interlude

In stark contrast to Dave's experience back in London, I was basking in comparative luxury. As I lay on my crisp fresh linen, sipping sparking mineral water I felt a little bad for Dave. The poor guy was going to hostel with what can only be discribed as a less than sterling reputaion. Knowing however that Dave wouldn't want me to fret over his circumstance, I swiftly crushed these rogue thoughts.

He's the noble sort you understand.

Having set my mind at ease, I lay back and put some Coldplay on my wall mounted entertainment system. Then lacking anything better to do I fiddled with my espresso machine and retired to the bathroom for a relaxing shower. Then I discovered the jets. Five small, high
pressure jets of water that rinse you off, similar to what the government employs in quarantine facilities. To say they caught me unawares would be an understatement.

The next morning having recovered from my shower malfunction and having deftly appropriating some choice toiletries, I ambled down to meet Dave at the foot of my building. Feeling refreshed in body and mind I felt ready to follow in the footsteps of Charlemange and
conquer the European continent.

generating

As we fleetingly pass through London again, bound for Belgium, events dictate that we're going separate ways for tonight's accommodation. Left to my own devices, I've selected 'The Generator', chosen for its price and proximity to our departure station. Having found the place, I'm greeted with a hostel which can only be described as... behemoth. This is the hostel business in full flight, catering to large numbers of young people. It has that scent to it. Of late nights and excess, of spilt this and that. Virtually everything is slightly...stained, with the exception thankfully being my bed linen, which looks quite sterile. A word so often associated with coldness and hospitals, sterile is something I'm quite happy with when it comes to my linens. The scent changes as you get deeper into the building. It smells like cleaning. Cleaning that has not quite managed to get that unmistakable scent of urine from the carpet. That's backpacking for you.

The place is decorated in accordance with its name, the result being an excessive amount of exposed cable ducting, stenciled industrial writing on dorm room doors, and a lot of wire mesh. They also subscribe to the 'colorful' school of hostel painting, which I'm coming to loathe. Call me a snob, but dark blue and yellow paint, in alternating bands, accented with black and red couches, makes this common room feel just a little bit kindergarten. The yellow fluorescents are the icing on the cake.

You'll recall my musings on the YHA style of accommodation, with its stern severity. In Scotland, the hostel was veritably decorated with tiny stickers and signs, instructing on the use of almost every item. 'Switch off!' (the lights) 'Recycle!' (the 18 different bins in the dining room), 'Save Water' 'Turn the knob to position 2 until the red light comes on, then flick the two switches and pull the lever. The green light will come on. Wait 2 minutes. Turn the dial back to 1. Now you can use the stove!'

You get the picture.

I think you can tell a lot about a hostel's clientèle from the signs it chooses to employ. Here, they choose to instruct guests in this manner: 'DO NOT climb out of the window into the courtyard'

Need I say more?

photographic update

Nothing major or exciting to report in this update, just a matter of keeping up with the blog and sorting out something I've been working to get up and running for a while now: Pictures! It has become apparent that we cannot include more than 1 image per post, in any easy fashion, so I've set up a Gallery that contains some of the photos that we've taken. This link will be to my select photos, and hopefully James will get something happening too.

Dave's Europe '09 Gallery

We've just returned to Manchester after a couple of fantastic days up in the Lakes District, staying in Windermere. The highlight of the trip was a day of mountain biking in the forest and countryside on the far bank of the lake. The scenery was like something out of a storybook, and in my opinion, has provided the best day of the trip so far. There's a few shots of the place in the gallery, so I hope you'll enjoy checking that out!

Just keep in mind that the photos may not necessarily be in chronological order! And I should probably note that a fair few of them are stolen from James' photo stock - as the man with the fancier camera, I've let him do a lot of the photography, but I see no reason not to reap the benefits of his hard work.

boys, there's been a problem....

We're still in Ireland, but yesterday we took the train back to Dublin, which we'd only passed through going to Galway. It was by no means a short walk to the hostel, though we found it with none of the usual fuss. We arrived at the front door, and stood waiting for a few minutes while a couple of guys argued loudly in French... one inside the doorway, the other outside. It was clearly a heated exchange, and when we finally squeezed inside, the sound of it filled the foyer.

