Instant Experts, and their Suggestions

Running a homestay is a bit like hosting an endless dinner party. Most guests arrive with warm smiles, eager curiosity, and a genuine love for the hills. Some come to learn about the place and share stories. And then there are those who arrive carrying invisible blueprints and an unshakable belief that they know exactly how the homestay should evolve. Opinions and suggestions don’t just arrive, they pour in like an unexpected monsoon.

Over the years, I’ve collected a delightful range of ‘improvement’ plans. One enthusiastic planner suggested tearing out the lawn to build extra cottages and a cement tennis court, as if the plants were secretly yearning to become a suburban sports complex. Another went further, proposing that we cut down every tree near the cottage because the birds were ‘too noisy’ and left a ‘mess’ beneath their branches. According to him, the ‘view’ would also improve. No trees, no birds, no heartbeat of our homestay either!

These visions are delivered with the brisk confidence of a search engine that forgot to fact-check itself. Mention a kettle and you might receive a lecture on metallurgy. Wonder aloud about the weather and you’ll be treated to a ten-minute forecast on El Nino, La Nina, western disturbances and how they will either dry out the winter or flood the valley, sometimes both. Around the evening tea table or the bonfire, conversations bloom on their own. Someone laments climate change and rising temperatures, another predicts record snowfall using the same data. Politics slips in too, quite frequently. I prefer to keep my political views to myself. The most distressing are the infrastructure development suggestions involving extensive construction work. Though thankfully most of these discussions never turn into actual construction (destruction) at my place.

There is, however, a certain charm in all this unsolicited expertise. A world full of polite nods and timid ‘I don’t knows’ would be dreadfully dull. These self-appointed sages keep the dinner table lively, the group chat scrolling, and the fire crackling with debate. Just the other night, a tipsy gentleman delivered a passionate speech about the dangers of alcohol in the hills, between sips of his fourth glass of whisky.

Children too contribute in their own way. A young boy once asked why I keep my head shaved. I explained that it saves me from the tyranny of shampoo and comb. He then requested I convince his mother of the virtues of going bald. When his parents and I later settled into a chat, the conversation drifted from hair to the persistent moisture in the walls and how ceramic tiles should cover every inch, inside and out. I filed that suggestion in the Not-To-Do list, right next to ‘cemented tennis court on the lawn’. The parents thankfully didn’t discuss the tiles in the coming days, and the kid also didn’t discuss his need for a new hairstyle.

Some guests, when discussing topics they think they’ve mastered, provide perfect opportunities for gentle mischief. I listen carefully, nod thoughtfully, and ask for dates, figures, or concrete details. That’s when confident eyebrows twitch and imagination does the heavy lifting. A warm smile welcomes the inevitable guesswork. It happens often enough to keep my evenings pleasantly entertaining.

Last week, one guest started discussing on how nice it would be to have bright lights all around. Another suggestion gracefully ignored by me. I am surprised at how few people understand the seriousness of light pollution.

Not every suggestion is outrageous. Some are quietly wonderful. Recently someone suggested enjoying morning tea under a tree. Now I often sit with a cup in that shaded spot, a small table by my side. It’s now one of my favourite places to hang around. Sometimes I set up a picnic table there for guests too, and it never fails to delight.

Of course, a few proposals leave me blinking in confusion. A regular visitor once urged me to open a souvenir kiosk near the parking area. At least with her, I’m guaranteed one loyal customer if I ever cave in. Another gentleman raved about the food but thought the presentation needed ‘professional’ touches, perhaps I should get a pair of forceps to position a single leaf of parsley on each cutlet. I thanked him.

There are some suggestions that are there in my mind. Some day, when I have the resources, I will implement them. A small pond, a garden swing, an open gym, some outdoor games, even a sauna !

Suggestions come with every batch of guests, and the steady flow is oddly reassuring. It means people care. A few ideas inspire small upgrades, many land in the ‘interesting but impossible’ folder, and some simply make great stories to share under the stars. Meanwhile, the orchard stays true to itself. Birds still sing at dawn, trees stretch skyward, and the hills remain blissfully uninterested in tennis courts.

My job is not to chase every bright idea but to guard the quiet, living beauty that brought me here in the first place. Some guests may arrive armed with grand plans, but nature keeps the final say and what a comforting truth that is.

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