Wales; Beautiful landscape and even more wonderful hostels!

One of the things I agreed to do with some of my over-excessive amount of free time was take a trip to climb some mountains in Wales, the main aim for spending one month at the gym getting back to a former level of fitness after the two months of physical neglecting started. As it happens, hiking in the mountains is something I enjoy (contrary to popular opinion); the clear air of a high altitude as opposed to the smog laden city, the spellbinding views of land illustrating the complexity of nature changing over thousands of generations; the challenge of rock-climbing under full exposure to the forces of nature, with the knowledge that one would be in severe danger of death if a hand hold fails; these are all only part of the pleasures undergone from ascending a high, rocky peak.

Unfortunately, the accommodation could not succumb to the same high standards as the landscape.
I’m sure many of my readers have at least a preconception of the standards (rather, none-standards) accepted by Youth Hostellers, if they have not yet taken the opportunity to indulge in budget accommodation themselves.
Let me just say this. A bed in one of these places comprises of a rock hard mattress (most probably containing a shattered boulder hand selected by the Youth Hostel warden from a nearby mountain), a “sheet sleeping bag”, a duvet and a pillow. Now, the purpose of the justifiably inexpensive sounding “sheet sleeping bag” is to cover up the duvet and pillow, so that theoretically no skin contact is made between you and these items.
The rationalization of its use? In my opinion, the duvet and pillow are never washed, solely covered up by the “sheet sleeping bag”, giving a good impression of the hygiene echelon of a Youth Hostel room.

As the sensitive reader can foresee, getting a good night’s sleep was not on the agenda, especially given the surrounding deafening snores expelled by a roommate after closing his eyes for five minutes.

The food was all done by self-catering efforts. This was perhaps better than having a hostel canteen, as I do not doubt similar standards apply to the catering sector of a Youth Hostel as do to the bedding; offering dishes made from lowest-quality ingredients with minimal labour, that are about as enjoyable to the palette as they are aesthetically presented.

To conclude all of this: the days were pleasurable, the nights a torture, there being nothing worse than looking at one’s watch thinking about how so few hours remain at one’s disposal before entering the health hazardous Youth Hostel bed.

So we arrive, after a week of the above, to the date of August the tenth, having arrived for a fortnight’s stay at my grandma’s place in Durham.
It was here that I was truly able to have a well-earned rest, after the claustrophobia experienced in the house in Cambridge and the aforementioned comfortably accommodating Youth Hostel. Although the daily routine was similar to that of Cambridge (Arise, Breakfast, TV, Gym, TV, Dinner, Sleep), the company was far more enjoyable; a breath of fresh air, perhaps even fresher than that of the Welsh mountains. My grandma is a kind, considerate and selfless person with a heart of gold who I consider to be one of the best hosts I have experienced; always willing to entertain and please with many days out shopping or sight-seeing in the nearby city of Newcastle (incidentally, the University I am to study at commencing this fall).
I took great pleasure in cooking all our meals, ranging from simple dishes such as steak frites with béarnaise to complex fish plates; one of my personal favourites being salmon fillet baked in a sour cream sauce served with roasted potatoes; the roasting process involving par-boiling the potatoes, chopping them up into small pieces and roasting in olive oil and thyme. Pure heaven! As always, a side salad and bread were served with the meal, as well as a bottle of wine, preferably either an Australian shiraz with heavy meat dishes, Californian chardonnay with fish or Spanish rioja with steak.

Not uncommon for me, I’m drifting off the point.

Perhaps interesting for the reader would be to know what a previous close friend of mine, Gabrielle Hansen, had to acknowledge after our previous stay, during our tour of the British Isles two years previous:

“Your grandma is in the mind a young person in their early to mid twenties; it is solely her outer appearance matches her age”

This could not be more true a statement. Many of my peers often complain about the obscurity of their elder relatives, usually putting their mental sanity into question. However, my mother’s mother is somebody I have always loved the company of ever since a small child. Perhaps the fact she is my last living grand-relative makes her all the more special to me.

Enough of the emotional riff-raff.

We’ve come to the present, with me writing these very words shortly after my arrival back in Cambridge following the two weeks in Durham. Not a lot is different, to say the least. My brother moaning about his job, myself being scrutinized in the usual manner, the inevitable consequences of my father’s arrival back from his holiday in Hungary (please don’t ask!) awaiting my siblings and I tomorrow.

Be back later!


Mark