JEAN FARRELL,a reader from Athlone, got more than she bargained for when she checked into a B&B in Scotland
‘TALK TO ME. I just love your Irish accent. It doesn’t matter what you say: just talk to me.”
With my mouth full of fried egg I gazed up at my host and knew why I had been avoiding bed and breakfasts.
We were in Scotland, touring. When we were in cities we stayed in cheap and cheerful hotels. Foreign staff, never meeting our eye, booked us in on their computers. Breakfast, available until midday, was entirely self-service.
In northern Scotland hotels were not an option. Little houses, with gardens full of tall wild flowers, had B&B signs galore swinging from their gates. Having no choice, I braved the front door of one. A little old lady showed me to a small bedroom, having got my life history from me on the short journey up the narrow stairs.
“Breakfast will be at 8am,” she announced. “I’ll take your order now. What will ye have?”
I told her I would have to go and look for my husband, who was parking somewhere nearby, and ask him what he would like to eat – at eight o’clock on a Sunday morning.
As I came down the stairs her husband, hovering in the background, rushed out to greet me. He insisted I come into their sitting room to see photographs of him and his relations kissing the Blarney Stone. Having admired all nine photos, I escaped to find our parked car.
My husband and I sneaked up the stairs with our bags, only to be accosted by our landlady, wishing to know exactly how many sausages and rashers we wanted for breakfast. And would we like a whole tomato, half a tomato or no tomato?
Sitting on the candlewick spread, we found ourselves whispering as we craned our necks to gaze up at the tiny television on top of the narrow wardrobe. The local village seemed a more pleasant option.
Later, after a big meal and a very sociable night, we sneaked in, conscious that all in the house had long since gone to bed. Eight o’clock the next morning came very quickly.
A Swedish and a French couple, all eating breakfast, looked a lot fresher than we did. The man of the house was delighted to play host as his wife brought in small bowls of cornflakes. He insisted on introducing us to each other and telling my husband and me his other guests’ news. We smiled at one another awkwardly.
He told us in detail about his many visits to Ireland and that what he loved best of all was “the ivy growing up the telegraph poles”. This impressed him so much that he told us about it three times as his busy wife placed my husband’s breakfast in front of him.
He, still full from last night’s meal, gazed at the four rashers, three sausages, two fried eggs and half a tomato on his plate.
“You have to eat it,” I whispered. “You said you wanted it all.”
“I did not!”
“Yes, you did! Last night.”
“That’s because I was starving then.”
"Well, you haveto eat it," I hissed. "Here she comes."
“Is everything all right?” she asked, looking at his untouched plate.
“Fine. Fine,” I assured her.
We ate as much as we could – until our host descended on us again, imploring us to talk to him in our lovely Irish accents.
This was the last straw. We got up from the table, paid our bill, packed quickly and fled.
I had forgotten how suffocating some B&Bs can be. Back in the 1970s, when we knew no better, we were easily impressed.
Landladies’ life stories were another reason I’d been avoiding B&Bs for years. Over many breakfasts they have stood at my shoulder, telling long tales of woe. I’m sorry for their plight, but I’m on my holidays, trying to get away from my troubles.
We spent that Sunday of our Scottish tour looking for a real hotel. We drove along country roads, with huge electronic signs telling us that deer may leap over us at any moment or that rocks may come tumbling down on us. Around bends we met mountain sheep strolling along the middle of the road with tour buses and camper vans behind them.
On and on we went, through magnificent scenery, until, at last, we saw a hotel. We booked in for our remaining two days – and were cheerfully ignored by the busy staff and let get on with things our way.
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