The B&B

In 1989, I decided that I would turn Number 2 Longstone Terrace into a five-star B&B.  I had to pick a name for it so I chose Illiswilgig after one of the smaller islands in the Norrard Rocks, close to Scilly Rock. That was fine, but some wry article sent me a letter one day addressed to Ishiswillibig. 

First, I had to design a heating system to go in, as my sitting room was the only warm room in the house. It had a small open fire with a back-boiler to heat the water in the kitchen — not very conducive to happy guests, so a new heating system was needed 

I had a great trip to the mainland to source all the radiators, pipes, boiler, oil tank and fittings I’d need to do the job. I took my car over for a couple of weeks but soon found I didn’t have enough room in it for everything, so I ended up buying a trailer to put the rest in. I had no trouble at all filling it up with all manner of things I couldn’t readily buy in Scilly. I was like a kid in a sweet shop. Oh, ok, lots of sweet shops! 

When I finally got it all home, I spent the winter installing the lot. I put a shower and toilet upstairs, radiators and hand basins in all the rooms. Once that was done, I needed linen for the beds, wallpaper, paint, curtains, towels and all sorts of kitchen bits. So, another day trip was planned. 

The Shopping Trolley

I went over on the helicopter and spent the day in Penzance with a large Tesco-style shopping trolley, along with my dear friend Rita, who was also buying equipment for her guesthouse. Once we’d found everything we needed, we set about filling the trolley and tying stuff on it, around it, over it and under it. Then we set off on foot, for the heliport — both of us trying to control the wayward trolley, in places on the main road, stopping the traffic and laughing all the way. 

Fortunately, it was a nice day, and we managed to get it all to the heliport dry. But the best bit? We weren’t charged for all the extra stuff we were taking back with us. Bless the BIH company. 

The Waitress

The rest of the winter was taken up getting ready to open the doors to guests in April. When it was finished, I was chuffed to bits. I was eventually licensed to sleep five, but it wasn’t long before I realised that if I created a bedroom for myself elsewhere — which just happened to be in the old toilet across the yard — I could sleep seven. Brilliant. 

The toilet was duly converted, and I slept quite peacefully out there for the summer months. 

I’d rise at about 7 a.m., lay the breakfast table, then start cooking. Breakfast was served at 8:15 on the dot. At 9 a.m., I’d cram my vehicle with holidaying bodies and drop them down in the town while I went about the boating business for the day. 

I had a waitress–cum–chambermaid to help. She’d turn up at 8 a.m., do all the serving, and then the cleaning and chambermaiding after I’d headed into town. 

My most memorable maid was Debbie. She was fantastic — always so helpful in every way. 

Like the time when I had the Board of Trade surveyor staying for the night in late March. He was over to do the pleasure boat surveys before the season began. I was a little late with his breakfast, so I glibly said to Debbie as she took his toast and tea in, “Keep him amused for a minute or two while I finish his cooked breakfast.” 

The next minute I heard banging, clumping and muffled voices. I peeked around the corner, and there was Debbie doing a tap dance for him! Properly keeping him amused. Well, it amused me — and still does to this day. 

One problem with sleeping so soundly in the old toilet was that I relied 100% on my alarm clock. So, you can imagine my horror one morning, with a full house of guests, when I was suddenly awoken by a loud thumping on the door at 8 a.m. 

I shot out of bed, rushed to the door, realised I’d overslept, swung it open — and there was Debbie, in a full wetsuit, with her bike, in the pouring rain… and me standing there in my underpants. I was just so glad there was no one else there with a camera. 

We went into panic work mode and managed to get the guests sorted by 8:25. Not too bad, all things considered. 

The Inspector!
Another very memorable episode was one night in June. I had a full house of five people, two of my friends sleeping in the rooms, and another two in the sitting room. To my horror, I discovered that the man in the single room was the Rosette Awards inspector. 

