The guest who thought our farm was in the town centre was very cross indeed. She got out of her car by the old fountain and stood hands on hips surveying the meadows sloping from the big old house towards the rugged mountains beyond.
She was wearing knee-length khaki safari shorts, so you’d have thought she’d be pleased to pitch up in the middle of nowhere. But she looked askance at the rolling hills and affected to be shocked by the reality of what was clearly pictured and described on the booking site. She asked how she and her husband were supposed to walk to their drinks party in town that evening. Could they walk there? Not really, I said. Not unless the party was tomorrow evening and they had good hiking boots.
‘Taxi?’ she asked. So we had to explain. The only taxi here is the funeral director. Whether he can take your booking to go anywhere other than the grave very much depends on how many burials he is doing.
When I explain this to most guests, they love it. They think I’m joking for a while and then they realise I’m not. As the builder boyfriend always says, Father Ted is not a comedy, it’s a fly-on-the-wall documentary. The wonder of West Cork is that there really is a place called Whiddy Island, and one of the biggest towns really does boast a Blackpudding Visitor Centre, which advises you to book in advance.
People say ‘No bother!’ to everything, because it is no bother to them. Because they are not going to do it. Can I have a taxi? No bother! This translates as no.
When you call the funeral taxi, he answers the phone after 25 rings and doesn’t say a word while you try to explain why you are being so bold as to want to go somewhere. Finally he says: ‘No bother!’ He can do something next Thursday if you like. Be assured that while you cannot have a taxi until next Thursday, if you happen to die before next Thursday, he will fit you in.
If you cannot appreciate this sort of thing, then you should not be travelling around rural Ireland on the cheap, staying in Airbnbs. Instead, book into a luxury golfing resort with spa – Trump International Doonbeg looks very nice.
The lady, who said she was from America despite having an English accent, did not get it. She kept telling her husband, who was Irish, to phone cabs. From his face, you knew he knew this was pointless.
Almost immediately, the builder boyfriend felt so bad he offered to drive them into town. He even offered to pick them up again when their party was over. But they said they couldn’t possibly accept. They got in their car, she still wearing safari shorts, and said they would drive to their party and not drink.
They left early the next day, looking peevish. The BB offered them coffee. The man said yes please, but unbeknown to me she then told him they didn’t have time. I was making the coffee when I heard them drive away and I ripped a strip off the BB for making me waste a coffee machine full of Lavazza, which screwed our margins, given the price of Lavazza here – only slightly less expensive than a block of gold because the government taxes everything to high heaven so being in the EU does not help one bit when it comes to buying French cheese or Italian coffee. It’s almost cheaper to fly to London and buy it.
I always know when a troublesome review is coming because it takes a long time. This one delayed for two weeks, submitting on the last day possible – same as the man who downgraded us because we didn’t have a doormat. I don’t know why people do this. In the online democracy of endless ratings, if you are going to say you don’t like something, why not get on with it? I think people feel guilty, knowing full well that harshly judging a small private enterprise as though it were a major hotel chain is wrong.
It came in four stars, which put our overall rating down again, and in the comments she typed a warning to potential guests, along the lines that suggested I was deceiving people.
I had a poor Indian chap work on our listing all night, or all day his time, to indicate our exact location in the headline, as well as in the body of the text. He had to override the software to force the system not to link us to the nearest town in any way, just in case someone else in safari shorts wanted to walk to a party.
I appealed the review but after a process that took ten minutes, Airbnb judged it fair.
‘Sorry to put you on the spot,’ said the next one, a week before arrival for a one-night stay. ‘It’s my wife’s birthday…’ He wanted my ideas for something nearby to do to make their stay ‘romantic’. I was desperate to avoid another four stars so I racked my brains. A moonlit stroll along the roadside where Michael Collins was shot? A picnic at Three Castle Head under the stars, and hope you don’t see the white lady, because that means you’re going to die within 24 hours? Whale-watching? Bioluminescence night kayaking, with the Northern Lights if they can be arranged?
I suggested some restaurants then fretted over whether to upgrade him to a better room, or put champagne on the tea tray. The BB, who had the lawnmower upside down to fix it, said absolutely not. ‘Then what should we tell him? He wants to know something romantic to do for his wife’s birthday.’
‘Ask him if he’s thought about taking her to Venice.’
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