The life and times of Fee-I-ona, and The Hunt for Red October

I was, in all seriousness, simply trying to return a Morrison's carrier bag to Rachel. I felt it was the least I could do after she left a 59p jar of blackcurrent jam outside my room. But, I didn't expect to find her holed up in a kitchen cupboard eating a bowl of pesto pasta. She looked up and, after several minutes of laughter, informed me that Fiona had just got into bed. Wondering how she could possibly know that, she replied, "you see this pipe here? It's not a pipe at all, it's a periscope. When I'm bored in the evening I'll come and sit in the submarine, watch the swallows, and spy on Fiona. Do you know any interesting submarine facts, K?!" I don't. But as my mum knows a lot about Sean Connery and The Hunt for Red October, we gave her a call. Which might have been a mistake. She got a little bit confused, and the conversation ended with her having the impression that I was taking Benji to bed. 

I took Benji to the station in the morning, but not before an emotional goodbye at the hostel. He presented each of us with a tourist map of Malaysia, and a heat pack/hand warmer. I donated mine to Fiona (to supplement her emergency cardigan), but with all the instructions being in Japanese I'm not sure any of us will be able to figure out how to use them. Benji is now bound for London, and the YHA at St Pancreas - which will make quite a change from Eskdale! I think London will probably suit him better, though. With the phone signal, wifi, and dozens of Tesco's to choose from. 

Mick is now very much on his own. I often wonder how he puts up with three 'verging on insane' women. I suppose he must be quite used to it - being married to Rachel. I was trying to get him to join in the whole 'coooooeeee' thing the other day. I asked him why he doesn't want to say it, to which he replied, "I would just sound a bit stupid. Not that you don't." Then he left the room to go and superimpose a photo of his boss' head onto Aristotle's body. 

Fiona continues to experience moments of enlightenment whilst sanitising the kitchen sinks. The latest episode resulted in a spectacular mash up of Puff the Magic Dragon and Morning Town. She has now (quite rightly so) demanded that we call her Fee-I-ona. We were then regaled with an epic tale (complete with many tangents) which more or less entirely explains Fiona's existence in this world. Fiona's mother is called Frances. But, on her birth certificate it was spelt 'Francis'. So, she spent the first twenty years of her life running around saying, "I'm not a boy, I'm not a boy!" She even had two children to prove it. And thus it came to pass that Fiona/Fee-I-ona is with us today. 

We enjoy what could best be described as an eclectic mix of conversation topics. This morning, during our 30 minute breakfast break, we were discussing keloid scars and John the Baptist. But we were soon drawn away to help a couple of guests locate their misplaced prunes and marmalade. Although there is a certain element of routine to this job, it is never what you could call predictable. I think, because of this, we all have certain areas where we seek to hang on to a vestige of control. Mine is most definitely the drinks fridge. In fact, I'm a little bit OCD about making sure it's always topped up, and that the bottles are neatly in line. For no other reason than this, I have been made Bar Manager. Which is probably a lot more fancy than it sounds. 

It has been a busy week for us, and a busy few days for this end of the valley as a whole. The Woolpack Inn has been hosting their annual cider and sausage festival, which is always hugely popular. Although, I suspect the staff there wouldn't be too upset if they never saw another banger again. 

PS. While I was vacuuming I found a Sex Pistols key ring under one of the beds. Still in its packet. Makes a change from those annoying little hair grips. 

Barack Obama announces YHA Eskdale visit

Fiona is safely back with us (hooray!), and is now a qualified archer. I'm not really sure what more one could hope to accomplish with their life. I think she must feel the same, because she passed up the opportunity to improve her mopping skills. It was left to me instead to temporarily turn the kitchen into a swimming pool (sorry again, Rachel). I didn't mean to kick the bucket. 

We heard on Radio 4 that Barack Obama is coming to visit (a clatter of pots drowned out the end of the sentence - but we reasonably assumed that he must be planning a stay at YHA Eskdale). We have been preparing for his arrival ever since. I tried to learn the American national anthem on my recorder, but settled for a Beyoncé track instead. Rachel is doing a trial run through of the menu we are going to serve, "Chicken Tikka is always a crowd pleaser." And Fiona was muttering something about Boris Johnson's hair and Herdwick Sheep. 

