House swap? No thanks!

Holidaying in someone else’s home is no holiday at all, says Rebecca Fleet

Afew months ago, I had a crisis call from a friend on holiday. She’d just arrived at the house that would be her base for the next week, and she wasn’t happy. ‘It’s amazing,’ she wailed. ‘Pristine, incredible furnishings, all mod cons.’

Of course, under normal circumstances, this would be cause for celebration. But this wasn’t just a holiday home – this was a house swap, and my friend was now going through a torrent of humiliation over the fact that her own home just didn’t measure up. ‘They’re going to hate it,’ she cried. ‘The bedroom door squeaks loudly enough to wake the dead, the fuse blows pretty much every time you switch on the lounge light, and I’ve just remembered I left a stray pair of pants drying on the radiator…’

I made the right noises, but it was hard to sympathise; she’d brought it on herself. Entering into a house swap is effectively throwing open your doors to strangers declaring, ‘Judge me, judge me!’ – only you aren’t even there to make excuses for your home’s little quirks. You might be used to the visiting cat that yowls outside the back door every night at 3am, but your guests won’t be. And if the thought of a stranger sleeping in your bed isn’t weird enough, think of them staring up at that damp patch on the ceiling that you always fondly thought looked a bit like Italy… and wondering why on earth you’d never painted over it.

What’s more, by offering up your quarters, you’re accepting investigation of your nooks and crannies. Like most people, I’m naturally curious. If I’m at a friend’s place, I have to restrain myself from peeking inside their birthday cards if they leave the room. Given free rein of a house for a week, the sky would be the limit, and no doubt my guests would be doing the same.

In my case, it wouldn’t take long before visitors discovered the hidden wonders of my under-stairs cupboard. The bundled-away style disasters

(surely those Spandex skirts will come back into fashion?), that china cat collection that I know is weird but can’t quite let go of… it’s the domestic version of Pandora’s box. Far safer not to put myself in that position in the first place.

And when I read reports of guests throwing huge parties in Airbnb rentals, scrawling on the walls and throwing furniture out of the window, my first thought is, ‘What did you expect?’

I still shudder at the memory of the blind that collapsed on my head in a holiday cottage and took a chunk out of the wall on the way down, and the panic I felt when my daughter merrily broke the beak off an ornamental duck. Yes, it might have cost 50p from a car-boot sale, but what if it had been a priceless antique or family heirloom? That’s the thing with other people’s stuff: you just never know. I ended up paying £50 extra by way of compensation.

The other side of the equation isn’t much better. One friend ended up in such a dirty house swap that she spent much of the week doggedly scrubbing their neglected pots and pans and trying to ignore the dust clouds that puffed out whenever she sat on the sofa. I’m pretty sure that’s not what people mean when they talk about a ‘home from home’.

It will come as no surprise, then, that my holiday accommodation of choice is a hotel. Preferably one with a power shower, 24-hour service and free chocolates on the pillow. But then anything is better than a house swap. I want somewhere clean, tidy, someone else’s responsibility – and with no panics that I might not have hidden my teenage diaries well enough. Some things should definitely stay behind closed doors…

‘Given free rein of a house, the sky would be the limit’