Lording it up in Inverness

I'm 47 and last night I hosteled for only the second time in my life. Teenage Fanclub were playing in Inverness and I needed somewhere inexpensive to kip afterwards, it's preferable to falling asleep at the wheel driving back to Aberdeen.

Last time I stayed at a traveller's hostel was 1993 on my stag weekend in York. I remember nothing about it. This time I was able to soberly absorb the glory of hosteling and while possibly catching nits, found it a thoroughly pleasurable experience. The dormitory was shared by ten of us and was indeed grotesque, the bedclothes were minging, but in every other respect my stay was a delight. No prissy corporate welcome from a uniformed receptionist, instead a warm welcome from a heavily tattooed, black vested rocker who took my fourteen quid and exchanged my driving licence deposit for the room key. I dumped my gear, went to the gig, shuffled back and crashed for the night.

In the morning I chatted with a young Australian traveller in a communal lounge replete with flat screen telly, Netflix, wifi, guitar, books and Monopoly. Her travel log was fascinating, I departed inspired, with an only slightly dented bank balance and a dose of nits but these seemed a price worth paying. Up yours Premier Inn.