Fiona is gaining a reputation for being the valley's most eminent sugar free polo dealer. She kept offering me 'the first one free' while we were having an after work game of pooh sticks, and assured me that they were even more minty than the regular ones. I asked Rachel about this later, slightly concerned that I might have bad breath. To which she replied, "You can't go making people eat something just cos you don't like the smell of them. They should just stick the sugar free polos up their nose holes and deal with it that way."  I'm lucky to work with such wisdomous people. Even if that isn't a real word (spell check doesn't seem to recognise it). I never did get a straight answer about the state of my breath, though. 

As well as the people I work with (not said under duress), one of my favourite aspects of the job continues to be meeting all the guests that come through the hostel. They all bring something different, their stories, their characters, and their occasional peculiarities (such as leaving a pair of grey y-fronts in the shower). I love chatting to them, and love helping them to to enjoy their stay. And that is not to take care of business, but it does also take care of business. We seem to live in a world where, first and foremost, everything must be quantifiable. I understand that, and it is of course a necsacery requirement for a company to continue and to succeed. But, I think that a motivation based on a much more fundamental level (treat people with warmth and kindness simply because they are first and foremost human) is far more enduring. There is a danger that in becoming hung up about numbers and figures we forget one of the most wonderful thing about our existence - shared experiences. And in doing so pass off the interactions we have with our fellow humans as nothing more than a business transaction.  What better service could we offer someone than making them feel valued, making them feel cared for, and loved. I feel incredibly fortunate to be working in an environment, and working for an organisation, where those things are possible, and even deeply encouraged. A large part of that is down to Mick, Rachel, and Fiona, who are effortlessly kind and good natured. I felt instantly at home here, and many of the guests have also made comments alluding to this. Only this week a gentleman said how obvious it was that we were happy in our work, and worked so well together, and how that created such a wonderful atmosphere around the place. He also kindly offered me his support when Rachel was being a bit mean to me one morning, and later told me he'd had another word with her but that she undoubtedly needed therapy. (Rachel actually agreed, and said that's why she had done a degree in Psychology - she would just go off and talk to herself for a bit).  

On Sunday afternoon, Rachel thought it would be funny to play knock and run on my door. I heard a knock, and a 'coooooeeee', but when I opened the door all I saw was The Hound of Eskdale in front of me, with its monstrous jaws gripping a decomposing rugby ball. (Moss is really just your averaged sized dog, and not at all frightening). Rachel soon reappeared, chuckling, and asked if I wanted to go with them for a walk, & to play pooh-sticks (although, it soon transpired that Moss plays by slightly different rules). Rachel suggested that I put some boots on, and warmer clothes, as the wind had picked up, and it would probably be quite boggy. "Oh no!" I replied. "I don't need pants on today." Judging by the look of shock/amusement on Rachel's face, I should probably stop calling trousers 'pants'. Once that had been cleared up, we started out and up the track that leads right from the back of the hostel, and eventually takes you to Eel Tarn. The views from there were incredible, and even Rachel didn't talk for a few minutes. 

A couple of days before that, I'd had the most wonderful surprise. I came in to start work at 5pm, and there in the dinning room was my good friend Tom Burgess, and his friend Paul. It must have been at least 2-3 years since I'd last seen Tom (we had worked together for 4 years in Surrey). Tom was on his way over to Wasdale for his ML assessment, and knew I was working at Eskdale, so called in for a night. It was so lovely to see him, and to meet Paul - then go to the Woolpack after work, and walk home again under a sky full of the brightest stars. 

"Heroic Postie Rescues Rabbit."

Rachel and I have had a falling out. She has renamed Chris de Burgh 'Crusty Burger', and threatened to add him to the Monday evening menu. She then tried to make it up to me by putting a leaflet in my shoe. This leaflet had pictures of white horses and elephants on the front, with the title 'You will be with me in paradise'. It was a lovely thought, but on reading the small print it transpired that we had both missed the meeting and so we remain eternally damned. I'm not giving up, though. I'm trying to drum up some excitement for a staff pilgrimage to Millom. Which, Rachel's friend John has described as the arse end of nowhere. Rachel has a lot of friends called John. She can think of four without even trying. But they might not all know that they are her friends, though. Anyway, I think I might be the only one walking to Millom. Rachel would prefer to go to Drigg to look for dead things on the beach, and then eat ice cream. She told me that she once found a decapitated (dead) porpoise there. 

