Finally...last day in Scotland

I'd like to say that it's taken me so long to write this because I have been so unavoidably busy and popular, but unfortunately the truth is that there's just too many distractions at home. I have been getting out of the house and coming to Starbucks in an attempt to focus my attention though, including today, but for three days straight I've bumped into people I know here and writing has gone right out the window. But that's alright, at least people talk to me. Unlike that weirdo sat over there...

Someone had spoken poorly of Perth to me but I didn't think it was all that bad a place to spend an evening. Sure, there was the pie incident, but the couple of pubs I went to afterwards were comfortable and pleasant, if a little rough around the edges. With my options for accommodation pretty limited, I stayed the night in a Travelodge. The room was interestingly decorated in a juxtaposing mix of the charmingly individualistic and the tackily mass-produced. The furniture and headboard were solid and made of quality dark wood and the light fittings were ornate faux cast iron, but the carpet was garishly multicoloured and the bathroom dated, damaged and in desperate need of a refit. Basically it wasn't totally crap, which is probably the most you can ask for from a Travelodge.

The Travelodge was linked to a Toby Carvery, and in the morning I went in to take as much advantage as I could of their all-you-can-eat breakfast for £3.99. Unfortunately I got in there just after a group of 7 builders who absolutely decimated the buffet. All that was left were two sausages and a fried egg, so I had to sit around for a good while until they managed to cook more food. Thanks to that, I left Perth 40 minutes later than I was hoping to.

With quite a few hours until I had to have the car back at the rental place, I decided to see as much as I could in the time I had. I first headed to Kinross to see Loch Leven, but it has been made into a bit of a tourist trap where access is limited to non-payers, and to be honest I'd seen more than enough lochs that week to satisfy any obscure desire I may have had. From there I went on to Glenrothes, which for some reason I had assumed would probably be a nice place, but in actual fact just seemed to be one massive car park, with a shopping centre added as an afterthought. After that I went to Kirkcaldy and drove along the front there, which looked very nice in the sun but didn't really offer anything else that was worth bothering to park up and get out of the car for. I continued East, over the Kincardine bridge and up to Stirling, where I actually did get out and have a wander for a while. I was hoping to head up to see the castle, but the one-way system refused to let me get anywhere near it, and where I eventually parked was too far away for me to make it there and back on foot in the time I had, so I decided to make my way to Glasgow instead.

The weather had been pretty good all day, but that all changed in Glasgow. As I handed the keys over at the car rental place it started to rain, and as I stepped outside into the street it started to RAIN. Utterly torrential, it was coming in horizontally and within 10 seconds the front of my jeans were soaked through to the skin. Within 30 seconds, the drains in the street were flooded and the strength of the wind made the rain hurt my face. I was another 30 seconds from the door of the bar I had decided to head to when the storm passed over and it was back to lush blue skies and warm sunshine. One last-minute 'fuck you' from Glasgow.

I'd chosen the bar I went to because of the music it'd played the Friday before, and this time I got to enjoy a nice live acoustic duo as I rubbed my thighs like a pervert in an attempt to dry off my jeans. Later on I headed to the Wetherspoons around the corner for its abundance of plug sockets and free internet. I hadn't planned to but I ended up eating there; I had a highland burger, which consisted of a beef burger, a haggis patty and a jug of creamy whisky sauce. It was pretty bloody epic and something we should definitely get down south. Not long after, it was time to head to the bus station to get the coach back home.

In George Square

It wasn't a sleeper coach this time and I was not looking forward to trying to sleep upright with my knees wedged into the seat in front due to the predictably insufficient legroom. The guy in front slept the whole way slumped forward with his face buried in the rucksack on his lap. The driver came down the aisle, asking if anyone needed to be taken to Preston, which was one of the scheduled stops. The girl next to me said that she did, to which the driver muttered to himself and headed back to the front of the coach. She turned to me and asked why he was asking, and I told her that maybe it was because if no one wanted to go to Preston we could skip it, but she appeared to be the one person who actually did. Playfully, I said that everyone on the coach hated her now. She looked at me like I'd just spat in her handbag. People just don't get me.

A rant.

Right, so when did pies stop being pies? Sorry, but a filled ceramic pot with a puff pastry lid is NOT a pie. A pie is something you should be able to carry in your pocket, if you're mental. The pastry, whether short crust or puff, should completely encase the filling...that's why it's called a filling! It also now seems to be the done thing to serve a pie with a hint of mash, as if the point of it is to infuse the pie with a subtle potato hue. Pie should be served with an amount of mash greater than or equal to the size of the pie (there's an actual mathematical equation somewhere - ask Hawking), not with a pastry cutter-shaped mound that ironically lacks any of the aesthetic quality intended by the chef and in fact robs it of its charm.

