I’ve always found it strange that often the first thing guests ask me, when I check them in is, ‘how long have you been here?’ 

If they’re unfortunate enough to ask my husband, he usually says, ‘all day’ but he thinks he’s funny.

I wonder if it’s panic. They think they’ve booked somewhere ‘nice’. And don’t get me wrong, they have. Then they get me answering the door – in my finest bog cleaning trousers with the bleach stain, if they’re particularly early, and you can tell they’re praying we know what we’re doing. And that’s after they’ve been chased down by our feral pheasant, Lego, who’s been head-butting the door for the last ten minutes because we’re late with his dinner. Top tip – sunflower seed hearts will buy you safe passage.

But honestly it’s not that bad. The guests that have been coming here for forty odd years (well before our time as proprietors) will attest to that. 

What makes them return time and time again? I’d like to think it is us but it isn’t, of course. 

It’s the Lakes. The brutal comfort of rocky fellside against the warm shallows of a July lakeshore. Slurping at an ice cream in Keswick, after spending the morning convinced you’re about to gasp your last on a slog up to the summit of Skiddaw, to then realise you’re only halfway on your hike. It’s the Alps but civilised, tameable, quintessentially English. The weather – often dire but oh so wonderful in the sun. 

‘You’re so lucky,’ they say. Well yes, we are. We definitely are. I make sure I remind myself when I’m cleaning my seventh toilet, when the housework is as brutal as that slog up Skiddaw. 

And then our guests arrive and it’s worth it. We’ve had guests from every continent now, even Antarctica, if you count the guy that worked there for part of the year. All walks of life, from the young to the still young at heart, the hardened hikers to the first time sightseers. And that couple that left early, ‘cos there’s nowt to do round ‘ere.’ But you’ll never win them all.

‘You must have some tales to tell,’ they often say. 

‘Yeah, I might even write a book,’ I threaten with a wink.  

A phone call to ask if I’ve put them in the right room, because they booked a room with a fell view, and they can’t see them. ‘Erm,’ I hesitate, attempting to enable my brain to mouth filter whilst resisting the urge to paraphrase Basil, ‘that’s because it’s dark.’

Or the day spent trying to rid ourselves of the creature that was scratching at the inside of the wall. Of course we thought the worst and called pest control but he couldn’t come out in time and when you have paying guests arriving into that room, you have no choice but to ‘deal with things’ yourself. So, armed with a screwdriver gaffer-taped to two connected draining rods, the intrepid husband crawled the length of the loft. Fearing beady eyes and pointy teeth he shone his torch into the v shaped void and was met with a beak instead. Damned jackdaws!

Or during a rushed breakfast service when said husband ventured into The Cupboard of Despair, or my pantry, as it’s also known. Not wanting to bother me with such a simple request, as I fried, poached, boiled and scrambled, he took the task upon himself. Searching for the requested demerara sugar for their porridge, he tipped a bit into a little bowl and dropped it off only  to be stopped on his next pass of the dining room. ‘Excuse me, but I don’t think this is sugar.’ 

I must admit raw bulgar wheat does look incredibly similar, even if the texture is that of lake bottom grit. We were lucky in that instance. They were regulars, complete with sense of humour. 

It really does help if you’re going to stay here.

And how long have we been here? Nearly fourteen wonderful years.