On my afternoon off I had an interesting trip to Whitehaven, via Singleton's nursery. The weather was foul, and not at all tempting to go for a walk or to sit down by the river. I'd asked Mick if there was anything he needed, and the response was 100 litres of perlite for Gary (who is currently building an amazing outdoor clay bread oven). So, he marked the place on the map, said the roads kinda look like you're at the end of the world, but it's easy enough to find. Turns out that he'd marked its location incorrectly, and I wandered about this little village in the pouring rain trying to find someone to ask for directions. Eventually I found the place (with the help of a local), and was greeted by a woman wearing an empty compost bag tied with blue string as an apron, and a black cat called Zak, who walked back and forth across the counter. It was slow going, and at times scary, as I made my way to Whitehaven. The Selafield traffic had descended, some coming towards to me, most going the same way. I had heard about this phenomenon; that they drive like maniacs and stop for no one. I suppose when you work at a nuclear power plant all day, it's either that you want to get away quickly, or that driving so quickly doesn't even register as being a risky occupation. Eventually I reached the town, and saw a newspaper board with the headline, 'Heroic Postie Rescues Rabbit." And, as that was the highlight of the journey, I'll leave it there. 

Fiona has been away on an archery course this week, and it just hasn't been the same here without her. That didn't stop us taking bets on whether she would accidentally (or not) shoot someone, though. Or, more likely, go off with a Robin Hood lookalike never to be seen again (save for in the gossip columns of the Cumbrian press). There was a genuine fleeting moment of concern when we got a phone call from Fiona at Langdale (where the course was being held). But thankfully, it was a different Fiona. Phew. Life will be back to 'normal' tomorrow. 

The weather did brighten up for the rest of my time off, and I made it up Harter Fell (at the second time of asking). During the first attempt the cloud came down really quickly, and I didn't much fancy trying to find my way up there, and there would have been nothing to see anyway, so I turned back. The following day was glorious though, and it was amazing to be up in the hills. I hope I'll never take it for granted that I can be out the front door and walk up a mountain without even having to drive anywhere. Harter Fell is probably the one mountain above all others that I wanted to walk up when I knew I was coming to Eskdale. And it's for extremely childish reasons! When we were younger, my mum had these placemats of various mountains in the Lake District, and one of them was of Harter Fell. It caused us endless amusement (perhaps not for my sister) to swap the first letter of each word around. I'm really hoping that all my brothers and my sister will come and stay at some point, I love them all to bits, and taking in the scenery alongside them would make the world here look even more beautiful. 

 

The Pheasants Revolt

Things are getting out of control here. We went to the pub quiz at the Brook Inn, and one misspelling later we have become self-elected leaders of the Pheasants Revolt. Rachel in charge of strategy, I’m delivering the pre-battle William Wallace style motivational speech, and Fiona (as the only non-vegetarian) is responsible for the clean-up operation, aka dinner. It’s unlikely that this mass feathered uprising will actually take place in our lifetime, though. We don’t seem to have progressed much further than this initial planning phase. Our time is occupied elsewhere, especially Fiona, who let out a little cry one evening and declared that there is just too much Tupperware in her life. That did not stop her helping me bake a cake for my mum’s birthday, though – even with the added constraint of sieving icing sugar through a tea strainer (which was Mick’s idea of lending us a sieve). My mum came to visit for a few days, and the weather held to get out for some local walks, and take a trip on the Ravenglass steam railway. She loved life at the hostel, and was soon making a nuisance of herself by getting a couple of seventy year old guests quite tipsy. I had to draw the line though when she wanted to use a bit of picnic-bench seat as a pooh stick.

