Travel Biography - Week 41.

Turning a Disability on its Head.

In Week 1 of this Travel Biography, I opened with my admiration for the BBC Travel Presenter Simon Reeve. His extroverted, laid-back presentations without ever first attending a private school or a university have made me a fan. However, there is another presenter, Chris Packham, who specifies on natural history for the BBC and also deserves my attention.

Unlike Reeve, Packham shined well at Bittern Park Secondary School (a Comprehensive today) with his sixth form at Taunton College before progressing to Southampton University where he gained a Bachelor of Science degree in Zoology before entering the world of journalism. 

On the Spectrum - Chris Packham.

Packham's experience at his school was very similar to mine, especially in sports. Like me, he was a loner, he had very few friends, he was bullied, and he was not into team sports. Instead, he loved nature and furthered his studies in the route of his main interest. And as I refer to his condition, he's on the Spectrum, my preferred way of referring to high-ended autism, or Asperger's Syndrome.

Asperger's Syndrome, discovered by a German Dr Hans Asperger in the 1940s, is a combined mental and emotional condition which restricts social reactions, thus tending to be loners. Chris Packham, although he has a non-resident partner in Charlotte Corney who owns a wildlife sanctuary, is in his 60s, and remains unmarried. Just like two well-educated men whom I know personally. One has a PhD in Genetics, the other a degree in Mathematics, and both remain single to this day. Both are regular churchgoers, neither had ever played in a sports team (other than school games) and both are on the Spectrum. As for international travel, neither of them would go abroad without their Christian travel agent, Oak Hall, with their escorted group tours.

And rather late in my life, it took a psychologist to reveal the answer to my lingering set of questions - why was I lacking in school team sports, especially in football (soccer) and rugby? And during those dreadful pre-game team captain selections, why was I always the last to leave the shelf? And in restaurants or pubs to this day, why was I always the quiet one in a group? According to her, the psychologist eventually diagnosed my condition - I too was on the Spectrum.

And this explains just about everything, from negative schooldays experience, very similar to Chris Packham's schooldays, to the positive take on international travel, which is on parallel terms with his love for wildlife. Therefore, I can say that, rather than allowing myself to be defeated by the syndrome, instead, I unknowingly used the condition to fulfil my dreams, meet my aspirations and experience adventure as a solo traveller. And so, a bug found its home in me in 1973, when I ascended the slopes of Mt Vesuvius and walked the streets of Pompeii. Or was the travel bug already residing in my soul right from birth? And was that demonstrated by the lone walks I did across London during my childhood, described in Week 1?

Therefore, to find myself as one of a group of five keen cyclists was a step outside my realm, a detour from the normal tracks of solo backpacking. Yet, as I mixed socially with both middle and working-class friends alike, without any barriers, this proved to be good for the soul, both theirs and mine.

The Take on Long-Distance Cycling and the Triathlon.

As documented in Week 30 of this Biography, my social life in the 1980s can be divided into two halves. From 1981 to 1985, I devoted my time to the studio of Hospital Radio, then known as Radio Heatherwood of NHS Heatherwood Hospital in Ascot, also the home of the famous Royal horse-racing venue. It was while I was serving as a presenter that I have gotten the idea of raising funds for the station through physical activity. At first, this took the form of a long-distance swim at the hospital nurse's pool next to the resident's grounds during a fund-raising fete. After that, I began to run the Bracknell Half-marathon for the same purpose of fund-raising through sponsorship from my window-cleaning clientele and friends at Bracknell Baptist.

I ran three half-marathons during the first half of the 1980s, which were also the years I visited France, especially Mont St Michel, Rouen, Rennes, Clermont Ferrand, and Paris. However, while I was swimming at Arthur Hill Pool in Reading in 1986, I became acquainted with one of the trainee lifesavers, Chris Treacher, a financial advisor who was also a member of Thames Valley Triathletes, or TVT, a triathlon club also based in Reading, and at that time, met on Monday and Wednesday evenings at South Reading Leisure, and at the Meadway School swimming pool in West Reading, on Fridays. It was after training on Fridays that some of the regulars made their way to the Pizza Hut in the town centre for a late evening social over dinner.

At the Newcastle to Reading Charity Ride, 1989.

