Between the US-Iran war, the cost-of-living crisis and the El Nino heatwave, it looks like the UK is all set to have another ‘staycation summer’. Out here in Somerset, my own humble Airbnb has already been inundated with bookings from sweet families and couples (they all look sweet until they check in) wanting to summer out in the hills of the West Country.
But if you’re considering getting in on the game, and renting out your home or spare room – be warned! It is far harder, more exhausting, deflating and worse paid than you think.
I was a relatively early Airbnb adopter. In 2014, six years after the site launched, I began renting out my Soho flat for the periods of time I was away travelling with my work.
Given that I was renting myself, this caused an almighty row with my landlord (in hindsight, I take his point) – but for a brief period, I was earning up to £200 a night in extra cash to spend on holidays, clothes – whatever I fancied.
People were shocked when I told them I rented my home to strangers. ‘What if they go through your underwear?’, one friend squealed in shock. Such a question, I thought, revealed more about him than the realities of my side hustle. As far as I was concerned, my guests could do as they pleased on their holidays. Business was booming.
When I bought my first flat in east London, I wasted no time getting it up on the site, and today, I Airbnb my cottage in Somerset, earning between £100-£200 per night over the summer. Over the years it’s proved not only a lucrative side hustle, but also a way to meet people from all over the world.
But as my relationship with Airbnb has evolved, so too has the site itself. Today, what was once merely a letting agency serves as an umbrella business for concierge sites, cleaning company and even laundry services. It’s entered our lexicon as a verb, and has its own vocabulary of ‘superhosts’, guests, ratings and experiences.
Katie Glass says she was a relatively early Airbnb adopter, as in 2014, six years after the site launched, she began renting out her Soho flat
Far from being a risky gambit that might cause my friends alarm, today, everyone I know ‘Airbnbs’ – renting their houses, spare rooms, or own beds out from under themselves. But as the site has become so widespread, so too have its problems. You don’t have to look far to find stories of angry locals, government clampdowns and trashed pads. As recently as this week, there’s been a video circulating on X (formerly Twitter) of a tearful young women whose flat was wrecked, when the council booked it for a homeless man and his six pets.
If you do plan to Airbnb your own home, it does help to be a fairly laidback individual, and (like me) have nothing worth stealing but books. You have to be comfortable with having people in your space who won’t just treat it as their own but, being on holiday, might well behave disgracefully.
Over the years I’ve seen it all. Once, an attractive American musician booked my Dalston flat when he was in town for the Brit Awards. It was only by snooping on his Instagram that I found pictures of the party he’d thrown in my flat, with requisite rockstar shots of him in my bed surrounded models, popped champagne bottles and ashtrays upended on my sheets.
In fairness to him, it was immaculate when I got home – but I learnt a serious lesson: don’t list your flat as a ‘trendy’ spot in East London. Second to the partiers are the screamers. People on holiday like to have ‘fun’, shall we say. Now I’m in the countryside, with no near neighbours, couples can make all the noise they want. It was a different story when I Airbnb’d my home in a block of flats.
One woman who rented my Dalston flat with her boyfriend made so much noise in the bedroom that my downstairs neighbour called to complain, saying it sounded like ‘a seal being clubbed to death’. On another occasion, my neighbour texted wondering if my guest was ‘working’, because of all the strange men coming and going at night.
Luckily, I’ve got better at screening guests. I ask a little about why they are staying and don’t let 18-year-olds book just for one night – especially not on New Year’s Eve.
And no matter how sweetly they message, I’ve learnt how critical it is to read any past reviews of the guests.
A friend who also rents his place out got a booking request from a friendly man and his mum who sent him a lovely message about their potential stay. Only when he read his reviews did he see one particularly alarming complaint that he ‘literally left shit and blood all over the bathroom’. The guest’s response? ‘I cleaned it all up….!’
Somewhat surprisingly, though, my worst experiences on Airbnb have undoubtedly been at my current cottage. Ancient and ramshackle, it’s almost impossible to make clean enough for guests who now expect the standards of a five-star hotel. A recent guest (an American, I should add) was horrified to arrive and find spiders in her ‘rustic’ space. ‘And cockroaches!’ she screamed, sending me a photograph of a woodlouse.
Katie says an attractive American musician who booked her Dalston flat when he was in town for the Brit Awards threw a party there
Americans often make tricky guests. Many will book eagerly after another viewing of The Holiday at Christmas, and are disappointed to discover it’s exactly like the film: freezing cold, miles from anything – but lacking a local Jude Law popping in. In fact, there’s little they haven’t complained about – from the lack of air conditioning, mud on the roads – and even (as one guest moaned) the tight lanes being ‘claustrophobic’.
But hosting in an old cottage is naturally problematic. There’s always a chance the boiler will break or a pipe leak, usually moments before guests arrive.
Still, it was a surprise when a recent family demanded a refund because they didn’t like my art. ‘We can’t stay here’, they declared, objecting to a naked portrait in a bedroom (I came back to find it turned to face the wall). They hated my Charlie Hebdo print, too, as well as a sweary, kitsch plate in the kitchen reading: ‘F*ck The Patriarchy’. ‘We completely disagree with this’, they said furiously.
And as Airbnb adds hotel rooms to its listings, the business seems only set to grow. But even as it does, it’s attracting no less criticism.
In Lanzarote, for example, protestors have been glueing Airbnb key boxes shut, while Barcelona is planning a total ban on short-term rentals from 2028. In New York and Santa Monica, all short-term lets must be licensed, and hosts must be onsite.
In London, one of Airbnb’s largest markets in the world, a game of cat and mouse continues between hosts and the council. The latter are desperately attempting to keep short lets limited to the official 90-day window – but landlords can easily get around this by creating multiple listings for single properties. Last year, the council investigated some 2,700 properties for alleged breaches.
Indeed, when I stayed in a Soho Airbnb recently, I got the keys from a box attached to Soho Square’s railings, crammed with similar lockboxes. Our instructions warned us not to tell neighbours we’d booked via the site. Meanwhile, the Department for Culture, Media and Sport is developing a registration scheme for short-term lets.
But it’s not just the authorities having difficulties. For hosts, the money is getting worse every year; with everyone at it, prices have crashed. Sometimes, I rent my four-bed cottage for a paltry £100 a night. To make matters worse, Airbnb have recently changed their model, meaning hosts are charged a full 15.5 per cent agency fee for each booking – rather than guests. Between the forced smiles and the washing and the worry, I often wonder if there any point still bothering. Just one more summer, perhaps – then I can give up.
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