Benji has started calling me Kate, and one evening brought a chocolate pudding to my room. I’m not particularly bothered by either of these developments, but while the change of name seems to be permanent, the pudding thing appears to have been a one off. Sadly. He makes me laugh, and I’ll miss him when he leaves at the end of April. I’ve never met anyone so awed by a visit to Whitehaven, and he only went to Tesco and the train station. Heaven knows what he would make of Barrow; Rachel said it’s not worth going unless you like TK Max, Asda, or nuclear submarines.

There are of course the odd serious moments at work. Rachel nearly choked on a flake of Alpen on morning. We had been talking about the furry ferry fairy (a hairy lady who transports tourists between all the Scottish islands), and the floppy fairy (who has no bones). And, another time, I nearly cried because a guest with the surname ‘Christmas’ never arrived. But most of the time it is total madness. There was the most beautiful sunset a few nights ago, with Harter Fell lit up something magic. Benji and I ran outside and called out ‘cooooooeee’ and ‘yahooooo’ like a pair of loons. I was certain that madness was the only possible way to make any sense of the world.

During fine days I’ll often sit down by the stream and play my recorder. On Sunday, a rather eccentric lady delivering the Yellow Pages wandered over and said that she would remember this moment, the music, and the scenery, forever. I sometimes wonder if that when describing this place it comes across as being perfect. Or at least, that I think it’s perfect. It’s not. But perfect doesn’t work in this world. And even if something is nearing perfection, it has reached that point through both struggles and setbacks. I received a letter last week from a good friend who is currently in Australia (it took four days, Chloe!). She mentioned having (or not having) that eureka moment, when you suddenly realise what is you’re supposed to be doing with your life. I don’t think there is such a thing, though. I don’t think there is ever just one thing we are supposed to do; I don’t think that we are ever just one person. The world is far too complex for that. For a long time I thought that there were no answers, but now I’ve come to realise that there are many answers, and that they are not always the same. Truth is found in our everyday existence; wherever we are, whatever we are doing, that is how, that is the only way we are able to experience life. There are no degrees of being alive, there is only being aware of it, or not.

A fish exorcism and the Frozen Lady

This is exactly the kind of place where legends and folk stories are easily born. Where the remote, rugged scenery plays tricks with your senses, and mysticism seeps into the mind. Add to that a small group of people whose conversations are so spontaneous that one sentence rarely follows on from another, and who may be kindly described as being a little bit whacky. The result of which is that a small amount of truth rapidly grows into a much larger and far more elaborate tale of nonsense. Thus it came about that we performed a fish exorcism and created a Frozen Lady. 

For three whole days there had been a persistent odour, which could be most accurately described as cremated fish finger. Our attempts at locating and dispersing this scent seemed to be in vain, so we came to the conclusion that the building must now be haunted by the soul of this fish. Talking amongst ourselves, it soon became clear that not one of us had had any previous experience of fish exorcisms. We considered casually asking some of the likely looking guests, but decided against it in the end. At this stage we figured that the idea of a fish finger ghost floundering about the corridors was likely to be less of an attraction, and more of an incentive to hot foot it over Hardknott Pass in record time. So we put our heads together and came up with a logical ceremony for freeing the trapped spirit of the breadcrumb encrusted fish. We were all in agreement that we needed to conjure up a day of continuous rain. How we achieved this however shall remain a secret shared between just three people. It is probable that, being the only three known fish exorcists in the county (possibly in the world), we could start up a rather lucrative business. What I can tell you though, is that it did indeed rain for at least 24 hours without letup. The following day we could see a newly formed stream/waterfall flowing down the side of the fell opposite the kitchen window. With this new arrival, the smell of cremated fish finger disappeared. In honour of the successful exorcism, we have named this stream Fish Gill. You will not see it on a map, but you will see it from YHA Eskdale after a day of rainfall, and in doing so be reminded to take care when cooking fish fingers.  

Then there is the tale of the Frozen Lady. The catering manager at YHA Eskdale (who's real name has now long been forgotten) was retrieving some chocolate fudge cake from the freezer, when a colleague 'accidentally' nudged the open door into her back. The lady fell forward into the freezer, and the door slammed shut trapping her inside. The perpetrator wandered away, and was later claimed to be heard muttering, "That will teach her to use my favourite red apron." 

