Fully Booked: "It isn't called 'running' a bed and breakfast for nothing"

By Emma Strandberg

It isn’t called “running” a bed and breakfast for nothing. What do you do when you move to a foreign country and haven’t yet mastered the language and customs? Take it easy or find an old house in need of rebuilding and open a bed and breakfast? Never one to run from a challenge, that’s exactly what forty-something Emma Strandberg did in an idyllic seaside town on the west coast of Sweden – in the middle of a winter where temperatures dipped the mercury to minus twenty-two! With feet of snow, few daylight hours and a very small budget, Emma battled constantly with the challenges thrown at her. It grew so cold the plaster and paint turned to slush, wood snapped and cracked in the old house and the frequent night climbs onto the roof resulted in bruises, cuts and a couple of broken bones. Having survived the renovation the real business of running a bed and breakfast began.
No sleep, a lack of privacy and the odd drunken threesome (by the guests!) would push her to her limit. Kindness, generosity and warmth shown by others saved her from defeat. With perseverance and determination, Emma succeeded in living her dream. Here you can share her extraordinary journey.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Melrose Books
• Release date: Feb 14, 2017
• ISBN: 9781910792575

Book preview

Dare to Dream

My personal D-Day had arrived: May 11th. I woke early, showered and dressed. I felt almost lost, there was nothing left to do but wait.

The paint was barely dry, and despite having the required permits and licenses in place from appropriate authorities, I felt nervous and apprehensive. Had I overlooked anything fundamental?

Checking outside for the umpteenth time for signs of a car, I shivered. There was still a chill in the air. I hugged my yellow shawl tighter around me like a safety blanket. ‘Na’er cast a clout till May is out’, I heard the familiar Scottish voice inside my head and promptly told it to bugger off. I had plenty more to worry about today.

The first guests would be arriving any moment. Dinner, bed, and breakfast for a small group of businessmen for two nights, including a golf package and whisky tasting. Additionally, one Swedish couple had booked a standard room for one night. All five rooms were full.

Finally, as the first arrivals drove into the car park, waving and smiling, I forgave myself my last minute nerves, stood a little taller and crossed my fingers tightly behind my back. Then I smiled and waved a welcome. I was in business.

WHY HERE …

I am constantly asked why here, why Strömstad? It’s true to say the west coast of Sweden is a paradise for children and adults alike. During summertime, the entire area opens its doors and welcomes a host of nationalities to enjoy the very best that Sweden has to offer. The Bohuslän Coast, together with its stunning archipelago, offers clean water, fresh air, good weather and great sea temperatures. Kind hospitality, scrumptious food and long hours of daylight, all serve in tempting the young and the old, the grumpy and the happy, the rich and the not so well off. It lures people from Sweden and many other countries around the globe to get outdoors, get barbecuing and truly enjoy summertime.

The summer is short here though, and during autumn and winter it can be wet, cold – freezing in fact – but still beautiful. No matter the weather, guests come and enjoy the warm hospitality on offer here at my bed and breakfast. They come for all sorts of reasons.

Be it for pleasure or business, a blind date or a funeral, a brief stopover en route to elsewhere or a well planned romantic weekend, a bed and breakfast can serve its lodgers as a place of quiet solitude – one of comfort and safety, indulgence and fun. A bed and breakfast can be an unexciting necessity or a perfect base to explore from. Accommodation, as we have all found, can range from boring, colourless and lacklustre to being welcoming, impressive, embracing – even outstanding. This depends on many factors, and the list is diverse. The guests are equally so.

How did you end up in Sweden? my new arrivals asked me. And more to the point, why here?

I’d love to say it was a carefully planned and executed decision, but that would be a lie.

However, with Sweden’s most westerly inhabited islands located just off the coast of Strömstad, a short ferry ride away, it’s little wonder that tourists flood here from around the world.

The Koster Islands are a small fishing community set in the most glorious landscape. Both North and South Koster are nature reserves, virtually car free, and they differ in their own way. One has more beaches and soft terrain, the other more rugged and robust. Both islands are the type of place you’d spend the day and wish you could stay forever. As the local tourist office advises of the area: If you wish to spend the night book well in advance, demand is higher than availability.

Is it any wonder then that, when deciding just where I would open my dream bed and breakfast, I should choose the town of Strömstad? With its links to Norway and Sweden by road and sea, good motorway access north, south and east, and, of course, being the hub for ferries to the Islands of Koster, I could be challenged to find a more suitable spot.

Having fallen in love with Italy some years earlier, I was sure that I would settle there, but the perfect property simply didn’t appear. It seemed like fate, therefore, when I found myself in Strömstad and saw a sign saying, ‘Capri 7 km’. With visions of the Blue Grotto in mind, I rented a bicycle, followed my nose and found coastal heaven. The short bicycle ride took me through narrow roads with summer homes in the typically stylish Scandinavian design, quaint gardens rolling down to golden beaches and rocky outcrops, glittering blue sea and the islands on the horizon. The sun was setting, and I felt I had arrived home. Not to the legendary idyll of Capri that charmed Roman emperors, but to the Swedish namesake, iconic in its own endearing way. Neither were strangers to tourism, but I felt, in comparison, the Swedish version had a more real feel to it. Not all glitzy movie stars and Russian money, more a play pen for families accommodated in pre-used, militarily functional buildings and a pretty little beach to relax on without the need for Prada or Gabbana to justify your being there. For a few shorts weeks in summer, this place would be jam packed. The rest of the year the locals could enjoy its simplistic beauty for themselves.

