Ralph Waldo Emerson believed that the ornament of a house is the friends who frequent it. He was right, of course. He just never specified how many weekends in a row.
There is a particular truth to life in a resort town that nobody warns you about before you move here. It goes like this: spring arrives, and somewhere between May and September, you will hear a version of the same question more times than you can count. Would it be possible to come and stay for a few days?

It is always wonderful. Of course it is. These are people you love, friends you have missed, family you are delighted to see. And the timing is perfect, the festivals are on, the mountains are alive (with the sound of music), the terraces are decked out with yellow umbrellas. What could be more fun than sharing all of this with house guests?

The answer arrives somewhere around the fourth tour of the week.

“And this is my favourite café…”
There is a moment every regular host will recognise. You are standing outside the church, pointing to the stainedglass windows, the names of the local families etched into the glass. It is a piece of living history that you genuinely marvelled at the first time you saw it. You are explaining it with warmth and enthusiasm because you mean it. And somewhere in the back of your mind, a small voice notes that this is the third time in a fortnight you have said exactly these words, in exactly this spot, with exactly this expression on your face.

Performative enthusiasm is a real thing. You do love the church, you do love the café, you do love the polo and the beach volleyball and the mountain walks. But there is a difference between experiencing something and narrating it. By August, you have become a very polished tour guide of your own life.

Some guests are easy. You build them a simple itinerary, point them in the right direction, and they largely look after themselves. Others need more shepherding and want to spend more time with you. Both are fine. Both are tiring in different ways.

We have it easy
A friend of mine recently spent four months on a work secondment in Tenerife. She had visitors every single weekend she was there. Every single one. By the end, she had stopped questioning whether people actually liked her. Clearly, they did. Every single one of them. Every single weekend.

We are not at that level. Our visitors come in waves, not floods, and in between them, life returns to something resembling normal. You can even sit at your favourite café without narrating it to anyone. Until December. Because Gstaad in the snow turns out to be just as appealing as Gstaad in the sunshine. The invitations do not stop. But that is a column for another season.

Such is the bargain of living somewhere people want to visit. You get the place. They get to enjoy it for a while. And you get to love them and mean it, and also count the days until the house is yours again.

The friends are still the ornament. We would not have it any other way. But by September, even Emerson might have welcomed a weekend off.

ANNA CHARLES