A familiar accent greeted us from behind the reception desk - Aussies, they're everywhere. Another Melbourne chap as well, and we're told there's a group from Tullamarine here too. With one eye on the computer and the other fixed on the doorway altercation, our countryman behind the desk looks up our booking, frowning as he does so. Is it just because of the ruckus happening in his foyer? Or is there a problem? He looks up at us and pulls out some papers, and in that wonderfully familiar accent he says "Boys, there's been a bit of a problem,your booking got stuffed up, we're overbooked..."

"So we're putting you in the private suite." Suite, indeed.

So instead of a 16 bed dorm, we have a room to ourselves, not that its overly large. But big enough for a set of bunks, a tv and cabinet, and our bags, so who's complaining? Apparently there's an Irishman here who knows we've stumbled on such fortune, and has designs on making a bargain with us for the room, though he will find that I, at least, will not be easily budged.

An argument of our own transpired later in the evening, grave in its subject matter. James made the statement that 'it rains all the time here'. I disagreed, and he supported his statement with "It's true, apparently it rains 20% of the time here." I was still not convinced that this came even close to warrant the lofty description of "All the time" when it would technically fall well short of even "Half the time". James' counterargument is that such gross exaggeration is widely accepted as reasonable, but I still felt that it didn't make it right. With neither side conceding anything, I fear that this difference of opinion could tear our fragile travelling union apart.

That said, it is raining outside. There may be a white flag waved yet.

once upon a midnight dreary

It is five to ten by the time we pull into Galway station. The night is damp and haunted by a chilling wind that only the Atlantic knows how to produce. The mercury can't be above six. Stepping off the train into the insipid light of the platform, we are greeted by a bleak and uninviting car park, crowded with taxis clamoring for our business. Trying to get our bearings we strike out into the night, moving between islands of light. At the first cross road we chance upon Eyre Square, the first recognisable point of reference and seek shelter while we orientate ourselves. After a false start (curse the lack of street signage) we spy a landmark name that jogs the memory. We drift toward it like moths to a lamp, only to be disheartened by the yet another featureless street. Spurred on by the rains steady but insistent tattoo we are pressed to continue. Through the haze we make out a word in Celtic script, and approach a battered orange door scarred by years of weary travelers pounding its boards seeking refuge. Finally we know relief. Claddagh. Home for now.

getting high in scotland

We have been lucky enough to take a trip through the highlands. We splashed out and booked ourselves into a tour that would take us all the way up to Loch Ness, that most famous body of water in Scotland's north. The morning of our departure was bitterly cold and windy, and the wait for the tour office staff to arrive and open the place for the day was just a bit uncomfortable. Once we were on the bus though, things got a little more pleasant. Our driver and tour guide, an enthusiastic Scotsman called Kenny, immediately launched into educating us on the history of Edinburgh, as we drove somewhat manically out of the city centre through 'the West End'. It was impossible not to be taken in by his high energy spiel, and let's face it, the Scottish accent is an absolute gift. People just want to listen to it. Throughout the course of the day, Kenny poured out fact after fact about history, geography, folk tales, and general advice on touring Scotland. He described the one day tour as a 'film trailer' of the country – we'd be getting just glimpses of the beautiful land. He genially instructed us to return, with our loved ones and lots of money to prop up the Scottish economy at some point in the future, and see all these things properly.

The scenery was mind blowing, and we were blessed with sunny weather for the trip. The mountain range that is home to the country's highest peak, Ben Nevis, ('The Venomous One', on account of its deadly nature) according to Kenny is only visible for a scant handful of days during the year, and is typically shrouded in clouds. We were out on one of 4 or 5 days of the year that you can stand and see the entire range against blue sky – which felt like quite a privilege. By the time we reached famous Loch Ness, it had greyed over, and the wind across the Loch made for quite a choppy boat ride across it (only I partook, James choosing instead to indulge in a fireside pint in town – I think we both enjoyed ourselves). I regret to announce that there were no monster sightings.