Thus, during the late eighties and into the nineties, I was committed to the multi-discipline sport of the Triathlon, a combination of swimming, cycling and running within a single race. Open-water triathlons usually had a mass start, like in any other race, a crowd of lycra-clad athletes dashing straight into the sea or large lake. The Swanage Triathlon, the Open Water Triathlon at Stubbers, Upminster, and the Bananaman Championships at Fairlop Waters in Romford, Essex, had a mass-start swim where I competed in all three of these events. 

Staggered start triathlons were normally at swimming pools, and the event was more of a time trial than a race. Such events I completed were at Wokingham, Newbury, Farnham, Winchester, Eastbourne, and East Grinstead. 

Although I competed in triathlons around Southern England, for events held at Winchester, Eastbourne, East Grinstead, Romford, Swanage, and Upminster, train travel (all of them alone, and not with the club) was a necessity with a pre-event overnight stay at a hotel or hostel. This included Upminster, entailing the only Underground train journey completed by loading my bike on the District Line train at Embankment Station after alighting at London Waterloo. It looks to me that by loading a bicycle on an Underground train, I made history! At Swanage, Winchester, and Eastbourne, I stayed at a Youth Hostel, and at a hotel in Romford, Upminster, and East Grinstead. For Farnham, Wokingham and Newbury, the overnight stay at or near the venue wasn't necessary.

As for long-distant cycling, two venues where the 100-mile 162 km circuit was completed, the 1991 Salisbury Century in Wiltshire and the 1992 Norwich Century in Norfolk, and for each, there were only two of us in the crowd, Gareth Philips and me. We completed each circuit in good time, although there was a mandatory lunch break at the fifty-mile point. Indeed, the ride was more for charity fundraisers than fast, competitive cyclists. But what made the Norwich ride more interesting was that the city hostel was closed for a conference to be held on the same day as the ride. So I wrote to the hostel's warden, explaining about the ride organised by Bike Events. The response I received was that the conference was postponed to make way for the Century Ride. When we arrived at the Norwich Hostel, the dormitory was occupied not by men in suits but by riders in lycra.

The 1989 Newcastle-upon-Tyne to Reading Charity Ride.

But I'm jumping ahead of time here. As a member of Thames Valley Triathletes, in 1989, the father of one of the club Committee members, Don Rawson, and members of the Reading Lions teamed up on a fundraising project to buy a minibus to transport senior citizens and the disabled in the Reading area. And so, through sponsorship, a 300-mile 483 km three-day ride from Newcastle-upon-Tyne to Reading cycle ride was organised to cover the August Bank Holiday. This group, a mix of Reading Lions with TVT, consisted of eleven all-male cyclists and one female co-ordinator who drove the van that stored our bikes, accessories, and a crate of bananas during the three days and nights we were away from home. I was the last to join the group after they accepted my request a few weeks earlier.

After travelling in the van from Reading to Newcastle, we spent our first night squeezed together in the lounge of a private home, obviously known by Don Rawson, and possibly even related. By the next morning, in pretty miserable but mild weather and some light rain, we assembled on Tyne Bridge spanning the river of the same name, and we set off.

And yes, I became the centre of attention when first my rear tyre punctured. The whole team had to stop whilst my tire was changed by fitting a spare tube taken from the accompanying van. Then later on in the ride, it happened again, this time with the front tyre! I became the butt of jokes as the rest of the team expressed their frustration! But that was the risk when riding a bicycle with high-pressure tyres over wet ground. Any sharp particle would more likely cling to the tyre and the wheel roll over the sharp object when wet, rather than the shard flying off when the ground and tyre were dry.

Eventually, by early evening, we arrived at Thirsk, Yorkshire, after less than seventy miles of riding. And Don Rawson got to talk with the Mayor of Thirsk, who organised a banquet for all of us after we showered and changed. Then we each bedded down on the floor on an inflatable mat inside the town's Community Hall. 

The next day, after breakfast, we set off for the next leg of our journey. This was to be over 150 miles long, totalling 216 miles from Newcastle. This was of concern for some of the members who had milometers fitted on their bikes, and ensuring that they were all properly calibrated, so each gave the same reading independently. Their aim was to crack over 300 miles in three days.

Fortunately, a strong tailwind picked up, a northeasterly, and this drove us to ride fast along the A19 dual carriageway. The weather and the ground were dry and there were no more punctures. Imagine a line of cyclists, one behind the other, riding single file and feeling as if we were an express train at full speed. That's how I felt.

