The Quiet Life – or a hell of a holiday by Robin Banks

 

I ought have known something was wrong when the guest I was expecting insisted on the telephone that I am a “nasty person”. The woman, her mother and partner, had flown down for a short break and wanted to check-in three hours before the standard time of 3pm. After-all, cleaners have their work to do. 

It was her third call in less than half an hour and despite my offer to provide  a safe haven for their luggage while they went away and had some lunch, having access to the apartment a couple of hours later, after three, when the cleaners had gone it was evidently not enough for her.

“I’ve paid a lot of money for this,” she fumed. I agreed, she probably had, adding that I hadn’t, as yet, received a penny. Online letting agencies like the one she had booked through take the money upfront and only pay the property owner some days after guests have checked-in. With agencies’ fees on top you rarely get to know how much clients actually pay.  Like Airb&b this particular agency operates a similar policy and I suspect it was my pointing this out that triggered the nasty man outburst.

free beach pxhere

The phone rang again some minutes later and the partner explained they were having a difficult day and perhaps it would be better for all concerned if all the conversations henceforth went through him. Ok by me. We agreed that they could drop their luggage off ahead of check-in time and return after they’d eaten.

Running a holiday let apartment on the ground floor of my house by the sea had seemed like a good idea at the time. The internet had put freelance journalism on the skids and a small holiday letting business felt like a good way of shoring up the family income. We wouldn’t get rich but it would mean we could remain in the house (in a separate self-contained first floor flat) and enjoy the fresh air and faraway views. 

Rather than pack ‘em in and charge more we transformed one of the three bedrooms into a dining room the finishing touch to an apartment bigger and better appointed than any home I’d owned in London in a former life. I should add that losing a bedroom – and the potential for more income – was prompted by stories from local lettings agencies about large groups of holidaymakers (perhaps two families) trashing places. I wanted to minimise the risk with somewhere that would appeal to small families, or ideally couples.

“It’s always the well offs,” said an agent who wanted to take on our apartment.  “The more expensive the car the more mess they leave behind. We had to cancel a booking this week so that two carpets could be cleaned. Food everywhere.”

Two years later I am happy to report that most, that’s ‘most’ in inverted commas, are pleasant, respectful holidaymakers who clearly appreciate the effort that has gone into making their stay as enjoyable as possible. Yet it only takes a handful of those at the wrong end of the pain-in-the-neck spectrum to make you want to sell up and become a hermit

Ours is self catering accommodation, a fact I have to remind guests of when they request additional toilet rolls, dish washer tablets, washing powder, tea bags, and towels. I don’t know about you but the most items I’ve ever washed on holiday has been a been few pairs of socks and the odd pair of underpants. That’s not the modern way. Two couples stayed some months ago and on the first afternoon managed two full washing machine loads and additional loads every day for the subsequent four day duration of their stay. They came in a very nice car as did the guest who called me downstairs to show me what looked to be pooh on a wet hand towel. I refrained from pointing out that it had to be either his or his wife’s as all the linen is inspected with a fine tooth comb (!) before being installed via my wife and thence the cleaners. 

What two years of holiday letting has taught me is that very few clients read the house rules on any of our three websites: one is our own, and the other two are online platforms. In fairness there are not that many rules to read, just basic things like check-in and departure times. Oh, and a rule about not moving furniture around without consent. And not coming through our section of the garden as there is a risk our dog will go walkies, and, very important, not leaving a dog unattended in the flat at any time. I don’t know why I bother: We’ve had all the garden furniture brought in for a party, the hall walls resembling that street of smashed cars in The Wolf Of Wall Street and the living room carpet took a good chewing too when a dog was left, you guessed it, unattended. 

We could do what a lot of landlords hereabouts do and go through a local booking agency. They organise the lot; cleaning and changeovers, but at a price, in some cases almost 50% of takings. This clearly has a big appeal for absent owners with the second homes practically running themselves. We, on the other hand, are here, and we’re not trying to squeeze every last financial drop out of the place. It’s a space I’d happily live in and we hope because it is as it is courteous guests will return, and many do. 

