Somewhere in the distance there's a gentle chorus of bleating sheep. I stretch out in my four poster, king-size bed as the light pours in under the cream cotton drapes. Opening them reveals a bucolic scene: mist rising off the hills, a tractor bouncing along a distant ridge, a green field speckled with brown cows. I ponder my first move of the day: a quick dunk in the heated, indoor pool or a breakfast of eggs from the coop before walking the dog?
It’s not my dog. It’s not even my house, still, I get to live in it, alone and rent-free (or at least, for the price of two dog walks a day). From a bohemian cottage in rural France and converted barn in Herefordshire, to a split-level, contemporary house in the Midlands, I’ve spent the last two years Iiving in other people’s beautiful homes looking after their animals.
I’d never set out to become a nomadic pet sitter but it’s turned out to be the most exciting, life-changing decision I’ve ever made.
It’s not a job — no money exchanges hands (my income comes from my work as a writer) — it’s simply a way of living freely, in both senses. With the economic crisis, it’s been fortuitous to say the least. But it wasn’t originally about saving cash, more a desperate desire to escape London house shares.
Hailing from the rural West Country, London, to me, had always existed in another, magical realm. Feverish, fantastical and full of promise, it was a city I’d been itching to call home. Then I did, for the best part of a decade. But after a few years of London living — where cohabiting in tiny spaces with strangers was the only financially viable option — the shine wore off. Where once they’d been fun, I found as I pushed 30, that London house shares were like an unwanted extension of university.
I yearned for my own space. Scrolling through Zoopla daily, I indulged a fantasy of finding a liveable bedsit within Zone 6 and within my budget. Eventually, after my house share resentment bubbled over and I was rammed off my bike by an angry motorist (before having the same bike stolen a month later) I knew my love affair with London was over. I left and lived and worked abroad for a few years.
I was a surrogate mother to a newborn lamb, bottle-feeding it three times daily. At one point an unfamiliar thought crept into my mind: ‘I think I might be happy’
In 2021, I returned to the UK without a foot anywhere near a property ladder let alone on one. My lack of recent UK address and freelance status meant lenders baulked at me anyway. Rent wise, prices were, and still are, soaring (according to Right Move, asking rents in the UK are a third higher than they were in 2019). I was lucky to have the option of moving back in with family, but at 34, and having lived independently most of my adult life, it wasn’t ideal.
I’d heard of pet-sitting, I just didn’t believe in it. The concept of living alone, for free, in someone else’s home, in exchange for cuddling a cat and giving it some biscuits, had scam written all over it.
But one day, John, a friend of a friend, regaled me with tales of Tel Aviv*. He and a kitten had shared a mansion there together for three months, paying nothing. I listened, wide-eyed. He didn’t appear to have been scammed. Suddenly, the flame of a promising, exciting alternative life began to flicker in my mind. No longer shackled to an office, could this be the solution I’d been looking for?
A membership fee (of £100) and a profile page later, I was listed by a UK-based organisation that links owners with pet-sitters across the globe in an exchange of services [it is worth noting that visa restrictions may apply to pet sitting services, and it's always important to check these for all countries you're thinking of pet sitting in]. Pet-sitters can apply for the sits they want and owners can also reach out to sitters. Despite being new to the site with no reviews, I didn’t find it difficult to get the ball rolling. I was, after all, a ‘desirable candidate’, as one owner informed me. ‘We only ever choose single women over 30 because everyone knows they’re the most reliable!’ he explained, only half joking.
Not long after signing up I was on my way to a smallholding in Bannau Brycheiniog (Brecon Beacons).
Upon arrival, I was shown to my vast bedroom with its own en suite and sweeping views across the Welsh hills, before being served dinner in the rustic, farmhouse kitchen. The owners and I ate, drank and chatted together, before they set off on their travels the next day (a common scenario especially on first meeting. After that, communication takes the form of semi-regular WhatsApp exchanges — usually me sending the owners grinning selfies with their very selfie-averse animals.)
In Bannau Brycheiniog, I was to care for a dog, cat, six peahens, three geese, a couple of ponies and a field full of sheep. No, I didn’t have shepherding qualifications, but apparently I didn’t need any. I was also to be a surrogate mother to a newborn lamb, bottle-feeding it three times daily.
