Travel Biography - Week 39.

A Paranormal Incident?

In last week's post, whilst I was narrating my 1985 visit to the Paris Catacombs, I mentioned whether any discarnate souls were present and whether they would feel frustrated or angry at my presence. Indeed, some, or even many reading this biography may be wondering how someone living in the 21st Century could hang onto superstitious nonsense as this - a throwback from the Dickensian era when grown men were afraid to walk through the narrow, medieval streets of London during a foggy night, believing that the murk in the air is the gathering of lost souls looking for somewhere to rest.

Therefore, I have to admit how I was feeling towards those skulls and femurs that lined the walls of the ossuary. Feeling sad for them, I approached one of the skulls and gingerly stroked its cranium. I then made my exit without giving it any more thought.

Notre Dame, Paris. Visited 1985. Stock photo.

Within two weeks after that particular holiday ended, whilst nipping to the superstore to buy some bread, some youths in their late teens or early twenties were sitting on the wall just outside the supermarket doors. One of them threw a verbal insult at me. When I should have ignored him and simply head for home, instead, I threw one back at him. A big mistake. The gang arose and pushed me into an alley where more youths were already gathered as if waiting for my arrival. Some young women were also there, watching.

Then one of the youths, the ringleader I believe, floored me with a single punch. I was the butt of around ten to twenty youths, who all delighted at my hurt. There was not a hint of sympathy or a twinge of compassion among any of them, not even among the females. What a dynamic contrast to the recent compassion I felt from a group of young people whilst on board the wrong train as it raced to Paris from Dieppe! As I stumbled home from the alley, one of them asked where I live. Would they follow me to my apartment? Being three floors up, the only damage they could have done was to the front door. However, a second punch was thrown at me before their interest in me began to wane and I was left alone once again.

But why?

Was I a random target to relieve their boredom and add some excitement to an otherwise uneventful evening? No, for I was well-known in the neighbourhood for my domestic window cleaning business. It was not that long before when I received a phone call from one of my customers, asking whether I was quitting the business. When I replied, You what? - she became very apologetic and explained that a man called with a message that I had sent him, and gave him permission for him to take over. I became angry and explained that I would never send anyone on my behalf. If I had a message to deliver, I would deliver it myself in person. The elderly lady then reassured me that I was still in her books and will be waiting for my next call.

That this poacher could have been the ringleader's father or brother was well within plausibility, and once verified by being watched on one occasion by the same gang whilst I was at work. In turn, my other clients in the same street confirmed that he called all the houses and each one turned him away, either saying that I'm their window cleaner, or they don't want the service at all, the latter group having turned me away too during my canvassing evenings. 

Whether that particular set of events was tied to my stroking the cranium of a dead person beneath the streets of Paris or not, what Paul wrote to the Ephesians opens the possibility of a supernatural drive behind the emotions of the gang members who attacked me, when he penned, In times past you walked according to the course of this world, according to the prince of the power of the air, the spirit which now works in the children of disobedience. Other than this, the only alternative to the sheer timing of the beating would have been a mere coincidence.

How an Accountant changed my Travel Habits.

My friendship with Tim Kingcott goes back to the late seventies, especially after he left university. A schoolboy or college rugby player, he became the manager of a football team, also the crew leader of a hospital radio station (cf, Week 30) and one of the elders at Ascot Baptist Church. He also loved the great outdoors, and, like I do, loves the dramatism of a cliff face, especially in the Dorset/Isle of Wight areas of the English coastline. He also has a good knowledge of birds and a fondness for flowers, particularly of the Pansy variety - a cause of much teasing between us, along with a few other friends. Yet, we are still friends to this day.

The Dorset Coast, Swanage.

Tim also loved camping and hostelling, back then both outside my realm. For me, however, a private hotel room was always my means of accommodation when away from home. Yet, according to hostelling records, my first experience in a Youth Hostel was in the Spring of 1985, a few months before my third trip to France. Hence, it's true to say that there was an overlap between the hotel and the hostel eras.

It was Tim who introduced me to the world of the Youth Hostel. This one was at Totland Bay on West Wight. Unfortunately, this hostel, among others, closed permanently during the nineties and the property resumed its original purpose as a private residence.

Some Youth Hostel Information.

The Youth Hostel may be unfamiliar to a certain percentage of my readers, as during my younger years I too was unaware of its existence. Therefore, I would like to enlighten you on what hostelling was all about, for the matter of interest.

