Back When Bed and Breakfasts Were Interesting

By Andrew J. Morris

Back in the late 1970s I spent some time in Europe, mostly in Ireland. Not being rich, my search for inexpensive lodging often brought me to Bed and Breakfast places.

The concept was almost unknown in the United States in those days, but was common in Europe. Mostly they were personal homes with an extra bedroom or two, that the owners would rent out to visitors, mostly business people just passing through. In the morning the guests would be given a home-cooked breakfast and sent on their way.

Ireland was a poor country in those days. The technological renaissance had not yet begun, though they were laying the groundwork for it by providing excellent education. Still, the unemployment rate was on the order of 20%, and double that in some cities.

The tourist board provided ratings and licensing to BnBs that met their standards, and published a booklet listing them all. I avoided those whenever possible -- they were too expensive. The ones that couldn't get approved because they didn't have private bathrooms for guests or other amenities the authorities considered essential were both cheaper and more colorful.

As a foreigner, I was much more interested in how the normal people lived. Many of the B&Bs were run by motherly widows who were fonts of local knowledge and more than willing to talk about their towns. The bedrooms were where they raised their sons and daughters, gone now to the city to work, or off to England, America or Australia where the job prospects were better.

The Irish Breakfast was famous among knowledgeable vagabonds for its heartiness and rich flavors. Rashers (a thick meaty bacon, not so fatty as its American cousin), pork sausage, black pudding (blood sausage), white pudding (an oatmeal-based concoction that often included sheep's brain), two or three fried eggs, a fried tomato and boxty (a kind of potato pancake) might all be found on a single plate. Nearby a few slices of traditional brown bread or soda bread were ready to be smothered in butter and jam. To wash it all down an orange juice and copious cups of tea, black or white (with cream).

I remember one time I didn't get the breakfast. I was in a little village in the west of Mayo, surrounded by mile after mile of farmland. There were only two Bed and Breakfast houses in town, and one was full. As I knocked on the door of the other a couple came out dressed for travel -- sure I'd be better at the other BnB they told me, they were off for the weekend. When told the other was full-up, they gave me a spare set of keys and left me (a total stranger no less) with run of the house, apologizing that I'd have to shift for my own breakfast!

Fast forward to today, and American style Bed and Breakfast. With over a hundred rooms and looking suspiciously like a hotel, your 'Bed and Breakfast' lets you serve your own breakfast in what looks like a church hall with long tables and folding chairs. There are great tubs of scrambled eggs, mini-pancakes and limp bacon. A fifty gallon coffee-maker is there for you to dispense a tar-tasting black goo into your styrofoam cup.

While that characterizes far too many BnBs nowadays, I'm happy to say they are not all like that. There are many fine Victorian houses and 1930s bungalows where you can still stay in a real family home -- but they are like those 'Board Failté' approved B&Bs -- a fine place for strangers, but you will never feel at home.