The Hostel of the Baskervilles

Baskerville Hall Hotel.

Sound familiar? It should do. This was the source of inspiration for Sir Arthur Conan Doyle to write about the infamous hound. Local legend told of a dog-like beast tormenting the local area. Doyle pitted Sherlock Holmes against the hound in one of the greatest mysteries ever written.

When the opportunity to stay in the very same house that the great writer himself frequently visited, I couldn't pass it up.

I was headed to Hay-on-Wye for the literary festival and so needed lodging for the night. Baskerville Hall Hotel looked the perfect fit. I must make it known that I don't think the great author stayed in quite the same level of accommodation as I did. The building was once owned by friends of his, and I'm sure in those times, it was much more opulent. That's not to say it's bad looking now, just that not a lot seems to have changed since then. Since World War Two, the building has had various uses as a school, a health centre and a hotel. All these identities seem to have aged it, and the current hotel/hostel hybrid incarnation has the faded scars of time throughout.

But I loved it.

The carpets were worn, the furniture was mismatched, the decor was dated to say the least. But I bloody loved it. It's the kind of building you would say has 'character' as a polite way of saying it doesn't look good. But 'character' is so much better than shiny taps and magnolia walls. It has life. And past lives etched into every wooden windowsill or faded velvet curtain.



I stayed in a large sixteen bed dorm. It was comfortable and had everything I needed. It even had the reliable inevitability of someone opting to sleep in the bunk directly below mine, despite the obvious availability of ten other beds. When I crept in at gone one in the morning, (that's a different story, not to be told here) it added an extra dimension to my phone-light mission, by challenging me not to stick my foot in the face of the person below me. I bet Doyle never had to deal with that.

My arrival at the hall coincided with a break in the traditional British summer weather. On the final leg of my journey, I had battled against the kind of driving rain that even double speed windscreen wipers can do little about. I had hugged the hedge on corners into Wales hoping I wouldn't meet a tractor emerging out of the gloom. But as I drove up the long driveway to the hall, the rains had stopped and some semblance of brightness adorned the sky. With a touch of end-of-the-world beauty, the sun was juxtaposed with the deepest grey-purple sky above the rich, green hills that frame the site of Baskerville. It was the kind of foreboding view that I'm sure would've sparked Sir Arthur's imagination back in the day.

The inside was just as inspirational. The grand, central staircase led upstairs to a small landing overlooking the entrance hall. Strategically placed on the landing, either side of the fireplace and with a grand piano next door, were two leather wingback chairs. The sort of chairs you can sink into, rest your arms on with a worldly-wise aura and quietly watch the events of the Baskerville Hall Hotel unfold around you. And that's exactly what I did. All I needed was a pipe and a smoking jacket.

Whilst sat there I asked myself what would Sherlock do. And so I watched everyone. The extremely helpful receptionist I had met earlier. The group of American girls arriving late with no booking. The drunk stumbling out of the bar and attempting to initiate conversation with said group. The even drunker friend who escorted him back. The sleepwalker who opened his room door above us, mistaking it for the toilet. The late night dog walker with her tiny pug, for whom nature must've called in the early hours. Baskerville Hall Hotel seems to attract a cacophony of characters. Maybe even enough characters for the next instalment of a famous mystery.
Maybe the howling I heard later in the night was that very same pug, or maybe it was the sound of a hound that used to roam these grounds.
Maybe some mysteries are best left mysterious.

The Secrets of Rathlin Island (Part Two)

Okay, okay. I give up. I can't hold the secrets any longer. I'll tell you about Rathlin as long as you act surprised when you get there. And you should. It is beyond worth it.

I mentioned in my previous post that I hired a bike to see the island. One of my better decisions. Firstly, two wheels allows you to cover much more ground than two feet. If I had more time there, I would've taken more pleasure in walking some more of it (there are many areas, some of which I explored - and got lost in - where you can only venture on foot). But my time being limited, the bike allowed me to see more of the incredible scenery as I whizzed past. Which brings me to the second bonus of the bike. Some of the paths, especially those en route to the southern Rue Lighthouse, are practically perfect for bikes. The road twists and turns past the mirror-like lochs so you can coast down through bends like a racer. The sheep slowly turn their heads with a look of contempt. I expect they've seen it all before. It's a good job that sheep were my only company as I think, for the first time since I had spokey dokes on my bike, I let out a 'Weeeeeee!' as I navigated a descent. As for the hills, they're just right. They give you enough resistance to push you into a challenge as you climb them, and then you can release the lactic acid in your overworked legs as you sail down the incline. It's perfect.

All the cycling led me to Rue Lighthouse. There, I ditched my bike at the fence and headed down a gravelly path. My reward at the end was azure blue sea sparkling in the unrelenting sunshine; a carpet of luscious green grass being grazed on by sheep, cows and their babies; the remnants of a stone building surveying the sea, the lighthouse and the cliffs beyond; and then sat in the shallows of the shore and on protruding, craggy, black rocks were a colony of grey seals. At first I didn't see them because they blended in to their perches so well, but then they started bending like bananas and their coal-like eyes watched me as I navigated a safe path closer to them. I sat a comfortable distance, so as not to alarm them and unpacked my picnic. Sat watching this scene of nature at its finest, eating my goodies, I felt like I'd been transported to the pages of a Famous Five book; it was enjoyment at its purest. And when the seals started chatting to each other, I could've been on another planet. The fact I went a few hours without seeing another human was bliss.

That feeling of being part of Enid Blyton's world continued as I made my way back to civilisation and to Rathlin Island Hostel. It's the only hostel on the island and has only been open a year. But again, at the risk of boring you, it's perfect.

Patsy welcomed me in and gave me the tour. She was so lovely and friendly, and that continued throughout my stay. When we ran into each other as I was returning to the ferry later, we chatted like old friends. As for the hostel, it was clean and comfortable with a free breakfast: everything you need. But it's the location that sets it apart. To watch the sun set behind the cliffs, across the stunning sea was a delight. And then to wake up to the same sparkling sea out of the bedroom window was like no other place on Earth.

Whilst the morning air was still crisp, I took another walk. I once again passed the seals in the harbour and bade them a good morning. The walk I took then up to the Old Coastguard Station showed me another side of the beauty of the island. And this morning, the winds had dropped and, for a moment, I seriously felt like I was the only human who existed. The sights, sounds and cool spring air literally took my breath away. It seemed like magic was in the air.

My only negative of my trip was that unfortunately, I was too early in the year to see the renowned Puffins. Not to worry; it gives me the perfect excuse to return another time. Not that I need an excuse.