As we head down to Folkestone to stay the night at Kent's lowest-rated hotel - and it's not the Grand Burstin - my partner reads out some of the reviews and laughs in disbelief.

"I've never ever been anywhere more terrible in my whole entire life," writes Gunther Corner-Shoot on TripAdvisor.

“EVEN IF YOU ARE DESPERATE THINK TWICE BEFORE STAYING THE NIGHT HERE," warns booking.com user Lorraine.

And it's no better on Google, where one disgruntled guest refused to even score the venue, writing: "Not giving a star as that is an insult - the Addams family had more updated furniture, please don’t go."

So it's fair to say I was a little apprehensive about my stay at the Windsor Hotel in Langhorne Gardens, which is ranked the county's 724th best hotel on TripAdvisor, its 1.5-star rating the worst of any establishment in Kent.

But the hotel's most recent reviewer, Dave G, who stayed for one night in June last year, gives it five stars.

So maybe it won't be that bad after all...

For one thing, it's not easy to book a stay there. From what I can gather, one room is offered out for one night each week.

That sort of exclusivity is usually reserved for the crème de la crème of hotels. But £78 later I’m 'lucky' to have a four-bed room for the night.

Driving along the stunning seafront towards The Windsor, where the setting sun bounces off the waves playfully, I'm feeling pretty hopeful.

But upon arrival, that brief optimism is dashed.

The loud beep of a triggered alarm greets your arrival at the yellowy building with such enthusiasm that you can hear it echo in the car park.

We enter the lobby and wait to be let in by the owner, who wastes no time with pleasantries. We’re here, so he’s off. Perhaps he wants to escape the pungent odour.

“Leave your keys in the room when you go” is the longest snippet of conversation we manage to draw from him.

This place reminds me of the stereotypical gran's house that was out of date 30 years ago. The air is stale and all that’s missing is a cloud of smoke above our heads.

A cute picture hangs on the wall, celebrating the glory days of this establishment, and appears to be from the 1950s. This feels like the peak of a Jolly Boys outing.

We march onwards and see a lift. Much like everything so far, it’s outdated. The elevator comes and opens rather menacingly, revealing a sign hanging up on one of its walls.

“This lift is not a toilet,” it reads. Every sign has a story behind it and this one seems fairly obvious, but I’m curious to know how long the issue persisted before the notice went up.

The warning continues: "The next time this happens all winter shelter residents will have to vacate their rooms."

So clearly the hotel is also used to house some of the town's vulnerable people during the cold months. This probably explains the sporadic availabilty of rooms, but is not mentioned at all on The Windsor's website.

I decide it's best to skip the lift and take the wonky stairs to the second floor, where the smell of smoke grows stronger with each step. By the time we reach our room, it is unbearable.

Nothing about this hotel could be described as spic-and-span yet somehow the inside of the room still shocks me.

The wallpaper looks every year its age, with marks, missing chunks and cracks in the walls dominating the decor.

If the TV works, it’s doing a very good job of concealing how one could switch it on. Below it sits makeshift coffee-making facilities. The cabinet has a hot chocolate and coffee-stained sheet covering it.

My partner decides to whip the duvet up from one of the beds and recoils in horror. The sheets are not what could be described as fresh.

We wonder how long it has been since this place has seen any sort of love or, at the very least, some anti-bac spray.

By comparison, the bathroom is better - but not by much. The toilet seat has a yellow mark on it and paint peels off the walls and sprinkles the floor with a light layer of white.

The heater plugged into the wall is on full blast yet somehow it’s colder in here than it is by the seafront. At this rate, I’d rather sleep on the beach.

We decide to make good our escape for the evening.

This is an excellent chance to visit Folkestone Harbour Arm, a highly-impressive use of land that would otherwise be left for the sea to reclaim.

Catching the last of the Six Nations rugby, we stroll along rather happily as the frosty weather begins to set in. Anything is better than being in The Windsor.

Our Saturday evening is uneventful but pleasant, Folkestone playing the role of perfectly acceptable host to a tee. We dip into Luben’s Pizza and get some food. We admire the roof of the local Wetherspoon.

To be honest, I do just about everything I can think of to avoid going back.

But, much like time itself, my accommodation for the night is inevitable and it’s time to try to get some sleep.

On the walk back, I’ve made the executive decision to sleep fully clothed and bin the clothes when I get home. I won’t miss a plain white t-shirt.

Getting back to the hotel in the late hours is an even more grisly experience than before. A man with a can of beer follows us in. He has his own keys, he says.

He moves towards the lift and asks if we’re getting in. I don’t think so, fella, you crack on.

Up the dreary stairs once more where somehow the smell of smoke has increased to the point of feeling like I’m living in Dot Cotton’s lungs.

As I get into bed, being very careful not to excessively touch any of the surfaces, I cannot help but shiver from both cold and disgust.

I’m pretty sure there are seagulls nesting in the window frame.

It’s noisy all night, and I lie awake wary of how long I have left before my lungs eventually give way.

After about four hours drifting in and out of consciousness, I call it quits and ditch the hotel

To next week's "lucky" guests, good luck. The stains were there when we got here, promise.

I want to be very clear on this - I do support Kent businesses. I want locals and tourists to be able to have a good time in the county. I do not want to tear into innocent firms.

But on its website The Windsor describes itself as providing "clean, affordable rooms" and "a great hotel choice for the whole family".

This couldn't be further from the truth.

For many years, another of Folkestone's hotels, the infamous Grand Burstin, has been dubbed the worst in Kent. But my colleague James described it as a good budget option following his stay there last year.

I'm sad to say I cannot say the same for The Windsor.

For me, it really did live up to its billing as the lowest-rated hotel in the county.