Personal

Where did the youth go?

After four nights of restlessness, I finally slept really well last Friday night. For the first time that week I had a room to myself. I spent the week in a Youth Hostel.

"But, ..." My friend didn't finish her objection when I told her where I was staying. I'll complete it for her: "... you're not young." And she obviously hasn't ever stayed in a hostel.

The best things about Youth Hostelling are: the price, the location (this one was right on the beach) and the fact that you're not alone. The worst things are the rather basic facilities, the remoteness and the fact that you're not alone.

Six other people stayed in the hostel while I was there.

There was the young Dutch man working his way across Europe. He was rather too excited about the spinal cord he found on the path which left the hostel smelling of garlic.

Most of the week - and the cause of my lack of sleep - was 'snoring' JS. An elderly man from the Midlands who was convinced his phone was tapped. ("Yours has probably been too," he told me.) A fount of paranoia and tall tales. He abhors glottal stops, letting each 'g' ring fully.

Mid-week we were joined by two couples - a pair of women in their 60s from the Home Counties, and a couple from New Zealand who'd been working in another hostel. I sat there listening to their conversations, occasionally chipping in my tuppence. It was a tiring five nights, but a wonderful one.

Out of season the youth may be missing from the YHA, but staying there puts me in the company of people I'd never normally meet. It's a gamble who'll you'll end up living with, but in my book worth the risk every time.