The point of pie and mash is that it's rough and ready, meaning it should not lack any of its flavour or appeal if, God forbid, it isn't overly-ponced over. Proper pub grub - hearty, filling and tasty - seems to be dying out, and I blame the gentrification of pubs (that we should all now refer to as 'bars') and the rise of the disgustingly-named 'gastropubs' for this modern snobbery. Its the arseheaded TV chefs that we are constantly bombarded with that are to blame as well; their part in the rise of food culture in this country is a great thing, but it should be about trying new and exciting cuisines, not pissing about with what already works. Pub food is served in a pub, and should be food you fight the temptation to push your face into to eat, not delicately deliberate over in bird's-mouth forkings.

I know it's not a pub, so you can argue against the example, but the bistro I went to last night is representative of this growing problem. Firstly, it didn't actually serve any bistro food. This is not a new thing to me, as over the past month I've seen several places that refer to themselves as bistros and brasseries that serve English and Italian food exclusively. Looking through the menu, the thing that looked the most substantially filling was the steak pie and mash, so I ordered that. Proper Steak Pie, the menu proclaimed, with smashing mash, veg and proper gravy. I was served my pie (in a ceramic dish, obviously) with a spoonful of mash and some roughly chopped carrots and broccoli. Dry. So I waited. Then I wanted a bit more. Finally I got a waiter's attention and said that I thought my meal came with gravy. He told me that there should be enough gravy in the pie. Errrrr, no; even if there had been more than the slight congealed paste that made the steak filling cling to my fork for dear life, it still wouldn't have been anywhere near enough for my dry mash and veg. THAT is not proper pie. Or proper gravy. Down south we drown it in that shit, and I'm sure in most traditional places up here they do too. When he came to collect my plate, he sarcastically asked "was it OK, apart from there not being enough gravy?" like I was the weirdo! If they did actually serve stuff like boeuf bourguignon or coc au vin I bet they wouldn't be devoid of the moist parts. So what gives?

Pie and mash is one of my favourite meals in the world, and I am sick of it being dicked about with. People of Britain, it's a fading culture and we need to claim back our proper pub food; proper fish and chips, proper ploughman's lunches, proper Sunday roasts, proper lasagne and, in particular, our proper pie and mash. And now I'm still bloody starving!

The road to Perth (in Scotland)

I only stayed in Lossiemouth because Elgin was all booked up yesterday for some reason. Lossiemouth is right on the coast and the weather had cleared up by the evening, so my seaview room was a great place to watch the sunset, as well as the fighter jets coming in to land over the bay to the RAF base up the road. Right opposite the hotel is Moray Golf Club where John Murray is the PGA pro, someone I know from and have drank with every year at my old company's trade show. It really made me think that the show is one of the things I will miss the most from work. Not the standing around for 8 hours during the day saying the same shit over and over again, but the socialising in the evening with these guys who I'd never have gotten to meet in real life otherwise. I popped in for a bit of a chat this morning, sadly probably for the last time, before making my way south.

A lovely night in Lossiemouth...

...and a lovely morning too.

I stopped off in Elgin for the biggest pancake breakfast I have ever seen. After a little wander through the town, I continued down the road to Dufftown, as the Glenfiddich distillery tour had been recommended to me. It was really interesting and they let you try some 12, 15 and 18 year old Glenfiddich at the end of the tour, although I was gutted I couldn't touch a drop. The cute blonde girl who took my group on the tour made up for it a bit though. I think she liked me as well as she flirted a bit with me and hardly said anything to anyone else. OK, so they were all French and didn't speak any English, but I'm still having that!

No one can say this in their own voice

Continuing south, I drove through the Glenlivet estate, which really looked nothing like anywhere else I've been. The hills are leopard printed with multiple shades of green and purple, and the road ascends and descends in winding sweeps through the valley. Stopping off at The Well of the Lecht, I followed the freshwater stream that runs between the hills on foot up to the Lecht Mine; a shell of a building now which was once the largest Manganese mine in Scotland (I know, yawn). For 50 years from the 18th to the 19th century, the isolated braes in Glenlivet housed numerous illicit local whisky stills. The whisky was then smuggled using remote hill tracks, with the path I had taken being one of the many 'whisky roads' that still run through the Ladder Hills.