The effect of all this on me? I’ve become a bit of a curtain twitcher and online troller. During the booking process you can get a sense for who is going to be difficult, although I’ll have to put my hand up and admit I didn’t see Captain Ahab coming. In fairness the woman who booked didn’t give me her beau’s surfing non de plume. There were to be just the two of them, upgraded to four at the eleventh hour. 

I became alarmed when on the first night there was nobody downstairs by midnight, and when they did show up I counted six.The front door slammed closed around 1am and three fellas, Ahab among them, appeared on the terrace to enjoy a spliff. Ok, be cool. Yes, I was cool. But not so cool when two of them peeled away to retrieve skateboards from inside a van and proceeded to skate and pass the spliff in the middle of my street at by now going on 1.30am.

You can imagine my language when I opened a first floor window and demanded Ahab explain what the ‘effin’ ‘eck was going on? It worked and they each melted away into the night. 

The next morning enjoying a coffee by the same east facing window I spotted a young man I didn’t recognise hunting around and about the plants in the front garden. Hello, seemed like a reasonably chill introduction, and you are? He explained that he was one of the downstairs guests who’d arrived late the evening before. And why was he searching the garden? But of course, Ahab had left the front door key there. What? I swore again.

Did you know you can go on You Tube and find what’s been viewed for days prior? Well you can and that lot had been watching cosmetic commercials and an interview with a tanned reality tv star at his Malibu home overlooking the ocean who when asked his favourite music turned to his mobile phone and demanded Google “play my barbecue mix”. I needed a drink. 

Perhaps the most surprising facet of the holiday letting business is how few, notably the younger ones, recycle. And yes, I do get the whole Extinction Rebellion thing, my friends getting it in the neck for driving diesel cars despite their kids having their online purchases delivered in emission belching vans. We now know that millions of tonnes of our waste end up in the far east and inside fish but I’d have thought the generation that wants to save the world from people like me would make an effort instead of bulk buying plastic and shoving it all in the trash. It doesn’t take a curtain shifter or Sherlock Holmes to spot five litre water bottles in the semi see through waste bags. Bottles, boxes and tin cans go the same way. 

In contrast Q-Tips are fine with recycling: the Miami description of white haired septuagenarians in cars with open sun roofs. Oldies know the planet is screwed but at least they make the effort to slow down the inevitable. The situation has gotten so bad with millennial guests that I’ve taken to referring to the recycling bags and boxes in the welcome letter in bold type. 

When the Nasty Man crew finally arrived (after more calls during which I was accused of withholding the address) the diplomatic other half swiftly placed their luggage in the hall. Minutes later the three of them moved off towards the town centre for some lunch. Everything seemed fine when the phone rang for the umpteenth time and the diplomatic significant other asked if he could pop in and retrieve some sandals for she whom I wasn’t to speak with? She was wearing new shoes and they were killing her. Fine, and two minutes later he was downstairs in the hall rummaging through a suitcase. 

It was then I saw through the gap in the doorway her approaching at speed. Simultaneously my other half, who had never seen or spoken with any of this party, approached from upstairs. I thought it wise to retire for fear of inflaming an already delicate situation. Too late. The women stepped through the door and going nose-to-nose, eyeball-to-eyeball with my wife shouted,  “and you can fuck off, I’m customer services.”

My wife, showing considerable restraint, told her not to use that sort of language, adding to the diplomatic other half “what are you doing with someone like her?” As our disruptive client was shoved outside she retaliated with “are you going to let her talk to me like that?”

The online agency they’d booked through wasn’t at all helpful when I explained the situation on the telephone until I said I didn’t care about the money, they could have a full refund of the monies I hadn’t as yet received as technically they hadn’t at that point officially checked-in: it was still long before 3pm. I wasn’t going to allow that woman into my home under any circumstances. 

Would I recommend holiday letting as an income source somewhere agreeable in later life? Frankly, I don’t know. Writing as one who is in a bad mood even when I’m feeling fine having dealt with people who clearly think as themselves as intellectual and balanced and ineffably right, I’d have to say no. For the simple reason that you can’t relax, and when you do it comes back to bite you. 

I’ll give it five years unless before then I take to drink and go down for manslaughter. 

 

This entry was posted in gone west, Seashores, travel, Uncategorized. Bookmark the permalink.

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