Bear B and B

Bear B and B by Chris Green

If you stay in Airbnb frequently you become used to a few quirks. Each one has its own peculiarities. Lottii and I stayed at one in Beachcastle last year that asked us not to disturb the gulls nesting on the roof. Another in Everwinter asked us not to feed the snake. We did not come across the snake, but that there might be a slithering serpent lurking made us a little wary of sleeping that night. We stayed in one airbnb recently where a notice instructed us not to try to swing our cat. A humorous reference to the lack of space therein, placed there perhaps by a previous occupant. Yet the accommodation here was colossal compared to Mo’s in Chesham. Here you could reach the toaster, the microwave and the kettle without getting out of bed.

Advertised as annexes, many lets in our price range are converted garages, usually considerably smaller than they appear in the photos. A lot of effort must go into making the space look larger. Perhaps there is an app that does this or a Photoshop filter. Estate Agent Perspective Transform algorithm or something. Reviews don’t tell the whole story. Lottii writes our reviews and she is as guilty as anyone, not leaving bad reviews in case it makes prospective hosts wary of letting to us.

Keys are often left in a lockbox, so you don’t always get to meet your hosts. But if you do, they tend to be pleasant and upbeat and skilled at small talk. We might chat about the Bank Holiday traffic, the weather prospects for the week ahead, or what’s showing on Netflix. Occasionally though, something about our hosts raises alarm bells. Benedict and Barbara spring to mind. We have booked a studio apartment in their Edwardian villa on a wide avenue in Carchester. By anyone’s reckoning this is an impressive residence. It has a gated driveway and a summerhouse and an orangery in the garden at the rear of the house, along with an ornamental pond brimming with coy carp. At the bottom of the garden there is a tennis court. The large windowless brick outbuilding to the side looks out of place here. Perhaps it is a workshop or is used for storage.

Benedict and Barbara are home to greet us. They look more severe than in the airbnb photograph. They remind me of the couple in the painting, American Gothic. As we introduce ourselves I feel ill at ease.

‘We have visitors sometimes.’ Barbara says. ‘I thought you ought to know.’

‘Of course,’ I say. ‘With a lovely house like this, why wouldn’t you have people round?’

‘What my wife is trying to say is that the visitors are not from round here,’ Benedict says.

‘They come to play tennis, perhaps,’ I suggest, pointing to the court. ‘I’m afraid Lottii and I don’t play.’

‘They don’t have tennis where they come from,’ Barbara says, cryptically.

‘They are from far away,’ Benedict says, with undue emphasis. ‘If you come across them while you are here, it’s best if you don’t try to engage them in conversation.’

‘No problem,’ I say. ‘We tend to keep ourselves to ourselves.’

A strange conversation, more hostile than you might expect as a welcome, but when you travel as much as we do, you are bound to come across difficult people from time to time. It’s important not to be judgemental. Benedict and Barbara might simply be having a bad day. Perhaps the Lexus failed to start or the AGA was having a blip. Maybe their stockbroker called with some bad news on their blue chip share portfolio. We agree to try to think no more about it.

That night though, I am woken by a chorus of low-pitched voices coming from the bottom of the garden. Lottii is able to sleep through anything. She does not hear it.

I look out of the window. Although it is dark, I can make out the silhouettes of a band of shadowy figures pacing around the tennis court. Low voices chant tunelessly. They seem to be acting out some sort of arcane ritual. Some age-old satanic rite, the wicker man come to Carchester, None of the reviews mentioned this. What is it that is happening here?

I try to wake Lottii but she is resistant to the idea. Meanwhile, the scene fades in and out as if reality is struggling to stabilise. One minute it is there, the next it is gone. Finally, the spectacle fades into nothing. There are no figures. There are no voices. Not so much as a grainy image left to reference what has been taking place. Lottii wakes and asks what all the fuss is about. She doesn’t believe me when I tell her about the disturbance.

‘Leaping around and chanting, you say?’ she says.

‘Not really leaping. More pacing.’

‘But stealthily?’

‘Yes, with an air of menace,’ I say.

‘And fading in and out?’

‘Like the effect you get in cheap sci-fi movies to simulate time travel.’

‘But they vanished just like that?’

‘No, they faded in and out first.’

‘But then they were gone.’

‘They’re not there now, are they? So yes, they disappeared.’

‘Spirited away you say in some strange silent shapeless vehicle that was waiting for them by that big shed thing in the garden?’

‘I’m thinking it might have something to do with that mysterious outbuilding.’

‘H’mm. I’m going back to sleep, Dean. And so should you. Dreamland. That’s where these phantasms belong.’

Lottii’s argument is so persuasive that I begin to question what I saw or whether I simply dreamt it. Nocturnal imagination can be far-reaching. And since Dean Dennis Designs ran into financial difficulties, I have been having regular nightmares. It’s been a stressful time and of course, I’ve been trying to keep the news from Lottii.

I don’t mention the disturbance to Benedict and Barbara when we see them the next day. For one thing, it does not look like B and B want to engage in conversation. Perhaps the Lexus still won’t start or the AGA repair man has not been round to fix it. Maybe their stock portfolio is right down the pan. I remember reading that the FTSE index was dropping as a result of the tension in the Middle East. Perhaps that’s where their investment is. The petrochemicals market has long been a place to grow your nest egg for those with the wherewithal who are so inclined. B and B don’t look like the type to be put off by ethical concerns about climate change or resource depletion. Nor do I ask about what happens in the big brick outbuilding with no windows. We have not come to Carchester to sit around worrying about where we are staying. It’s not as if we have to think about it once we get back to Betterlea.

Having not slept much, I drop off easily that night, so I am surprised the following morning when Lottii says, ‘Didn’t you see the bear in the garden last night, Dean? What a commotion that was!’

‘What!’ I say.

‘All the huffing and growling?’

‘Hey?’

‘The big brown bear, tramping all over the flower beds,’ she says. ‘I think they may keep it in that big brick outbuilding, and let it out at night.’

Bears are not common in these parts. They’re not good at negotiating the Carchester traffic. Is Lottii humouring me? Sometimes it is hard to tell.

Bear or no bear, perhaps this illustrates why airbnb reviews can be unreliable. While most reviews are complimentary about the accommodation and written in a condescending manner, occasionally one bucks the trend and tells it like it is. Or at least comes up with a colourful story about bears. And herein lies the danger. You never know what to believe. What if there actually is a bear? To be on the safe side it’s best to take the accuracy of airbnb accommodation reviews with a pinch of salt.

Copyright © Chris Green, 2024: All rights reserved