To keep things away from his prying eyes, I decided to feed the five “legitimate” guests in the dining room and the other four in the kitchen. I told the four to go out through the front door, in the morning, walk around the terrace and come in via the back door to the kitchen. 

All was going well. Breakfasts were flying out, and I was starting to relax — until I suddenly heard the inspector knocking at the dining room door, asking if he could settle his bill as he had to leave. 

Almost having a heart attack, I leapt about ten feet to the door to stop him from walking through and seeing the four hidden away in the kitchen. I succeeded. He paid up and left quite happy… leaving me with two Rosettes and a pain in my chest. Phew! 

The Honeymooners

One fine Saturday morning, I had just taken six cooked breakfasts into the dining room when I saw a young couple walking past the window towards the front door with their cases. 

I opened the door. They were standing at the bottom of the three steps, looking up at me. Early twenties, I’d guess. 

What entered my head, I know not, but I barked down at them, “Hello, can I help you?” in a proper John Cleese-esque way. 

“Y-y-yes,” the man stuttered, “we are staying here and have arrived a bit earlier than we thought!” 

“Well, you’d better come in then, hadn’t you!” I barked again, faking a furious glower. 

They started to pick their cases up and I said, “Leave them there. Put them down. I’ll get them for you later — you just get in the dining room, through there on the left!” 

I followed them in and put a chair at either end of the table. Still in a very gruff tone, I told them to each sit in one of the chairs — now eight feet apart. 

“So, you’re staying here with us, are you?” I barked again. 

They both looked horrified, wondering what sort of hellhole they’d booked in to. 

I asked what they’d like  — tea, coffee, toast — while standing behind another guest. She started asking them how far they’d travelled, so I poked her in the back and said, “Stop talking to them and eat your breakfast. I want you out quickly as this couple are going to have your room!” 

She turned to me and said, “But the taxi isn’t coming for us until 11 a.m.” 

I looked at her menacingly. “You can wait outside, can’t you?” I said, then turned on my heel and headed for the kitchen. 

I heard much laughter after that as the others reassured the young couple I was only joking. But I swear the poor man was on the verge of bolting, and his wife was on the edge of tears. 

They were on their honeymoon, as I later learned, but they very soon got into the Illiswilgig holiday spirit. They had a brilliant time, and we all got on famously. 

One of the things I loved doing was having barbecues and parties in the garden — and often included the guests. Over the years, many of them ended up like family. 

One Saturday morning, as I took two breakfasts in, I told the two guests sitting there that I was going to cook a huge lasagna for a party that night. “If you want to join in,” I said, “just bring a bottle!” 

They were in. 

The next pair came in and also said yes — but the wife couldn’t eat garlic. 

So, me being me, I said, “That’s fine, I’ll do two — one without garlic.” 

Then the next pair arrived. Vegetarians. 

“No problem,” I cried. “If I can make two, I can make three!” 

So that day I set about making three lasagnas, wishing the whole time I wasn’t so bloody nice. Still, it all worked out brilliantly in the end. 

One of the more memorable ones was an Ascot barbeque we had where all the ladies had to come in fancy hats.

Again, it was great success. Unfortunately I can only find one photo of the evening at the moment.

Ann & Julia

Another night, I got home at about 9 p.m. A lovely elderly couple, Mike and Mary, were having coffee at the dining table before bed. I joined them for a chat, and suddenly a brilliant idea popped into my head. 

“Fancy a swift half?” I asked. 

They looked at me, expecting I’d produce a couple of cans from the fridge. 

“Well, that would be great,” said Michael. 

“Grab your coats,” I ordered, as I went out to start the car. Within half an hour we were in the Turks Head on St Agnes, having shot over in my ‘With’ (speed boat). 

I think their heads were still spinning by the time we got back around 11:30, but they loved that impromptu night trip. I did to.  

There is something very special about doing trips out at night.

I loved being able to just go and do something that wasn’t planned. Something that involved excitement, a beer, a boat, or a barbeque.