We arrived at Market Harborough in Leicestershire around tea time, earlier than scheduled. This gave me a chance to have a bit of a wander around to check out the market town. Unlike in Thirsk, there was no one to greet us personally, and again, after showering and changing at a particular venue, we had dinner at a local Pizza Hut restaurant. We then finished the evening with a bit of fun and games before we settled down for our final night away from home.

All of us at Market Harborough.

The next morning, Bank Holiday Monday, we once again set off for another day's riding. The weather was good, with warm sunshine. In contrast to the previous day's ride which was flat and fast, this leg, although just over ninety miles long, nevertheless, would be hilly, with the Chilterns to contend with. By the time we arrived at Reading, which was again around teatime and on schedule, we would have covered a total of 302 miles altogether. Our aim was fully met.

In Reading, another celebration banquet was laid on, after which we returned to Don Rawson's home in Woodley, a village east of Reading. It was here that my punctured tyres were repaired and refitted before eventually cycling home in good spirits.

Indeed, I might have Asperger's, according to the psychologist, but rather than it defeating me socially, this adventure proves that I was able to turn it on its head and benefit from it.

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Next Week: On yer bike - the Big One!

Travel Biography - Week 40.

The Decline of Traditional Hostelling.

A long-standing friend and accountant, Tim Kingcott, introduced me to Youth Hostelling in 1985, when he, along with another friend, Keith White, and I stayed at Totland Bay Youth Hostel at West Wight. However, after my first experience there, I returned home with some reservations. After travelling across Europe, the Middle East, and the North American Continent for the past thirteen years, I had always stayed in a hotel room and enjoyed the privacy of the night sleeping alone. And nobody had ever told me it was time for bed, either!

What I had found off-putting about the idea of hostelling, and particularly the Totland Bay Hostel, was precise that - the warden's announcement that it was time for lights out. For an adult in his thirties, this was basically an insult. As far as I'm aware, a child is told it's time for bed, not an adult. Then added to that was the mandatory chore assigned to every hosteller by the warden.

Bruges, Belgium, 1987.

Mine was hand-washing all the evening meal dishes, quite a big task lasting the better part of thirty minutes, whilst Tim and Keith shared in the drying and the packing away. You may wonder: Why did I find the mandatory duty unsettling?

As stated last week, these duties involved mainly cleaning in one way or another - which happens to be my full-time occupation. In principle, I have always believed that a manual task is good for the well-being of one who sits at a desk all day - whether at school, college or work. I have also read what psychologists and psychiatrists say, that pushing a broom, hoovering the carpet, or even emulsifying a room could aid in beating depression or even combatting mental illness. Indeed, for someone who is academically minded, shovelling snow in the winter most likely will do him some good. But for me, as a window cleaner, the idea of going on holiday or taking a break was to be free from such full-time responsibility. However, in the years to come, YHA England & Wales was about to see some changes. 

The average age of the hosteller increased throughout the late eighties and into the nineties. As older people began to replace the school-agers, they tend to have more money in their pockets, and therefore less keen on the mandatory duty "to keep running costs down." The 1985 Totland Bay experience looked to me to have been the charity's last attempt to keep the system compatible with school-age youngsters arriving from urban sprawl and retain the title of Youth Hostel.

All the hostellers at Totland Bay were adults of varying ages. At the same time, the YHA was beginning to feel under threat. That threat was realised when the YHA began closing their hostels and selling off the property that housed them. Winchester was one of them, and up north, Chester also closed. And Totland Bay itself was soon deleted from the map. And several more, one after another. Indeed, unless some house rules were changed, the whole charity would eventually go under.

Patrons no longer considered themselves as youths. They were generally older and more independently-minded. They had money and were willing to pay a little more, enough to scrap the mandatory duty but still pay less than a hired hotel room if they were to sleep in a dormitory. And I was around to see these changes - such changes eventually motivated me to use the hostel rather than a hotel as a base for both cross-country and international travel.

At Ghent, Belgium, 1987.