This particular pet-sit involved the most work, but I never saw it as a chore. For three weeks, I enjoyed a regular early-morning routine of ambling, welly-clad, from barn to field feeding the various livestock. I’d stand in the dewy grass of the sheep field, hold the milk bottle aloft and wait for my little lamb to spot me. When he did, he’d gallop over, bleating wildly. Sitting with him in my lap, stroking his spongy fleece and watching his frenzied guzzling, an unfamiliar thought crept into my mind: ‘I think I might be happy.’
Other pet-sits generated similar feelings, and not just remote, rural ones either. Recently, in Brighton, I lived in a Regency-era, four-story townhouse, complete with grandfather clock, bedroom fireplaces and sea views. Each morning before breakfast I walked Phoebe, an excitable German pointer, along the undercliff path. Whether it was Phoebe, the sea air or the magnificent old house, I felt physically and mentally better than I ever had before.
This positive sense of wellbeing comes down to, I believe, a few factors: caring for animals; finding purpose; being forced into an active routine (at least, with dogs or farm animals); having space to yourself; and — truthfully — knowing that the space isn’t costing you a penny.
John shares this sentiment. Able to work remotely (as a researcher), unable to afford a place of his own, single, and also tired of house shares, he pet-sits as a way to save and enjoy living in homes he could never afford. Like me, it wasn’t his intention to live this way indefinitely, rather, to use it as a stopgap before eventually settling somewhere. Except, also like me, having grown accustomed to the lifestyle, he says he now ‘can’t stop’ and that in the current economic climate, buying ‘seems impossible right now anyway’.
Of course, there are downsides to this way of life — most notably, loneliness. Despite having spent years craving my own space, I’m also a sociable person. Sometimes it’s possible to line up pet-sits near friends and family, or have them come to stay — owners tend to be amenable to this — but for those times I’m in an unfamiliar part of the country, the solitude can feel heavy. Sure, this is 2023 and there are apps for that. But forming a serious, romantic relationship is a little trickier (though, not impossible) when you’re transient. And not everyone views my lifestyle favourably (one guy on Bumble immediately unmatched me when I told him about it).
Visits to the odd cafe/co-working joint break up the stifling monotony of working and living in the same space (even if that space is massive and has a pool). However, I’ve found that no matter who or how many people I chat to, I’m always just an outsider looking in.
The positive sense of wellbeing comes down to caring for animals, finding purpose, having space to myself and — truthfully — knowing that it isn't costing me a penny
I felt this most strongly after a one-off yoga class near the home I was looking after. I’ve been an exercise-class newbie many times before, so not being part of the friendly banter didn’t bother me. What did bother me was knowing I would never be part of it. When the instructor enthusiastically welcomed me and wondered if she might see me again, I felt sad telling her she probably wouldn’t. In that moment, I really understood the importance of being part of a community.
But pet-sitting doesn’t have to mean a completely nomadic existence. Another friend, who’s a homeowner and can’t work remotely, uses it as a way to escape London on the weekends. Though, as she tells me, she’s ‘strictly cats only, so there’s less work involved and it can feel more like a holiday!’ So far, she’s had weekend ‘petaways’ in Cornwall, Bath and Madrid*.
Every pet-sitter I’ve spoken to has different motivations — motivations that tend to evolve with time. I still adore getting to live alone, affordably, but it’s the experiences I’ve collected that have completely changed my life. The occasional loneliness is far outweighed by the captivating characters I’ve met along the way — people I would never have met normally. There’s the dentist-turned-sheep farmer in Wales; the owners of an English tea shop in rural France*; the family running conservation programmes in their back garden; the ceramicist who spends her summers building giant dragon statues at Burning Man. Some of these people I now count as good friends.
In John’s case, it’s given him pause for thought when it comes to how we all live. In going from home to home, he notices what works, what doesn’t work and, most importantly, what matters. ‘Most of the time, big houses are wasted,’ he told me. ‘Even if a family lives there, most rooms aren’t used. I’ve realised that people have so many intentions when they buy a house, but these never come into fruition. It’s made me think more carefully about what I want, what I need and what’s realistic – in buying a home, but also just generally in life.’
Next for me, it’s Sydney* to run around with an Australian sheepdog — and to give the English winter a wide berth.
