Trails and trials of the writer who walks
It’s almost two weeks now since I returned from my solo Christmas adventure at Borrowdale Youth Hostel, in the English Lake District.
Sixty people: a quirky mixture of three-generational extended families, singles, friends and couples. Strangers no more, we sat down to a classy three-course dinner that was a fraction of any restaurant price but multiples in terms of fun. My team came third in the post-prandial quiz and won a gift-wrapped mince pie (each).
Over three days, email addresses were exchanged, peaks were climbed, flooded trails were waded, wine was dispatched (see photo below of too-inviting bar) and for Christmas Morning live entertainment (no TV ) the young YHA staff members skipped down the garden to the tumbling River Derwent and jumped into its freezing embrace. Fortunately they survived to cook our dinner.
Surveying the number of ‘silvertops’ in paper hats around the table, my new buddy Edna remarked:
‘In the old days, youth hostels employed mature people to keep the youngsters under control. Now it’s the other way round!’