It was during the nineties and looking through some travel magazines, especially Trailfinders, that I saw that this decline of the YHA was happening on a global scale. It was about that time when an umbrella organisation, Hostelling International, or HI, was formed to administer each nation's particular YHA. Countries included in this scheme were the countries of Western Europe, the USA, Canada, Australia, New Zealand, and the UK with YHA England & Wales, Scottish or SYHA, and YHA Northern Ireland.

In each edition of Trailfinders, YHA New Zealand had the approximate words blazing out of its advert page: WELCOME TO OUR HOSTELS IN NEW ZEALAND: NO DUTIES. This says it all. Youth Hostels Associations around the world were attracting clientele who were older, more independent, and ready to boycott the charity if their hostels still insisted on the chores. Hence, to stay afloat, the clientele was no longer from a school in the city. Rather they were backpackers arriving from as far as halfway around the world. In turn, the Warden became the Receptionist and the hostel itself became the Backpacker's Hostel, but the initial for Youth was retained to keep the YHA logo recognisable. 

In Australia, their YHA-affiliated hostels didn't go all the way as New Zealand, instead, they held the Dollar-or-Duty scheme. To anyone other than one with an ultra-tight budget, everyone else, including me, was willing to pay the extra Australian dollar. At the time, I never bothered to calculate that if I were to spend every night at a hostel for six weeks, the additional expense would have totalled A$42 - enough at the time for a full week's grocery shopping for two or even for a family. A student on a gap year break would have paid an extra A$360 to avoid a daily chore for the whole year. Yet, I never thought that way and neither did the other backpackers, as the majority of Australian hostels in 1997 simply assumed that we weren't interested in carrying out any duties.

 Here, I'm with Gareth, Keith, and Tim, 1987.

In America, their HI AYHA, along with HI Canada, had in 1997 a popular rival across the continent: Rucksackers North America with their Banana Bungalow Hostels, based mostly in California but also found elsewhere across the more touristy areas of the States back then. With such a popular rival, the AYHA had long withdrawn their mandatory duties as they watched their clientele flock to the more casual Banana Bungalow with its no-curfew stance and even parties stretching into the night. In 1997, at one non-affiliated privately-owned hostel at Hervey Bay, Queensland, backpackers who, during the day would hike a trail or gaze at the corals of the Great Barrier Reef, were that night dancing in the hostel bar to loud music with even some of them dancing on the large, sturdy tables. I didn't. Instead, I just sat there and watched, wondering how a YHA hostel in Southern England would have thought!

In contrast to this, there was one American hostel where I had to do a mandatory duty, and that was a HI AYHA-affiliated hostel in Pheonix, Arizona. For the record, this was the only hostel duty I ever carried out outside the UK. And that was on my 43rd birthday, of all days! This task was to wipe down the inside of a shower cubicle. It only took five minutes, yet, it was not much of a birthday present.

International Hostelling gets Underway - with Friends.

The decline of the duty and the rise of adult membership in both the UK hostels and those around the rest of the world was enough for me to eventually swap the privacy of a hotel room for that of a hostel dormitory. And there were swings and roundabouts. The advantage proved a benefit for the budget. Hostelling had opened the door for much longer holidays. The longest continuous time spent backpacking outside the UK was ten weeks from June to August 1997 whilst on a Round-the-World trip. That wouldn't have been possible had I stayed in hotels or even American motels. So, what was the secret? The member's kitchen is found in all hostels whether affiliated with the YHA or not. Buying my own groceries saved me from the expense of restaurants and even coffee bars. Then cooking the food in a communal kitchen was the epicentre for meeting people and forming new friendships.

A bit of playful banter in Belgium with Gareth and Keith.

The downside was the lack of privacy. And this reared its ugly head in several ways. One was during the night whilst sharing the dormitory with a loud snorer. The remedy for this, out of trial and error, was to make temporary earplugs from a double sheet of toilet tissue, two adjoining sheets for each ear to prevent the plug from going too far in the canal, and soaked in water before insertion. Despite the slight discomfort, this made quite a difference and allowed me to sleep soundly despite the loud snore.

The late eighties were quite different from the past travelling experiences. Instead of travelling on my own, I started to team up with four other eager friends. All five of us were single, all of us attended a church regularly, and all of us were keen cyclists, with me with the added credentials of a triathlete. One rider was Paul Hunt, an architectural assistant, and who already had a girlfriend back home, Kelly. Then there was Gareth Phillips, a banker. Next was Keith White, at the time a kitchen porter, and Tim Kingcott the accountant. Finally, I was a self-employed window cleaner who completed the group. As I saw it, this interclass mix on the social level was a wonderful ethic, a demonstration that acceptance and friendship were not based on our status, occupation or level of education.

