely a foot apart.

I count at least six Border Force officials without masks. Security guards accompany us through Terminal 2 to board a coach to the Radisson Blu Edwardian Heathrow Hotel & Conference Centre, where 52 of the 500 rooms have been taken up so far.

My room is reasonable — apart from the orange and brown decor, harsh lighting and the view of a McDonald’s drive-thru. There is a multi-channel TV, a desk, two chairs, a small fridge (but no mini-bar!) and a bathroom that’s bigger than my one at home.

Browsing through the welcome pack, I see there’s a telephone number for the Samaritans.

Another resident (pictured) shows her disapproval at guests being confined to their rooms 24/7

Another resident (pictured) shows her disapproval at guests being confined to their rooms 24/7

I learn that staff can accept deliveries for guests (including Deliveroo and Amazon); that the bins will be emptied daily and that I’m allowed seven items of laundry a week.

Within an hour of my arrival, I hear one of my neighbours screaming on the phone about being ‘trapped’. This will be a hotel stay like no other.

I’m hoping I don’t end up like fictional hotel resident, maniacal Johnny from The Shining.

TUES, FEB 16: DAY 1

According to psychologist Abraham Maslow, all human beings have a ‘hierarchy of needs’ for them to function and be happy.

Basic needs must be met first — food, water, air, shelter. Then come psychological needs — connection with others. On my first day in Hotel Quarantine I focus on the basics. There’s no drinking water, so I tell reception — politely — that for £1,750 I don’t expect to go thirsty. (I’m entitled to 1.5 litres a day, apparently, along with three meals but no alcohol.) Nor do I expect to be hungry — I have been missed off the breakfast round.

The travellers, who have come from one of 33 'red list' countries, are allowed o leave their rooms for ten-minute 'breaks' with a security guard in tow (pictured)

The travellers, who have come from one of 33 ‘red list’ countries, are allowed o leave their rooms for ten-minute ‘breaks’ with a security guard in tow (pictured)

By mid-afternoon, I’m desperately claustrophobic but can’t open the windows. I wonder about the ventilation. I’ve read that some of the 16 quarantine hotels in the UK operate air- conditioning systems that mix air flows from inside the building.

In Australia, similar systems have been blamed for ‘super-spreader’ events in quarantine hotels (along with guests who sleep with the guards!).

A porter arrives to open my window and I stick my head out to suck in great lungfuls of crisp air tinged with the whiff of aviation fuel. Later, it turns chilly but I can’t close the window either.

Food comes with useless wooden cutlery, so I treat myself to room service and keep the metal knife and fork, two plates and a salt and pepper set. The evening is spent binge-drinking Malbec and binge-watching Netflix.

WED, FEB 17: DAY 2

Huge excitement! My Amazon delivery arrives and, judging by the porter’s trolley, everyone else has had the same idea.

My room is looking a little less soulless: I had packed scented candles, a nice mug and decent coffee. Now I have Fairy Liquid to wash up, spray disinfectant to clean my room, fresh milk, a tablecloth and a couple of lamps.

I receive a Covid-19 test kit. I must take a swab test on days two and eight of my stay. If I test positive, my stay will be extended for two nights at a cost of £304.

If I test positive on day eight, I’m here for eight more nights (£1,216). When I call reception to ask when the courier will pick up my swab, I’m told to ‘call back tomorrow’.

I wonder how the authorities can be sure people are carrying out the test correctly — and honestly.

THURS, FEB 18: DAY 3

I decide my life is somewhere between that of a Category A prisoner and a VIP. On the one hand, I can lounge all day on my queen-sized bed with its goose-down pillows, order a 250g rib-eye steak from room service and wash it down with a £70 bottle of Chateauneuf-du-Pape if I so desire.

On the other, I’m confined to my room 24/7 and the hotel entrance is locked at all times.

With a 14-day incubation period in which coronavirus symptoms can emerge, all of us high-risk arrivals should stay in our rooms for a full ten days for the quarantine to have proper effect.

But we’re allowed out for walks. Today, I’m desperate for fresh air so I crack, ring reception and join a 45-minute ‘queue’ of people wanting to do the same.

Eventually, a security guard arrives. At the lifts I sign out, watched over by another guard.

After more than 72 hours in one room, it’s an utter joy to be outside in the mild, spring air — even in a car park.

‘We’ve been waiting all day to come out for a fag,’ a fellow inmate tells me. She’s not impressed with her stay.

‘Terrible. The food is just awful. Chicken, every day.’

Before we can chat any further, my guard tells me my ten minutes are up.

FRI, FEB 19: DAY 4

This morning I learn from the news websites that some guests here aren’t doing so well.

One man is pictured standing at his window with a notice reading: ‘I am stressed here. No mobile phone, no access to my bank details to sort bills, my Covid-19 results. Why can’t I quarantine at home?’

I discover that another tried to ‘escape’ and then said he was going on a hunger strike because he was being held ‘under duress’.

He was photographed holding up a sign saying: ‘I have been held here against my will… They have lost my suitcase… I have told them I can’t breathe.’

There is no question that this is a stressful situation and many, unlike me, will have been unprepared psychologically.

The cost of quarantine is another source of anxiety.

There’s talk of some people being able to pay the sum back in instalments but nothing is confirmed.

My own mental state is holding up. I’m discovering that life here has some positives.

I don’t have to cook or do much cleaning, and I can indulge in regular yoga and meditation and catch up on my reading.

But who knows how I will be feeling come February 25.