The trip back was no less scenic, the afternoon and evening proving sunny again, and we stopped off to have a look across a Loch towards the estate that 'Monarch of the Glen' viewers would know as “Glenbogle” Kenny's banter, as he had promised, tapered off towards the end of the day, giving some of us the chance to rest a bit. Despite the lack of physical activity, something about the fast pace of the tour and listening attentively did leave us quite exhausted. I could talk endlessly of how fantastic the day was, but words would fall short, and even photos couldn't really capture it. This was a day that affirms the notion that you really need to see some things with your own eyes to truly appreciate them.

a room with a view...

Salutations, from the fine city of Edinburgh. Just shy of two weeks abroad, and we have arrived in fair Scotland, and the city put on its best frock to greet us. We stepped out of the station into decidedly chilly atmosphere with a palpable dampness, and took in as much of the view as was possible before the scenery faded into the fog – which was all of 100m in any given direction. What we could see, we are not ashamed to admit, both awed and terrified us. It takes very little imagination to strip away the modern veneer of this city and see a medieval town underneath. Everything is imposing, and the effect is doubled when the top of every building fades out of view into the fog. The black stone streets hints at diabolical slipperiness, and you really know that a place sees a bit of moisture when the buildings are stained green. Our residence lay ahead of us up winding one-way street sloping up, away from the New town and into the Old.

Before I continue, I would like to admit that we HAD been warned. Our first stay in the Astor Hyde Park was fantastic. It was to our dismay that we were informed, by a reputable source, that we had chanced upon a gem of a place, and that we were unlikely to find such splendid accommodation elsewhere. It seemed that we had spoiled ourselves inadvertently. This was confirmed when we reached York, where the YHA (Youth Hostel Association, I presume) provided us with an experience that felt just a little more economical, stripped down, and simple. It had a feel to it that was just a little bit school-camp. At the Astor you did your dishes because it was the responsible thing, and made life for your fellow intrepid travelers easier. At YHA York, you did them because there was the inescapable feeling that if you didn't, just around a corner lurked an imposing matron, ready to deny you dessert and send you to bed early. Yet the place was clean, even the cupboard-esque windowless showers.

And so now we arrive at Edinburgh Backpackers. Not our first choice in accommodation. But we'd gotten a little behind and hadn't reserved early enough. After finding the place, we entered reception and our hopes rose a little, it looked just a little bit modern, a bit art-deco, and felt like a lively place. Let it be a warning to all ye: reception areas can be designed to lie. Money changed hands, and we waited to be shown to our room, presumably upstairs. We presumed wrong. The receptionist informed us that we'd be staying in their other building. (Small alarm bells start a-ringing.) We are escorted out the front door, and down an alleyway (or 'close' as they call them all here). Just down some stairs is a wooden door, which we are ushered through. Immediately inside this door are two more doors. The receptionist leaves us here with a key and a code, and returns to her post. We fumble around inside the ridiculously cramped entryway, the whole process complicated by another group of travelers trying to exit through the same space. After the confusion has died down, we proceed through another door (unlocked with the code) and travel up a hallway, which smells a bit like a damp bathroom. There are no windows. A few more stairs, and another door. Some stairs back down, and another door, with 'Dorm 9' emblazoned upon it. We have arrived. It isn't pretty.

It's hardly hell on earth. But it is just a bit like how I imagine youth detention would be. Blue, blue, blue and IKEA silver, all under fluorescent lighting, does not make for a welcoming décor. There is one window in this room, and it makes us laugh (on the outside, at least). Its purpose is questionable. Maybe once it opened, but no longer. Maybe once it looked out onto the glory of the outside world, but again, no longer. It now offers a scenic vista of concrete, brick a closed fire-exit. If you get right up the window you can look down a tunnel, and see daylight coming through a wire grate at the end. Beyond the great is the outside world...consisting mostly of trash. It is, without a doubt, the most depressing window ever.

Although we aren't yet so hardened to the rough backpacking life to just shrug and get on with things, we're also too fresh to the whole experience to be truly upset by this. More seasoned individuals than us will most certainly scoff at our 'hardship', but please, leave us to our fancies. We may yet see worse.