In 1987, we loaded our bikes onto a train at Liverpool Street Station for Harwich port, from where a ferry sailed us to the Hook of Holland. We then spent a week cycling through Holland, into Belgium, and then into Germany, where we turned around at Cologne (that is, Koln in German). We stayed at hostels throughout the trip and for the first time, at Amsterdam our first overnight stop, none of us was assigned a duty by the warden. We talked about it and at first, we simply assumed that duties were non-existent on the Continent, or simply in Holland. Or was the duty confined only to the UK?

We didn't use the member's kitchen (if there was one there.) Instead, a buffet was accessible and we chose our own food items for breakfast. And this seems to be the norm of all the hostels we visited in all three countries. No duty, no member's kitchen and a buffet service for breakfast. As for other meals and refreshments, we relied on restaurants, adding extra expense to the holiday.

I found Brussels, in many ways, to be a twin sister of London with very similar architecture. I was curious when we arrived at Brussels Central Station, housed in a large building. Thinking that it was the city terminus, Gareth and I went downstairs, underground, only to find that this was a through station.

But Brussels, to my opinion, wasn't the loveliest city we stopped at, even if we spent a night at the hostel in the capital. Rather, I think the prettiest town in Belgium was Bruges, where we spent a night at a hostel there. 

Tim, Gareth and Paul at Ghent.

In Germany, we spent at least two nights at the city's Deutz hostel, a loud, chaotic venue. One morning, after breakfast at the buffet, we returned to our dormitory - only to find that all the cash was missing from my wallet, even though my credit and debit cards were intact. With no traveller's cheques, rather than mess around using my banking cards in a foreign country, all my mates gave me a share of their cash, and until the end of the trip, I was able to live on their generosity. This a reminder of when my traveller's cheques were stolen whilst on the train from Pisa to Florence six years earlier in 1981.

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Next Week: More Adventures with Friends.

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.

Travel Biography - Week 38.

Experience has shown that enthusiasm remains whenever I have visited a natural phenomenon for the first time. Thus, the Grand Canyon is one example. Since my first visit to this natural wonder in 1978, I have always had a fascination with this gigantic gash across the Arizonian semi-desert. The same applies to coral reefs after my first visit to one in 1997, still to be chronicled in a later blog of this biography. And then literally putting my life on the line as I felt the ground quake beneath my feet, as the steam released from the Central Crater of Mt Etna made a hollow, nerve-jangling thunder as I, with one other person, stood on its rim.

At Basilica Sacre Coeur, Paris 1985.

Concluding the 1984 trip to France.

Thus, along with the Canyon from 1978, a fascination with volcanoes developed during the early eighties. With a tighter budget than I enjoyed in the seventies, during that time in my life, travel opportunities were more restricted, but France offered some attractions that were worth visiting.

Mont St Michel was one venue I visited in 1983. A church sitting on the summit of a granite plug of an ancient volcano surrounded by a busy shopping precinct. And a year later, a visit to the Massif Central in the middle of France featuring a chain of ancient volcanoes provided enough motivation to stay at a hotel in the nearby city of Clermont Ferrand.

And the slopes of Puy de Dome could be seen on the horizon as the train I was on made its way to Paris Gare de Lyon. From Paris Gare St Lazare, I boarded another train for Rouen, where I wanted to spend at least two nights before crossing the Channel to the UK. Like at all other venues, finding a hotel in Rouen and asking whether they have a room was not a problem, and by the evening, I checked in. Ah! Wasn't life a lot easier for a traveller before the need for advance online booking!

Admittingly, of all the French provincial towns I have been to, I preferred Rouen above the others. However, I was impressed with the rather newish Church of Joan of Arc, the one saint on which the whole town is centred. Very close to the church stood a large crucifix at Le Bucher de Jeanne d'Arc, the exact site of the execution of this 19-year-old girl who, in 1431 was burned alive at the stake by the English for her attempts to liberate France from their dominance.

France 1985.