The hills of Glenlivet

The old mine

Still heading south, I arrived at Balmoral, famed for being the Queen's favourite holiday home when she's taking a well-earned break from doing sod all. The weather was beautiful once again, and I enjoyed wandering the grounds and stretching my legs in the sun. I sat on the lawn looking over at the castle with a sandwich I'd bought from the cafe, which, judging by the price, the Queen had made herself. The scenery around Balmoral and Braemar is really spectacular; if only there had been a place to stop and take a photo, I'd be showing you a picture of THE ideal Scottish landscape, with the River Dee glistening in the foreground, the snow covered peaks of the Cairngorm mountains far in the distance and the Forest of Glenavon sandwiched between them. In fact, I'm just going to steal one off the internet.

Balmoral

The Cairngorm Mountains

Sorta the image I wanted

Travelling over the Devil's Elbow by the peak of The Cairnwell, dropping deep into the green and purple valley of Glen Shee, I headed along probably the best road I have ever driven on in my life. Seemingly designed by a drunk 5 year old, it was more like a rally circuit than an A road. Always sensible of course (mum), it was still a challenging and exhilerating drive; accelerate, break for a blind summit, change down, hard right, change up, brace for humps, sharp incline...a Nissan Micra wouldn't have been able to stomach it. My stomach almost didn't.

Finally I made it into Perth, where I have an evening of food and Glenfiddich planned. Well earned, I think.

A mega driving day

Had another massive driving session today. Leaving Inverness, I drove up to Ullapool, headed east through to the Falls of Shin, then south over the Bonar Bridge (teehee) back to Inverness and finally east to Lossiemouth. Around 190 miles in total, along winding A roads and single lane tracks. Exhausted.

Ullapool is confusingly both picturesque and bleak. High up on the west coast, it glistened in the sun and soaked in the drizzle in rapid fluctuations. It contains the 2006 UK pub of the year and the UKs best takeaway as voted for by listeners of Radio 4. Seems a bit of a coincidence that, and I wondered if anyone had actually challenged either of those claims. For the price of the food in both, I certainly wasn't going to put it to the test. Not to worry, I thought, I've got a sandwich I bought yesterday in the boot of the car.

Out to sea at Ullapool

The Falls of Shin are famous for the Atlantic salmon that leap up them on their way to their breeding grounds. It seemed both a great opportunity to see a natural event that I've not witnessed before and to get some lunch at the visitors centre. I didn't get to see any salmon in 15 minutes of staring, and the visitors centre was a ruin. Not in the sense that it had closed and fallen into disrepair, I mean it looked like a tornado or something had completely decimated it. After a quick Google search, I found out it burned to the ground three weeks ago. Not to worry, I thought, I've got a sandwich I bought yesterday in the boot of the car.

A Fall at Shin

Most of the drive up until then had been wonderfully pleasant, with long, open stretches of road along wide valley floors that meant the cruise was easy and very quick. 2 litre engines really do have some go. The drive alongside Loch Glascarnoch was particularly nice, with the impressive sunlit mountains contrasting the harsh moor-like bleakness of the valley floor. The town at Bonar Bridge was bleak too, but for all the wrong reasons, and the cafe I almost stopped off at for some lunch looked threateningly uninviting. Not to worry, I thought, I've got a sandwich I bought yesterday in the boot of the car. I found out I'd left it on top of the ticket machine when paying for my parking yesterday.

Glascarnoch

Isle of Skye

I had a mammoth drive yesterday. Leaving Broadford, I headed west further into Skye to Dunvegan, then back round to Portree and onwards to the mainland over the Bridge of Skye, completing a big loop of the Isle. I have been really spoilt with the weather for the last few days, so I can't really complain about how poor it was today, but the cloud and rain meant I didn't stop off in many places to explore. The only time I did stop off was for food and tea, so unfortunately my time heading around Skye wasn't the adventure I'd hoped for. I still saw some beautiful countryside though, but I couldn't help think that it would have been even better in the sun

Back on the mainland, I headed east through the monumental valley in Kintail (I'd imagine, I dunno, I couldn't see it through the cloud) to see the Falls of Moriston, which are some pretty impressive rapids in the tiny village of Invermoriston. The lady that ran the cafe there was proper cockney and for some subconscious reason I twatily put on a bit of a London accent as if her acceptance was of the upmost importance to me. Further up from there the road meets Loch Ness, which I drove alongside up to Inverness. The route along the Loch wasn't all that picturesque and, for probably the most famous loch in Scotland, it is serviced pretty poorly by its major road. There's still plenty of access to tacky souvenir shops though, strangely enough. I may have been able to get to the shore and have a wander at Drumnadrochit, but with the rain and the long drive I'd already had, I just wanted to get where I was going, shower and relax for the rest of the evening.

