I’ve decided to rent out my spare room on Airbnb. What could possibly go wrong?
When I bought the Vicarage, I fell in love with its tall windows, the skylight, the stone staircase, but I didn’t think it was rural enough.
It’s on a village green, surrounded by Georgian houses, a pub and a little shop. An organic farm shop is within walking distance. But now that I have got to know the area, I’ve fallen in love with it: my house backs on to a wide river and a footpath that takes you from Durham Cathedral to Barnard Castle.
Raby Castle is five minutes away, with its restaurant and shop that sells Garden Trading and Daylesford goodies, which almost makes me feel I’m back in Notting Hill. The church clock chimes every hour.
I had felt some shame in renting out my spare room. I have always railed against holidaymakers who refuse to stay in hotels, as so many cottages in my village are holiday lets. I don’t want to meet new people. You may remember that having a male friend stay in my spare room recently was a disaster: he used the main bathroom and my towels. Cleaning his ensuite actually made me gag.
But surely with Airbnb you can introduce some rules, though not as stringent as the ones I faced when I rented a villa in Saint-Tropez a few years ago: ‘Do not feed the tortoise.’ ‘Take any rubbish and recycling to the end of the road.’ ‘Do not force the gate or use the garage.’ ‘Please don’t damage the external stairs when carrying luggage.’ ‘Our manager will demonstrate how the shutters work.’ ‘We have found an increasing amount of sun-cream damage to bed linen, towels and banquette cushions.’ (In other words, we’d rather you got skin cancer.)
‘Please place sunbed cushions inside at night.’ ‘Switch on the pool alarm.’ ‘Children should not play in the cactus garden.’ ‘Please water the geraniums.’ ‘Do not put coffee grounds down the sink.’ ‘Kitchen appliances to be wiped down ONLY with the fibre cloths provided.’ ‘Please use tablemats.’ ‘Do not use parasols in high winds.’ ‘Do not read the books anywhere wet or steal them.’ ‘Children should treat the house with respect. One summer, a child used red pen on the furniture.’ ‘Please respect our neighbours.’
On and on it went. I emailed the owner, who was chasing me for my several thousand pounds, and said, ‘It’s supposed to be a holiday!’ Which is why I have always preferred to stay in a hotel, not someone’s precious home.
I have always wondered why people with that sort of ungenerous mentality decide to rent out their houses, and also where on earth they migrate to in the meantime. But, given no boyfriend is on the horizon, I thought it might be nice to share my home with a well-behaved, hopefully not male guest come spring.
The spare room is gorgeous, with an open fireplace, huge wardrobe, a roll-top bath, ensuite, sofa and views of the church and green. I thought a guest could make their own tea and coffee, then help themselves to a continental breakfast from the prep table (‘It’s not a breakfast bar’) and eat in the garden (thus avoiding crumbs). My only rules will be as follows:
- No dogs, as Teddy hates any dog he doesn’t know.
- Do not step on Mini Puppy.
- Feel free to have sex or listen to music on the Sonos speaker, as at night I’m completely deaf.
- Two-night minimum stay: I’m not a 1950s housewife.
- No shoes or smoking unless I’m shagging you.
- There is parking for one car as long as you pretend you are attending a funeral. Try to look sad.
- No photos of me without make-up. You might mistake me for a tortoise and want to feed me.
I have no idea what to charge or how on earth this will pan out…