Again, only one week later, as I walked along the coastline exploring the area with my husband, we both agreed it was the most beautiful place in the world. Eight weeks later we moved into a rather dull detached property in a cul-de-sac. A year down the line we sold it in a rush, allowing me to acquire my ‘dream’ property. Sounds reckless? Yes, probably a little, but shouldn’t everyone follow their dreams or simply end up wishing they had?

I didn’t allow myself to wonder what my family thought about me moving to the back of beyond. In their humble opinion, the back of beyond meant any city or town that had no Starbucks (my niece), no Marks and Spencer’s (my sister), and to where Fortnum’s doesn’t have a regular delivery service (my sister and my aunt). Who did I think I was with such far-fetched notions of running a bed and breakfast? On the one occasion I did seek their opinion, they laughed a little too loudly for a little too long, while reminding me I could barely make my own bed. But we have only one life, and that was my dream, and that’s what I decided to do.

Villa K became known locally as ‘Emma’s House’ some time before I actually owned it. Cycling past the old tumble- down property in the middle of the golf course, I found myself publically saying to anyone who would listen to me that I wanted to own it.

That house should be mine.

I would love to renovate it and open up a bed and breakfast there.

It’s meant for me.

I know one day it will be mine, I said again and again. I believed it, too.

So, naturally, when it did come on the market for sale, I would have rather a lot of explaining to do if I didn’t buy it. I called my husband the day the ‘for sale’ sign went up, and after a short discussion we agreed to put our house on the market. We also put in an offer for the partially dilapidated Villa K. We had literally just finished renovating our existing cul-de-sac home and had lived there barely a year.

We had known one another for barely two years, but followed our, or rather my, dream and proceeded to sell and buy in fast succession. Meetings with the estate agent and owner resulted in offering, arguing, then crying and ultimately begging him to sell me the property at a price I could afford. Eventually, the deal was struck and my dream home was secured.

As my plans developed, I knew there would be some real work ahead of me: rebuilding the house, creating a space people would want to pay money to stay in, building a website, marketing the business and managing the operation on every level. I’d have to learn to cook the perfect breakfast and evening meal. Seven days a week, I would be a bed and breakfaster. The image consumed me day and night. I couldn’t wait to get started. Employing staff, or even paying a cleaner, would be too expensive. I knew long, hard days were ahead of me, but the thrill of owning my own business and working from home was more than I needed to sustain my enthusiasm.

THE RENOVATION …

If only the property had been a finished article for some time beforehand. With plumbing tried and tested and the smell of fresh paint subsided a little, I may have felt more confident when welcoming my new guests, but it wasn’t. Bearing in mind not three months previously (in minus sixteen weather) it had no roof, and two months ago no water or heating system was installed. I was taking a risk. Six months ago I still had earth floors; in fact, six months ago I had barely four walls. This is by no means an exaggeration. Rebuilding the old house was the most intense and insane thing I had ever done or dreamed of doing. Had my husband and I been more financially comfortable it may have been easier, but we simply weren’t. Every penny had been accounted for, and it was an enormous gamble to rebuild the house into what would be suitable accommodation for a bed and breakfast.

The house itself dated back to the mid-1700s originally. However, it had undergone some unkind changes in the late 1970s. Steeped in local history, it required a careful and sympathetic hand to bring it up to date and make it comfortable and workable as both our family home and a bed and breakfast. With my husband working away ten weeks out of twelve, I was left completely alone to get on with it.

Get on with it I would, but where does one start? It was late September 2009, a Friday, when I obtained the keys on the scheduled day of completion for the purchase of Villa K. I had loaned a large van and packed all our worldly goods into it. I also rented a huge, steel double-door shipping container that was delivered just before lunchtime to our new address. It rained – no, actually it poured, cats and dogs. Thankfully we had sold most of our larger pieces of furniture in the sale of our house, so I could manage to lift the packed items myself, just.

Nothing seemed easy. Struggling through the rain the plywood floor of the container became slippery. Boxes slid in my wet hands, and the container itself, not being on completely flat ground, meant the door was incredibly stiff to open and close. I then realised that it came without a lock, and had to go shopping immediately, spending a ridiculously large amount of cash on a heavy-duty, high-security padlock. I had ordered a non-insulated container to save money, which was my first mistake of many.