Of the three visits to France, 1985 was the most fulfilling, despite not travelling very far. After arriving in Dieppe Harbour from Newhaven, I boarded the train directly for Rouen and settled in the same hotel where I stayed a year earlier in 1984. My preference to base myself in a provincial town rather than Paris itself was due to hotel tariffs being considerably lower. Besides that, getting to Paris from Rouen was straightforward, with frequent fast trains from both Le Havre and Dieppe stopping at Rouen for Paris Gare St Lazare. During this holiday, I alternated a day in Rouen with a day in Paris, along with a day in Dieppe itself, watching the ferries arrive and depart as well as taking in scenic views from a nearby clifftop walk.

At Rouen, not only did I revisit the Church de Jeanne d'Arc but also the Cathedrale de Notre Dame and the museum of Joan of Arc, with exhibits depicting her life, including the visions she had of the archangel Michael, apparently the same entity whose visions had inspired the original construction of the church at Mont St Michel, along - strangely enough - with appearing to Joseph Smith who founded Mormonism in New York State some 400 years later. Joan's vision of this particular entity was debated among theologians of her day whether it was divine or demonic, despite her insistence that she was sent into battle by God to drive out the English from Normandy and Brittany, and to restore the French monarchy.

Jeanne d'Arc, at a museum in Rouen, 1985.

As mentioned last week, I also set apart some time for recreational purposes, mainly to swim in the indoor pool at the leisure centre which was located on an elongated island in the middle of the River Seine, thus crossing the river to reach it. Although not the one for nightlife, especially after my sordid 1972 experience on the Costa Brava in Spain, however, I did spend the evenings at a coffee bar near the hotel, both just off Rue Jeanne d'Arc, the main thoroughfare of the city.

Paris, and a virtually unknown Subterranean Tunnel.

Preparing to visit a foreign destination by buying a guidebook and browsing through, can reveal otherwise virtually unknown locations even in a tourist city. The Berlitz Guide to Paris is a very convenient pocket-sized handbook that has given me some secret venues that are open to the public, but in 1985, still little known by international tourists and therefore, giving me quick and easy access without the need to queue. And so, while I was at a pub with a group of colleagues in Reading, that same year, I was talking to one middle-aged gentleman who lived in Paris for several years. I asked him whether he knew about the Paris Catacombs. Much to my surprise, he admitted that he had never heard of them.

And so, on the morning of every other day, I boarded the same train into Paris from Rouen Station. Well-known sites I went to see included the Pompidou Arts Centre with its unusual glass tunnel escalators and corridors resembling the tunnels of the London Underground, also known affectionately as the Tube. Also so striking was the Sacre Coeur Basilica on the summit of the Butte of St Montmartre, with the dome of the church around 200 metres above the River Seine, hence it can be seen from anywhere in the city. And from it, one has a splendid view of the French capital.

However, the most intriguing was the Catacombs of Paris. The nearest Metropolitan (Paris Underground) station is Denfert-Rochereau in the Montparnasse area of southern Paris. One afternoon, having already known the whereabouts of the entrance, after walking straight in and paying the fee, I made my way down the 131 steps to the entrance of an underground tunnel or corridor, about one kilometre in length. As I strolled alone through this tunnel, illuminated by electric lighting, I compared it to the Catacombs of Capuchin in Palermo. This was totally different.

Eventually, after what seemed like an eternal subterranean walk, I arrived at a gate with the words in French, approximately reading, You are about to enter the City of the Dead.

Within this gate, the corridor widened out into an underground ossuary. The entire walls were lined with countless femur bones and skulls arranged in decorative patterns. From this chamber, I could see several corridors branching off as if in different directions, as within the one-km-long corridor, every so often, I passed an entrance to a passage leading off from the corridor. But each of these entrances was sealed off by a locked gate, both in the corridor and in the ossuary. Just as well. These tunnels were originally quarries from which stone was cut to build Paris. 

The section open to the public is only a tiny proportion of the total tunnelling. In all, there are about 200 miles or 324 kilometres of tunnels forming a three-dimensional labyrinth under the streets of Paris. First dug as early as 1700, throughout the 19th Century, it was decided that the city cemeteries were not only becoming overcrowded but was also posing a sanitary risk to public health. As such, the bones of more than 6,000,000 individuals were transported from these cemeteries to these quarries. What the public sees is "the crowning glory" - if I could call it that - of the catacombs. There are many more bones buried elsewhere within the labyrinth.