Some almost visible scenery

The Falls at Moriston

All I got to see of Loch Ness

In Inverness my almost-exclusive interaction with English and American people continued, but with a few nice Germans thrown into the mix. After the crap weather earlier, the evening turned out very nice; still overcast, but dry and warmer. I sat by the river Ness with a pint, looking over to the castle and listening to some cliched person in an upstairs bedroom practicing the bagpipes. You don't realise how far north you are until late in the evening, when it's still broad daylight at 10 at night. The height of summer must be mental.

A night in Broadford

Last night wasn't so bad. I got drunk enough that the heat in my room didn't bother me anymore, although neither did the midges unfortunately, and I woke up absolutely pebbledashed with bites. I had a great evening chatting to and drinking wine with some of the guys from the hostel, and I've totally overcome my fears of meeting people in Scotland; I was very concerned about racism towards me being an English person, but a large proportion of the people I've met since being up here has been either English or American. Even in the local Co-Op here in Broadford I kept my words mumbled and to a bare minimum to avoid sneers, as the people, especially the woman in a permanent mid-sniff behind me in the queue, looked small-town-like and judgmental. Turns out she was English as well. As was the cashier. And everyone in the local. Where have all the Scottish people gone?! The one Scottish person I actually did talk to said that there had been an influx of English people buying up cheap cottages over the last few decades, which I'm sure has caused some underlying resentment, but on the surface at least has built a heartwarming and comforting integration.

My body is exacting its revenge. No more mountains for me.

On the way to Skye

The end of the day. The end of the good weather

Ben Nevis

What did I do today? Oh I dunno, just walked up a friggin mountain! Not the height of human achievement, I know, but I've never attempted anything like that before and I can't believe how much I enjoyed hiking to the summit of Ben Nevis. I met some awesome people at the hostel I stayed in who were also planning to hike up, so we decided to all go together. Early next morning James, Silvia and I started our trek while the range was still misty, so the hike up was a mixed bag of great views and being able to see bog all. The walk was a breeze to start with, but as it got steeper and the altitude rose, I really started to feel it. Towards the summit we had to be alert as the visibility rose and dropped rapidly and the vertical cliff that is the mountain's North face runs perilously close to the path. The snow made walking a bit treacherous as well, but we were finally able to make it to the top where we high-fived like dorks and sat to have some food and revel in our success. As I said, not the greatest achievement, but people fucking die climbing that mountain!

Lochan Meall an t-Suidhe

Above the clouds

Part of the north face

Dorking it at the top

The dream team

The descent started off well after the exhausting and painful climb up, but pretty soon a new pain appeared with the thigh strain needed to control my speed and stop myself tumbling uncontrollably downhill. As the day wore on, the weather got better and better, and what were previously isolated chance snapshots of the landscape below suddenly became grand, glorious vistas that stretched far into the horizon. The only thing strong enough to combat the sense of achievement I felt having reached the top was the total smugness I felt on the way down saying hello to everyone I passed on their way up. Looking back up, it appeared as if the visibility was better at the top than when we were there, most probably giving even more phenomenal views all around, but I was glad we went when we did as the heat would have made the ascent a miserable undertaking.

On the way back down

Once we got to the bottom, after 7 hours on the trail, I was really disappointed that I wasn't staying at the hostel another night, as I would have loved to have been able to relax, have a few drinks and hang out with my expedition buddies some more, but I had already booked a night's stay in Broadford on the Isle of Skye. I drove up to Mallaig, forcing my weak legs to work just a little bit longer, then got the ferry across to Ardvasar and on from there. Getting to my hostel, I once again regretted not staying another night in Corpach as my room was so stiflingly hot that I knew right away I wouldn't get any sleep. I was also sharing with an old man who smelled of BO. Awesomes.

Driving about, innit

After 13 years of driving a Nissan Micra exclusively, it was an unsettling experience to suddenly be driving a brand new and infinitely more powerful car. Sorry? Two litres?! It was only a Vauxhall Astra, but it still took a bit of getting used to. I tried leaving the test centre, but I massively underestimated the car's power and, instead of going anywhere, it stayed perfectly still while the wheels spun violently, kicking back gravel that clattered loudly against the steel sides of the rental centre. The brakes were much more sensitive than I'm used to as well and, after finally being able to make the car go in a forward direction, each time I used them resulted in a stomach-lurching and bottom-squeaking halt. I am an expert driver though (one of the many ways in which I'm very much like Steve McQueen) and pretty soon I was in the swing of things, not being a hazard to myself or other road users.

