Group Travel: Tricky Traveller Types and How to Handle Them

Group travel is social, fun and rewarding in a whole world of ways – there’s nothing quite like discovering a new destination in the company of an upbeat bunch, be that friends, family or a crowd of like-minded individuals on a group tour.

With TRIPS by Culture Trip, you can rest assured you’ll be in good company. Of course, that doesn’t mean everyone you’re en route with will be perfect. Just as journeys can bring out the best in us, they can also make certain folk more of a challenge – especially if you’re together 24/7. But we know how to handle every kind of tricky co-traveller. Read on for our top tips.

Despite the evident brilliance of the group’s official tour guide, this self-appointed expert professes to have better alternatives up their sleeve – and lets it be known loudly. They’ll be aware of a far superior carpet store in the Marrakech souks than the one you’re all visiting; not to mention a much less-travelled route around Iceland than the one you’re following; and they’ll dispense the most obscure historic details about yoga – breaking the group spell right in the middle of the session.

The solution: More than anything, the know-all wants their ego stroked. Which is the group’s cue to take it in turns to bombard them with mind-numbing questions wherever you go. “Which is correct these days: Peking Duck or Beijing Duck?” should get them floundering for a socially acceptable answer; and when in Rome, a few impossible-to-know (unless you’re a real expert) corkers such as “Did the Romans like pork sausages?” will soon have them piping down. (Answer: they did.)

For some reason, this sharing – if not exactly caring – individual doesn’t understand why showing you endless Instagram snaps of them with their children isn’t riveting; or why regaling you with details of their work in accountancy isn’t the ideal soundtrack to your first pulse-quickening view of the Pyramids or a Bengal tiger.

The solution: On a train or plane, a pair of noise-cancelling headphones is your best friend – switch on your favourite podcast, sit back, and so long as you nod politely now and then the bore will think you’re listening. At dinnertime, things can get stickier, but there’s no better defence than keeping your glass of wine topped up – anyone gets more interesting if you’ve had three-quarters of a bottle of rosé.

There’s nothing wrong with being demure, but on a group trip you do need input from everyone or the social lubrication risks running dry. Alas, the shrinking violet simply won’t contribute to conversation at the big communal dinner table. Expect no opinion on the highlights of the day you’ve spent – even if everyone else is agog at your hippo sighting, celebrity encounter or bargain purchase. Ultimately they’re the elephant in the room: what is the shrinking violet really thinking? Are they even having any fun?

The solution: Friendly one-on-one conversation is the best way to get the shrinking violet to open up. Start slowly, offering non-challenging tidbits about yourself to reassure them of your good intentions. Follow up with a few easy, gentle conversation gambits (“Nice weather, isn’t it?”) before plunging into the serious stuff, for example whether they would prefer fondue or raclette for tonight’s dinner, and the real ice-breaker:“TikTok: love it or shove it?”

We all love our food and drink on holiday – only some of us more than others. Small wonder the tour guide always gets fidgety, watching the bon viveur order a second whipped-cream cappuccino during the “brief” motorway break. Group lunches tend to grow longer as another portion of black forest gateau hoves into view; the group dinner is set back by the suggestion of weissbiers at a bar en route to the restaurant; and a certain sore head may keep the rest of the group waiting next morning.

The solution: As for the motorway break and lunch? Make a conscious communal decision to all up and go back to the tour vehicle with a noisy scraping of chairs en masse – the bon viveur will soon discover there’s nothing quite as awkward as being the sole latecomer as 50 pairs of beady eyes watch you board. As for the bar visits? Tell the bon viveur you’re limiting your units between meals.

There’ll always be those little – and we mean little – extras: the whip-round for the tour guide who’s spent their waking hours shepherding you; the euro for the janitor who revealed those precious church icons; the handful of change for spices at the local market – because how else will the traders make a living? Alas, the skinflint won’t part with a cent – after all, they’ve paid for the trip already. That said, they’ll happily cadge a coin from you for the loo, and accept a drink whenever you’re buying a round.

The solution: The worst thing you can do is offer to cover them – you’ll never see that cash back. So try a little light, harmless shaming: get the gang discussing loudly how you only live once; and how, after the ordeal of Covid lockdowns, £50 spent on a sunset cruise to remember is a rare investment – and what you’d spend on a single supermarket shop.

Recognise the scenario? Everyone agrees to meet daily at 8am as planned, but you still miss your timed museum entry or that crucial ferry connection because the latecomer can’t seem to arrive on time. They are profoundly apologetic each time, but their regret is obviously skin-deep as the very next day they’re exasperatingly late again.

The solution: If you’re all meeting at 8am, tell them it’s 7.45 instead. That might resolve the issue. If they’re still not there at 8.15, board the bus and tell the front-desk staff to inform them you’ve already left. You haven’t of course – you’re all on board – but nothing puts the wind up someone like feeling they’ve missed the departure. And if they do it again? Maybe you all should leave – there’s no learning lesson in punctuality like having to hitchhike alone from Bogatá to Medellín.

You know you’ve met them: the pair of married couples who bonded on day one over the fact they all come from the same city; or the quartet of old friends from school who are forever gossiping and giggling conspiratorially. The cliquey four complicate arrangements by always wanting to sit together on the bus or at dinner, always wanting their rooms near one another and always getting lost on the tour of the ruins, while everyone else tuts loudly.

The solution: The cliquey foursome will open up if you start singling them out for individual comments and compliments while the others aren’t listening. For example, if it’s two couples, tell Tina how nice you think it is that her partner Matt gets on so well with Susan, who, by the way, is absolutely gorgeous don’t-you-think? As for the four friends, organise an impromptu quiz night at the hotel and assure them they’re born leaders – of separate teams. The clique will dissolve faster than you can say “banana split”.

You’ve only just met them at the arrival airport, but as the tour leader escorts the group to the vehicle, the over-friendly traveller is already chatting to you like they’ve known you for decades. They might plonk themselves beside you for idle conversation on a 10-hour coach trip, nudge you to share dishes you don’t like the look of in a restaurant or, showing the most commitment of all, start making plans to hang out with you after the group trip is over and you’re back home.

The solution: Ask them at various points in the first few days if they’d mind lending you a couple of spare pairs of socks, or their iPhone to make a call to the family in Australia – or how about a bit of cash for extra souvenir-shopping money? After all, what’s a couple hundred dollars between such good friends? Assure them it’s common practice between you and your pals at home – you won’t see them for dust.
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