Back in the spring of 2025, when my wife and I announced to our friends and acquaintances that we were going to relocate from a small village at the foot of the Mendip Hills in England to the Algarve, we were met with varying responses. Some expressed genuine sadness that we would be leaving. Others scoffed, saying, “You’ll be back.” Rumour has it that one regular of the village’s 16th-century pub even set up a sweepstake on when we would return. Apparently, the odds on “within six months” were particularly strong. But there was one unifying theme in all the comments, regardless of sentiment: everyone’s desire to visit us.
It was touching, at first. Heart-warming, even. The idea that so many people wanted to spend time with us in our new home felt like a warm hug wrapped in a plane ticket. But as the months passed and the visits began, a subtle truth emerged, one that every expat eventually discovers. Visitors fall into two distinct categories: those who come to see you, and those who come for a free holiday.
The first group is delightful. They arrive with enthusiasm, gratitude, and often a bottle of something drinkable to toast the reunion. They respect your new life, ask thoughtful questions, and make polite attempts to speak Portuguese, even if their pronunciation suggests they’re ordering plumbing supplies rather than coffee. They’re here for you, and it shows.
The second group, however, arrives with a different energy. They step off the plane wearing sunglasses indoors, dragging a suitcase large enough to smuggle a family of goats. Their first words are not “How are you?” or “You look well”, but “Is the beach within walking distance?” They are not here for you. They are here for the sun, the sea and the suspiciously affordable wine. You, unfortunately, are merely the concierge.
Hosting guests, of either variety, is a unique experience. It begins with joy. There’s something undeniably lovely about welcoming people into your home, sharing meals, showing them your favourite spots and hearing laughter echo through rooms that have grown quiet. For a moment, you feel like the star of your own Mediterranean lifestyle documentary.
But then, inevitably, the pitfalls begin.
The first pitfall is duration. A two-night stay is charming. A three-night stay is manageable. Anything beyond that becomes a slow-moving domestic occupation. By day five, you begin to wonder whether your guest has a home of their own or whether they’ve simply decided to annex yours. You start calculating how many breakfasts you’ve made, how many towels you’ve washed, and how many times you’ve heard phrases such as, “Do you have any more ice?” “You’ve run out of …” (-insert whatever your guest has used the last of).
Then there’s the matter of household habits. Guests who come to see you tend to adapt quickly. They ask where things go, they rinse their dishes, they attempt to fold towels in a way that suggests they’ve at least seen a hotel before. Guests who come for a free holiday, however, behave as though they’re staying at a resort staffed entirely by invisible elves. Towels migrate mysteriously to the floor. Cups appear in places cups should never be. Lights remain on in every room, as though your home is attempting to become the Algarve equivalent of the Blackpool Illuminations.
And let’s not forget the morning routine, a crucial indicator of guest type. The “here to see you” guest emerges at a reasonable hour, cheerful but not intrusive, offering to make coffee. The “free holiday” guest emerges at noon, wearing swimwear and asking whether you have any fresh orange juice and if not, whether you might “pop out” for some.
Meals are another minefield. You may begin with noble intentions: shared breakfasts, leisurely lunches, convivial dinners. But soon you realise you are running a small restaurant with a clientele of one or two, and they have very specific dietary preferences that they forgot to mention until after you’ve cooked. They also have a remarkable ability to appear precisely when the food is ready, but never when the preparation or cleanup is happening.
Then come the excursion expectations. Guests who come to see you are happy with a stroll, a chat, maybe a gentle wander through town. Guests who come for a free holiday expect a curated itinerary worthy of a travel magazine. They want beaches, markets, scenic viewpoints, cultural experiences, and ideally all of these before lunch. They expect you to become their personal tour guide, chauffeur, translator and occasionally therapist.
And yet, despite all this, hosting guests remains one of life’s great contradictions. It is exhausting and delightful, irritating and heart-warming. It is a reminder that humans are gloriously strange creatures. They bring their quirks, their habits, and their mysterious ability to use every plate in the house within 24 hours. They also bring moments of connection, late-night conversations, shared jokes and unexpected memories.
The trick, I’ve learned, is to embrace the chaos with a sense of humour and a firm checkout policy. Make peace with the fact that your fridge will be raided, your routine disrupted, and your patience tested. Accept that some guests will treat your home like a sanctuary of friendship, and others will treat it like an all-inclusive resort with questionable staffing levels.
But also remember this: when the last guest leaves, when the final towel is washed, when the house returns to its natural state of semi-tidy calm, you will feel a peculiar mix of relief and fondness. You will miss the laughter, even if you don’t miss the laundry. You will miss the company, even if you don’t miss the constant requests for “just a quick lift into town”.
And, inevitably, you will do it all again. Because despite the pitfalls, the joys win, just barely, but enough. Hosting guests is a reminder that your home is not just a place you live, but a place where life happens, sometimes loudly, sometimes inconveniently, but always memorably.