Leaving Glasgow, I drove the long way round Loch Lomond and the Trossachs National Park on my way to Callander. I stopped off on the way at the beautiful picturesque village of Luss, on the Loch's shore. The poor locals must hate tourists and, being a beautiful day, it was packed with them. After that, I continued up to a rest stop sweetly named Rest and Be Thankful and enjoyed the incredible view of the valley there for a few minutes. I was told that the route I had chosen would be jam packed with caravans and motorhomes, but I cruised round a lot quicker than expected and got in to Callander early afternoon.

The Loch

Luss

Rest and Be Thankful

See?

I stayed with my fantastic pal Sarah in her flat at the Waverley Hotel, which is run by her aunt and uncle. After a day of walking and driving in the sun, the first thing I did when I got there was get a pint in. Then we took Sarah's dog Max on a scenic hill walk and sat and drank a bottle of wine at the top. Out of the bottle, like the classy people we are. A middle aged singer bloke provided some amazing entertainment in the pub we ended up in later that evening; with an open necked two-tone shirt, a gold chain necklace, slipon shoes and a MiniDisc player full of backing tracks, he had it all going on.

The next day I drove from Callander to Corpach near Fort William, with a little stop in Killin on the way. The falls at Killin are lovely and I had a little walk in the sun along the rugged, craggy rocks of the river Dochart, then later along the shore of Loch Tay. The rest of my drive included dozens of stops to admire and photograph the fantastic scenery and pretty soon I was way behind schedule. I would've loved to stop off in Glencoe, which looks absolutely gorgeous next to Loch Leven, especially in the early evening sun, but I'd been driving all day and really just wanted to get where I was going. Besides, I'd taken enough photos as it is.

Killin

Glasgow

The sleeper bus wasn't as horrendous as I was expecting. Having had to sleep in a semi-foetal position in quite a few tight and creaky bunk beds over the last few weeks, I could actually fully stretch out in my bus bunk. OK, so it was barely 6 inches wider than me and the base of the next bunk was just over a handspan away from my face, but at least I didn't have to have my knees up under my chin. Sleeping on my side in the bunk, which I could just barely do, was out of the question as the motion of the bus rocked me back and forth violently enough to prevent me from sleeping, so I had to lie on my back the whole way. I got a few good periods of sleep though, but I am less than perky writing this.

George Square is a nice place in the sun to just sit and be. Having got to Glasgow even earlier than scheduled, it was nice to have somewhere to be while everything was shut and watch all the suckers heading off to work. I ate a macaroni and cheese pie, which was incredible, as always. After that, I wandered round, gradually making my way up to Glashow cathedral and its Necropolis. Peaceful, as graveyards tend to be, and glorious in the sunshine, I was in awe of the vast wealth on show through the monuments that live there. And they really do deserve to be called monuments; complex, beautiful and downright bloody huge, I've not seen any like them anywhere else.

The cathedral from the Necropolis

One of the monuments

Following the footpath round to the top of the hill, the closely-packed plots that live there came into view, reminding me vaguely of Stonehenge in its remote, almost out-of-place location. Looming over the city centre is the tallest monument there; the column dedicated to John Knox, leader of the Protestant Reformation in Scotland and all-round Pope pest, is visible from town to be enjoyed by all who live there. Everybody loves a nice monument, right?

At the top

Glasgow city centre has approximately 5 million Greggs. The Heritage of Scotland shop has a traditional tartan bikini on display in the window. The Chippy Doon the Lane charges almost a tenner for half a normal portion of cod and underdone chips. A very angry terrier-type bloke spent quite a while telling me how shit Scotland were at football and how sick of it he was, ignoring the fact that we were watching them beating Croatia at the time and went on to win. I had a few drinks with Natasha and Sam, a couple of Canadian girls who were staying in the same hostel as me. They were from Saskatoon in the province of Saskatchewan, the capital of which is a place called Regina. GUFFAW.

I shared a room with two Germans, a Spanish guy and a couple of lads from Harrow. I had a drink with Kareem and Amir in the hostel bar who were both very nice, although Amir did make a bit too much of a deal of the fact that we had all got the Megabus from Victoria on Thursday night. Was it really such an inconceivable coincidence that three people who live vaguely in the same region of the country had travelled from the main coach station in London to a city 8 whole hours away? It wasn't even the same coach.

