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Running a B&B certainly does evoke a sense of nostalgia. Meeting people of different socio-cultural backgrounds brings back memories of the days when we used to travel a good deal to different countries and continents for work and leisure. The people we met, each different and yet so similar in their dreams and concerns, enriched our lives.
Although I'd long dreamed about running a B&B, I had misgivings at first that it was going to work; I imagined burnt breakfasts and colour-runs on white sheets turning them a florescent pink. I had feared our guests wouldn't like our house, the way we had done it up, and maybe abhor the swirling scent of aromatherapy oil simmering above an obliging candle flame.
And yet we've been pleasantly surprised time and time again. Our guests have been nothing short of wonderful and appreciative and the stoney doubts that squatted gargoyle-like on my shoulders are crumbling away. Gargoyles belong on the walls of religious institutions.
It's not been accident-free in the kitchen although the sheets are safe. The furious albeit futile fanning of acrid smoke from charred sausages and six broken egg yolks that ran from my attempts at perfection ahave been major cringe points. If only our guests had seen how many of those cooked breakfasts I'd had to eat after every practice, they couldn't swallow even an inviting golden crumb from feeling sympathy pains.But we get there in the end and it's all been worth it.
I can't explain why I feel good each time a guest tells me the room's lovely, the bed's comfy and they've been spoilt. I've never been house proud and would rather be looking after flea-ridden dogs and stinky cats that get stinkier each time they wash themselves than be washing, cleaning and cooking, and washing, cleaning and cooking.... So what's this change that has come over me? Is it what's known as ageing and mellowing?
Yesterday, two guests, a father and his son, who live oceans apart, asked if they could possibly stay another night. They'd been holidaying together now the younger of the two was spending part of his university break visiting his London-based parent. I felt privileged that part of this re-union was spent within the walls of this house.They were two of the nicest people we'd met so were sorry to see them go. We wish them well.
I always believed I would be providing guests a service and aimed high thinking their gratification would in turn please me. I see now that what makes this entire experience significantly more meaningful is what my guests share with me - a part of themselves - and it humbles me. At the end of the day, what makes me flesh and blood is not a stack of paper qualifications but the sum total of my experiences in this lifetime.
I am embarrassed to admit my inadequacies and empty my emotional contents into public space, but all the same it's nothing to be ashamed of. This has been a complete change of direction in my life and I'm loving it. Keats' "To Autumn" comes to mind although 40 is not exactly autumnal nor 109 twilight. Here's some of the loveliest words from one of humankind's greatest poets.
Season of mists and mellow fruitfulness,
Close bosom-friend of the maturing sun;
Conspiring with him how to load and bless
With fruit the vines that round the thatch-eves run;
To bend with apples the moss'd cottage-trees,
And fill all fruit with ripeness to the core;
To swell the gourd, and plump the hazel shells
With a sweet kernel; to set budding more,
And still more, later flowers for the bees,
Until they think warm days will never cease,
For Summer has o'er-brimm'd their clammy cells.
Who hath not seen thee oft amid thy store?
Sometimes whoever seeks abroad may find
Thee sitting careless on a granary floor,
Thy hair soft-lifted by the winnowing wind;
Or on a half-reap'd furrow sound asleep,
Drows'd with the fume of poppies, while thy hook
Spares the next swath and all its twined flowers:
And sometimes like a gleaner thou dost keep
Steady thy laden head across a brook;
Or by a cyder-press, with patient look,
Thou watchest the last oozings hours by hours.
Where are the songs of Spring? Ay, where are they?
Think not of them, thou hast thy music too, -
While barred clouds bloom the soft-dying day,
And touch the stubble plains with rosy hue;
Then in a wailful choir the small gnats mourn
Among the river sallows, borne aloft
Or sinking as the light wind lives or dies;
And full-grown lambs loud bleat from hilly bourn;
Hedge-crickets sing; and now with treble soft
The red-breast whistles from a garden-croft;
And gathering swallows twitter in the skies.
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