In Germany, in the 1930s, the idea of taking children for a break out of their heavily-industrialised hometowns into the countryside to experience nature was the concept behind the rise of Youth Hostels. Back then, it was exactly what was said on the can. It was for city children and their adult supervisors to experience country life. There were no private bedrooms. Instead, each hosteller was assigned a bed in a single-sex dormitory. To economise on room space, the beds were usually in bunk form, with an upper and a lower bed sharing the same frame.

Post War, the Youth Hostels Association, or the YHA England & Wales, and also North of the Border SYHA was fully established in Britain by the 1950s. This had the same purpose as those in Germany, to bring young people out of their urban areas for a taste of the countryside or to sites of special interest. Hence, for example, Brighton hostel was not actually in Brighton itself. Rather, in 1985, it was housed in an 800-year-old mansion, Patcham Place, four miles inland from the beach and on the foot of the South Downs. Likewise, the Dorset port and resort of Weymouth does not have a hostel in its urban vicinity, but Lulworth Cove, Litton Cheney, and Bridport hostels are not far from the town, instead, they are all on the West Coast Path.

However, both Swanage and Winchester had a hostel within the town. Although it's a short but steep downhill walk to Swanage beach and town from the hostel, the main purpose for the YHA was to study the dramatic Jurassic Coast on which Swanage is based, including Old Harry Rocks, Ballard Down, Peveril Point, and Durlston Head. As for Winchester, again, sad to say, this hostel, set in a watermill over the River Itchen, closed down several years ago. I recall the weekends I stayed there on the eve of the annual Winchester Triathlon, listening to the river rushing under the floorboards of the empty mill. At national parks such as the Lake and Peak District NPs, hostels were aplenty, some of them only a mile or two apart, and such a welcoming place for a tired hiker.

During the eighties, YHA England & Wales classed each hostel into three categories: Simple, Standard, and Superior, depending on bed capacity and facilities offered. A Simple hostel was usually found far out in the sticks and it was little more than a shelter for the night, even without hot running water. In a Simple hostel. the warden may or may not be a resident. The Standard and Superior hostels had all the necessities, including a resident warden who is normally one of a married couple. Breakfast and evening meals were served in the dining room, each meal pre-paid at registration. Alternatively, there was a member's kitchen where the hosteller cooked his own meals and ate in the member's dining room which was often separate from the hostel dining room.

The Standard and Superior hostel often boasted a classroom, as these were ideal overnight stays for school field study trips. Each group had to be accompanied by a supervisor, himself a hostel member, and in charge of up to 15 students. If the group is mixed gender, then there were two adults, one of each gender.

Every bed at the hostel was of the regulation size of 210 cm, or 6.9 feet in length and 80 cm, or 31.5 inches in width, thus able to accommodate children and adults alike. Mandatory lights out were at 23.30 hours. In the morning, usually after breakfast, each hosteller was assigned a duty by the warden. The idea of that was not only to keep the running costs down (the YHA is a charity) but to teach the kids discipline and responsibility. Such duties usually involve cleaning, whether it's washing the breakfast dishes, mopping the kitchen or bathroom floor, hoovering the carpet, sweeping the dormitories, or wiping the window sills. The maximum stay at a YHA hostel was normally three nights.

Inside a typical YHA dormitory.

Thus with enough information, I hope, given, I would never forget my first night spent at Totland Youth Hostel in West Wight. It was Tim who booked us in, and there was a third person with us, Keith White. In all honesty, at first, I didn't like the hostelling regime, especially the mandatory duty, in my case, the hand washing of all the dining room dishes, quite a big task, with Tim and Keith doing the drying and the stacking away. 

This was after a rather flimsy meal, indeed, suitable for a child, thus still feeling hungry afterwards. The three of us then went out and bought a pizza each, which filled our stomachs for the rest of the evening. Then, what I found insulting as an adult (I was in my thirties in 1985) was to be told that it was bedtime! If only the YHA would differentiate between a child and an adult, as we were all adults at the hostel, the normality I would find out in the years to come. Tim cracked a joke to encourage me. He got me to imagine a burly truck driver in his mid-forties, his biceps as big as barrels, being told by the warden in a childish tone that it was bedtime. We both laughed.

I wasn't impressed with the hostelling. I felt no compunction to take it up. Back to the hotel with me. At least, if I want to bed down at 2.00 am in the privacy of a hired room, there would be no one to tell me otherwise.

Little did I know then that the so-called Youth Hostel would set the pace for a future global Travel Explosion of the nineties.

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Next Week: No longer by myself.