Several secret societies know the tunnels well to wander through without getting lost. There is even an underground chapel where these people meet. They enter and exit through hidden entrances scattered around the city, only they know about. However, they have one rule which they ardently keep: Never ever wander into the tunnels on your own. However, in recent years, several lone explorers were known to enter these tunnels illegally and after getting lost, died deep underground of panic, starvation or hypothermia.

Therefore, I was grateful for the locked gates that kept me on the straight and narrow! Knowing what I'm capable of, curiosity might have drawn me deep into the labyrinth - only to meet the same fate. Instead, I enjoyed a creepy but an adventurous experience deep under Paris, and when I finally emerged into daylight on a street in a different part of the city, I was both relieved and jubilant about the experience itself. Yet, at the same time, I had to sigh over the death of so many people - human beings who all had mothers, who grew up in a world minus the technology we have enjoyed, a world more likely ravaged by illness and disease, the likelihood of warfare, along with a lingering uncertainty of the afterlife, such has always been the central catechism of the Catholic Church.

The subterranean corridor was about a kilometre long.

On and on the tunnel went, deep under Paris...

Until I arrive at the Ossuary.

The skulls are arranged as a crucifix among femur bones.

Indeed, if such discarnate spirits of these dead were lingering within these tunnels or in the ossuary chamber where I was standing, how would they have felt as I gazed at their skulls and femurs? Perhaps - and I can only speculate, that they would harbour a degree of distress, even anger at us, the living, preventing them from resting. Yes, I'm aware that some of my readers who are Christians would immediately think, Come on! The eternal destiny of each one was determined by their faith when alive, or the lack of it. But theological controversies rage on, even to this day, on the eternal destiny of a Roman Catholic who was devoted to the Church. My position has always been that I see this matter as a private issue between the deceased and God, therefore, I'm in no position to decide or judge. Those were my thoughts as I stood in the underground ossuary chamber.

But all three of these occasions - first, the visit to the Catacombs of St John in Siracuse, Sicily. Then my call to the Catacombs of Capuchin in Palermo, also in Sicily. And now here, at the Paris Catacombs. Although no human remains were on display at St John's, nevertheless, the constant reminder of the reality of death, rather than terrify me, instead, they have made me realise the value of life, how grateful to live to see another day, and how much respect and courtesy should be shown to one another. Each of these corpses began life as a human baby, fully depending on its mother for love and tenderness, and fed in close intimacy with breastmilk. This one aspect of Travel, not merely lying on the beach and risking sunburn, but as a self-educated child of God seeking the real meaning of life which not even the most advanced secular philosophers can adequately answer. That is, their attempt to answer the question of, Why are we here?

Hence, the sense of wonder gained by watching the thundering of Niagara Falls as it cascades ceaselessly over the cliff, the awesome wonder of the Grand Canyon with its majestic buttes and cliffs of stratified rock, the anger of the active volcano as it spews out its lava, ash, and steam. By contrast, the delicate petals of a flower as it withstands the wind blowing on it, the bird's nest with the parent just flown in with food for her hungry chicks, each begging with their beaks wide open. Indeed, there is something wonderful about our world that many fail to see or perceive, yet here I stood at places where the ugliness of death stares down and testifies as a repulsive enemy of all life.

Eiffel Tower.

Approaching the Eiffel Tower was easier during the 1980s than is at present, as back then there were no airport-style security barriers as there are now. Here in Paris, there were two contrasts I had experienced - deep underground and 330 metres above the ground. There seemed to have been little queueing up to buy the tickets for the upper viewing platform. Once up, I stayed there long enough to see the sunset over the city and at the same time watch the thousand luminous dots spread right across the city below, transforming the panorama into a set of glistening jewels. Even the combined running track and football pitch stood out from the dark as the stadium floodlights lit up the arena for what looked to be football training.

The Seine at dusk, Eiffel Tower.

Stadium from Eiffel Tower, 1995.

Eventually, I made my way back to Gare St Lazare to board the train back to Rouen, where my homely hotel room awaits. At least I'll either be remaining in Rouen for the next day or taking a train for a day in Dieppe.

If only I bothered to take my wallet with me to Dieppe instead of leaving it safe in my room drawer.

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Next Week: Big changes...