After leaving Frome, we drove to Cheddar to check out the Gorge there. A number of people have informed me that they've seen men in lycra trousers scaling the rocks so we figured there would be a bit of bouldering as well. Excellently, we found a couple of places for a good traverse (side-to-side) climb so we jumped on the rocks and wore out our arms before getting told off by some passing army (!?) guys in a car. Oh well, off to Liverpool then.
Liverpool is famous for being the European City of Culture 2008, the birthplace of The Beatles, the (ex) largest port in England, and the home of one of the best football clubs in the world. What it is not famous for however, is its hostels. "Why should it be?" I hear you ask, "What city is?"
"Fair point." I reply, but I think it should be, merely because it is home to one of the most bizarre in existence. Enter the Embassie Youth Hostel, our second option after we found that the International Inn was full. The guy in the International Inn kindly informed us that there was another hostel in Liverpool, and phoned them up to book us two dorm beds.
After getting lost trying to find it - forever driving around the same side streets and turning around in cul-de-sacs - we came upon a pub and I ran inside to ask the bargirl if she knew where it was. Shrugging intently with a look of intense thought, she said "Sorry luv noooo, let me ask soomeone else". Down to the end of the bar she went to ask the owner of the pub, who also didn't know. Before I knew it there were about 15 people all conversing about this very subject, and when somebody who knew where it was piped up, the rest all started competing with each other to explain the quickest way to get there.
We followed the best directions and sure enough, they took us right where we needed to go - a huge house on the corner of the street. After ringing the bell and being let in by a person that apparently had nothing to do with the running of the hostel, we wandered down a long corridor leading to a little room with uncovered brickwork walls and a blazing log burner. All the walls were covered in Beatles memorabilia, maps of the city and little bronze trinkets like those you find in old-fashioned country pubs, and in front of us was a huge oak table with a middle-aged guy called Kevin sat at the end of it, looking intently at the ledgers laid in front of him. "Hello guys, sit down, take a seat. You must be the guys from the International Inn yeah?"
"Yeah that's us"
"Bobby and Carsten is it?"
"Yeah that's right"
The usual routines ensued - the filling in of forms, the detailing of where everything is, the free toast and hot drinks...
...and then the guide to Liverpool...
Usually when you walk into a hostel they give you a map and show you a couple of places to see, bars to drink at, and ask you if there's anything particular you want to see. This was a presentation, scripted - with map pointing and historical facts - starting with what Liverpool is famous for, moving onto the various attractions and sights, and ending up with an "any questions" type finale. Desperately tired from the 5 hour trip up the M6 (three of which were spent in traffic queues), we simultaneously said "no" and hoped that he wouldn't go back on any places that he personally would recommend we visit. By this point (of course), some random Greek bloke was stood in the middle of the room dying to butt in with some pointless question about something for which he undoubtedly knew the answer, but was trying to prove that he was intelligent enough to ask the question. That coupled with the fact that he had seen this presentation before - likely 17 years ago when he first set foot in this haven for freaks - and simply had nothing better to do than instil a feeling of mounting helplessness into weary travellers.
Eventually, after this little Q&A session, Kevin led us up the stairs into a 12-bed dorm and pointed to two bunks that looked like someone had only just got out of them. Likely they had. "These two are yours" he said, and then showed us the men's toilet and shower room - the former with a big square-shaped hole in the bottom left hand corner of the door, the latter with a massive crack in the basin where the whole thing had once been sheared in half, likely because one of the resident FODMs (Fat Old Dirty Men, pronounced 'foddom') had decided to take a shit in one when he found that the toilet was in use.
And FODMs there were... in abundance. Once, when Carsten and I went down to the basement to sit in the abomination Kevin called the 'Common Room', there happened to be one of these creatures sat staring at the T.V. set from across the pool table. We took our seats at a table with a nervous Asian guy who was flicking through channels with wanton abandon, when he promptly shoved the remote in our direction and practically leapt out of the room. Obviously not one for conversation then, I thought. We weren't really watching the T.V. so Carsten kindly got up and offered the remote to the bearded FODM.
...no answer...
"Here's the remote if you want it", a little louder this time.
...still the FODM stared blankly at the colourful moving pictures that danced on the wondrous box in the corner. Carsten left the remote on the pool table, and the FODM had not moved when we left the room 10 minutes later. Upstairs we went, passing two lesbians kissing passionately by the front door and another bearded FODM - this one older than the last. Carsten checked his emails and decided to go upstairs for a rest. I stayed downstairs on the oak table, writing the Bognor Regis entry on my laptop while Kevin and a few locals watched the Jackass movie on the T.V. We had every intention of sampling the nightlife in Liverpool but it simply didn't happen - we were both knackered from the journey - so I went upstairs to sleep on the lopsided mattress Kevin had assigned me, paranoid I was going to get eaten alive by bedbugs.
Morning came and I got up as Carsten chimed "Let's get the f*** out of this s***hole". I nodded agreement and we made as much noise as possible, making sure that we woke up all the Russians that kept us up half the night turning on lights and having full-blown conversations with each other.
And so into the city we went with every intention of doing a little sightseeing and other such tourist pursuits. The weather was bitingly cold and threatening to snow, the city was nearly dead (it being about 8:30am) and to top it all off, the Beatles were laughing at us from every single bus poster in the city as if to say "We made millions to get the hell out of this city and you've come to visit out of your own free will?? Suckers."
We stopped at a bookshop to peruse a Lonely Planet and drink a coffee, before we got the hell out of Liverpool.
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Liverpool Hotels