I didn’t know it yet, but hindsight would prove that the week previously I had managed to make an utterly miraculous decision. I had asked several builders in the area to quote on the planned renovation. Not quite ‘feeling the love’ from any of them, I asked a small firm of only two men who I knew vaguely to come and look at this old, traditional wooden house. This would be a huge project for them, and I doubted they could manage it. As I listened to their recommendations, however, I knew instantly that they understood the house and would be sympathetic to its needs. The senior partner in the team had an inbuilt understanding of old properties bordering on genius. Whilst they were a small company and would need to draft in further help as needed, I followed my heart and asked them to do the work. They weren’t sure if they could spare the time as their workload was heavy, and this would take months. In this area, the same could be said for any workmen worth his salt. The only factor working in my favour was that it was winter, and most work was conducted through spring and summer. From May onwards you have not a chance of finding a builder or electrician available as they are booked-up solid. That suited me. By May I needed to be finished and have the business open.

Finally, I had an agreement in principal from the duo to do the renovation works. However, I had been waiting to hear further from them regarding a possible start date. Apparently they could give me no idea as to when this might be, as they had to finish their existing work first. I had made lists and drawings, outlined work schedules and timings together with budgets and shopping lists, and diligently forwarded them on in the hope of encouraging a little more dialogue and a confirmed start date. All had gone unanswered, and as I unloaded the van in the pouring rain, I started to wonder whether my decision to use a small company had been a wise one. If the work couldn’t start soon, it would never be finished by spring. I had already started marketing the business through the local tourist board. I had even agreed to a handful of bookings, so confident was I of being open on time. We had no time to lose if we were to generate the required income needed to pay the loans we had taken out to buy and renovate the property.

I was, therefore, a little surprised and hugely relieved when, unlocking the shiny, new padlock to the container door and unloading boxes from the van, I heard a quiet voice behind me: Hej Emma.

Oh, hello, I returned.

That was the dialogue over with apparently. The two men had arrived and would be starting work immediately. Within the hour I heard almighty banging and went in to discover they had started to dismantle the old kitchen. I barely had time to unpack my camera. I had imagined taking hundreds of pictures in order to keep a concise ‘before and after’ journal. I realized that with these two on board, I’d have to be pretty quick.

I never again questioned my decision. These two men did the work of four, and when the project called for help it was drafted in. The entire project would go on to see fourteen workmen on site at the busiest times, including plumbers, electricians, carpenters, painters, excavators and one or two ground specialists, but for now it was just us three. Yes, I would be working hands-on too, as our budget was small and I knew I would be literally labouring and plastering my way through winter. Did you know plaster, paint and other fillers don’t dry below minus ten? No, neither did I; but I do now.

The visions of me doing a ‘David Bailey’ through the house evaporated in a cloud of choking dust as the old kitchen cupboards were prized off the walls.

Emma, if you could just start by lifting this lot outside as soon as possible that would be great.

If I didn’t have a skip coming, I’d better get one fast, they reminded me as well. In fact, order two. In Sweden it costs several times more to rent a skip and throw away unsorted rubbish. I was in the land of recycling, and that included building and property renovations with no excuses. I therefore ordered two: one for materials that could be burnt and one for glass and ceramics. They were emptied often. A third, for disposing of metals, was ordered soon after.

The following morning, after eating my petrol-station breakfast of coffee and a cheese roll, I bought the most expensive work gloves I could find. My hands were already cut to pieces. The gloves were all too large for my small hands, but I taped them over the wrists with masking tape and made do.

Days passed quickly and the house resembled a war zone rather than a future home. I had watched plenty of episodes of Property Ladder over the years – I knew things could look bad before they looked better, but I had never seen anything like this. I just kept my head low and my chocolate intake high. I would get through this.

WINTER BITES …

As late autumn passed and winter set in, rain turned to slush and the wind picked up. With only a very limited supply of electricity into the house, we faced choices of light versus heat. We could either have two working lights, one heater and one light, or two heaters and no lights. Each day would start by trying to warm the air in the area where the men and I would work. Of course, no one could live or even camp on site. I was reduced to renting a spare basement bedroom not too far away, with a cat that I was allergic to. Each morning around five, or often a little earlier, I got up, dressed, and headed to our new home. As winter set in, I had the pleasure of digging my car out of the snow that had drifted overnight, to make my way the short distance to our new home. Once there, again with shovel in hand, I would dig a path to get up to and into the house. My husband’s motto of, ‘what doesn’t kill you makes you stronger’ was never far from my mind.

With cold, sore hands, I would turn the two heaters on in an attempt to heat up the air. The wind howled and the blue plastic tarpaulins that acted as a temporary roof slapped in a savage attempt to be released and become free. Every third day or so, I knew the evening would end with a climb up onto the open rafters, where the roof would eventually be, and secure once more the knots holding in place the frozen, blue plastic material.

I cleared snow from the steps and continuously kept a path open for workers to get through. As the mercury took an extreme dive, I even had to heat the locks on the front doors to get in, although quite why I insisted on locking them in the first place I have no idea. There were no windows installed at this stage. I believe I was still living in UK mode where I would not have dreamt of going away without locking everything up for the night. Not far behind me each morning came my two