A review

I've been thinking about the places I stayed in on my trip. I was lucky enough to be able to stay with a few friends and family here and there which was, of course, lovely, but I'm going to talk about which were the best and worst places I paid to sleep. Before I start, I would just like to clarify that they were all absolutely not sleazy.

There were a couple of towns that lacked hostels or reasonably-priced B&Bs, so, where stuck for options, I stayed in Travelodges. What can you really say about Travelodges? Semi-cheap and basic, there's the uneasy sense that you're sharing the hotel exclusively with Mondeo-driving middle management types and Fathers For Justice members, but at least the room is (hopefully) clean, with an en-suite bathroom and you don't have to share with a load of foreigners. Hostels tend to be cheaper, but there is the added gamble of who you're going to be sleeping with; before this trip I'd never stayed in a hostel where I didn't know everyone else in my room and that was certainly a concern before I left. Hostels do have communal feels to them though, and there are always people around who can help or are willing to share if you're short of something, and that's certainly not what the tear-stained corridors of a Travelodge are about.

Bath Backpackers was utterly unremarkable in every sense. Basic to the point of disrepair, it was as rough and ready as they come. Cold and creaky, my room was on the 4th floor and, with the showers being in the basement like some horrific setup in a scene from Hostel, it was a long way back up again. The showers themselves were uninviting, cold, dribbly and had a manky feel to them. I did not enjoy walking on the floor. If you're out exploring the entire day and are just needing a place to crash, I would recommend it for price, but it's certainly not a place to hang out.

The Fort Boutique hostel in York wasn't like any of the hostels I've stayed in before. The dorms were split up into apartments, each with a shower, toilet and kitchen with full appliances; it felt more like a weird flatshare where everyone sleeps in the same room. My room was a bit noisy with there being 6 people, but they were certainly the friendliest and most talkative lot out of all the people from the hostels I stayed in. Stonegate in York is a very noisy street as well; the dustmen come around 5am, followed by the beer delivery guys for the bar next door, who
 seemed to be playing an Olde English sport where the winner is the one who can toss their beer barrel down the cobbled street the loudest.

As I mentioned before, the imaginatively-named Kendal Hostel was spoiled by the snoremonster from Dumpsville. Out of all the hostels I stayed in, it was the furthest from the station. It was also a rather odd place, much like Kendal itself, and the reception had very strange opening and closing times that you'd normally expect to see only in a sleepy back country village. The kitchen was stocked full of equipment and utensils, and the hostel clearly houses a few semi-permanent residents, which I think is weird. I had to buy a cheap towel as they didn't offer any, and I was a little concerned that every lock on every shower and toilet door was knackered. It was also where I saw a guy put on District 9 in the DVD player in the lounge, watch 15 minutes of it, then turn it off because it was "rubbish". Clearly a twat. There is a lack of hostels in Kendal so I would say it was an ok place to stay if you were visiting the town, but then I wouldn't recommend doing that in the first place.

The Albatross hostel in Newcastle had the potential to be the best, if it wasn't for my pleasant pleasant PLEASANT fellow guests. A minute's walk from the station, it feels like it's round the corner from everywhere in town and has a games room, a massive kitchen and an even bigger lounge with computers for guests (by which I mean there are computers for guests to use, not that the guests have been replaced by computers). Its large, open rooms and corridors give it a light, neat feel, but that all helped to amplify the noise from my inconsiderate German pals. The staff were certainly friendly and offered a comprehensive introduction to the place that answered every question I was going to ask. The showers were absolutely fantastic, warm and spacious, and I didn't have to wait once to use one. Having an entire 4 bed dorm to myself would've made for an amazingly relaxing stay if I had actually been allowed to sleep.

The runaway winner though wasn't a hostel, but the Old Post Office in Shrewsbury. Obviously, you may say, a B&B should always be better than a hostel, but at a price not far off all the hostels I stayed in, an atmosphere far superior to every Travelodge on Earth and a humongous full English breakfast in with the price for my double bed and private room, it was definitely the most comforting, relaxing place I stayed. The toilet and shower room were shared, but as I didn't see another guest the whole time I was there, and ignoring a little jaunt down the corridor to get to them, it felt like they were private as well. If you visit Shrewsbury, which I would recommend, it's a great place to stay if you get a deal like mine.

My new driving licence came this morning. Time to rent a car.