Two things come to mind when I think about visitors books. The first is the memory of leaving the home of a low-profile and secretive single man whose company is widely craved. I had been revelling in a sense of self-importance as I had good reason to suspect that the previous occupant of my guest bed had been none other than the late Queen Elizabeth II. Surely this proximity elevated my own moral and social status in some osmotic way? But when I suggested I sign his visitors book my host became querulous. He declared that he didn’t have a visitors book for the precise reason that he didn’t like the idea of his friends ‘snooping’ to see who else had been there.
I think of the canny businesswoman who ran a holiday cottage letting agency in Devon 20 years ago. Then, as now, chancers were trying it on vis à vis refunds. One complained that noisy building work had ruined his family’s recent holiday. The canny businesswoman went directly to the visitors book where the family had written – as encouraged by the agency – an account of their stay.
A rave review was detailed there. The cosiness, the log fires, the happy days on the beach… No mention of noise. She photographed the pages and sent them back to the complainant. That was the last she heard from him.
But lengthy descriptions and compliments are not encouraged by grandees who keep visitors books for friends. They want only name and date. In fact they often enforce this by standing next to those signing. The reason for this diktat is that so many people get into a state trying to think of something witty or appropriate to say.
Magazine articles are subscriber-only. Keep reading for just £1 a month
SUBSCRIBE TODAY- Free delivery of the magazine
- Unlimited website and app access
- Subscriber-only newsletters
Comments
Join the debate for just $5 for 3 months
Be part of the conversation with other Spectator readers by getting your first three months for $5.
UNLOCK ACCESS Just $5 for 3 monthsAlready a subscriber? Log in