Days passed, where substandard food was served to the Youth Hostel guests, and it wasn't until a week later when the lady, in a red apron, was found cryogenically frozen, with a piece of chocolate fudge cake still in her hand. The authorities were contacted, but they declared that until advancements in cryogenic technology had been made, she must remain there, the Frozen Lady (in red). They believed there was a chance that she could be safely thawed, and restored to her former living glory (as such, the police pathologist refused to pronounce her as dead). Furthermore, no charges could be brought against the suspect - there were no witnesses, and no fingerprints left on the recently sanitised freezer door. It was reported in the press as a tragic accident, but the tabloid newspapers seemed to think that there was now a notorious cryogenic criminal on the loose, and that as a nation we should abstain from having ice cream storage facilities in the home. However, such was the level of human interest in the story, people from miles around came to see this phenomenon. They would spend a night at YHA Eskdale, take a selfie with the Frozen Lady, and then walk to the Woolpack Inn for a local ale, and to use the wifi to post their photo on Facebook. 

Disclaimer. 94.2% of the above is of a fictional nature. No actual crimes were committed. YHA Eskdale has never been haunted by a cremated fish finger. And more importantly; No health and safety at work regulations were breached during either incident. 

"My body is a Pom Bear temple"

 Here's a thought I had this week; happiness is not a feeling. It runs deeper than that. It is not some fleeting moment in our life, subject to change and changing circumstance. It remains, we remain that way, even when something goes badly, when we are a little fed up, tired, or put out. Not that I've experienced much of that this week. 

There has been a lot to take in, lots of information to remember, but non of it particularly difficult. Although....I did somehow manage to enter into the till that a guest had handed over fifty thousand pounds for a bottle of wine and a J20. A couple of the many things that strikes me about this place is the laughter and light hearted conversation. It's contagious, and it makes for such a wonderfully warm environment. It also makes cleaning toilets an enjoyable task. I never imagined I'd ever say that, I never imagined lots of things before I came here. It stretches the mind by cleansing the mind, getting rid of the unnecessary, and allowing your thoughts to wander without the hindrance of expectation. There is also what could probably be best described as a healthy dose of madness about the place. Rachel has declared her body to be a Pom Bear temple, and she wondered what High Viz granary bread was. To be fair, the extractor fan (renamed the distracter fan) in the kitchen is pretty noisy, so it's easy to mishear. But there are plenty of things that can't be so easily explained away. The fact, for example, that we have allocated an imaginary Chris de Burgh a cupboard to live in (and that we stick our head around the door every now and then to say hello). 

I was working over the Easter Bank Holiday weekend, but actually, there was something rather lovely about that. With it also being the school holidays, we have had quite a number of families staying. One group in particular, not just immediate family, but also cousins and uncles and grandparents, really made an impression on me. As we are a hostel without a TV room, phone signal, or wifi, everyone would sit around together in an evening, chatting, laughing, playing cards. I overheard bits of a conversation about the edge of clouds, and whether of not rainbows really exist. They all seemed to have had a wonderful time. 

We have been blessed with a couple of days of gorgeous weather. I went for a walk around Wastwater, & got a slight twang of hostel envy when I saw YHA Wasdale Hall with its views over the lake. I told Rachel about this later, but she said it's really dark there. The staff accommodation is at the back, and they don't get light until Monday (I misheard this bit. They only have to wait until midday). We then had a long conversation about the similarities between Tom Conti's moustache and Chris de Burgh's eyebrows. Thoughts of Wasdale Hall evaporated from my mind. Today (Thursday), I met up with some dear friends from Switzerland in Skelwith Bridge. I can't quite explain how wonderful it was to see them, and we spent an afternoon walking along the river, & having a much talked-up game of pooh sticks. I must admit that it felt a little strange at first seeing them, if only because that part of my life seems a world away now. Or at least, I feel completely different in myself about the whole thing, and the emotions and thoughts I left there with no longer have any importance in my mind. There is far too much else that I'd rather think about. But that is not to say I have forgotten my friends from there. They were always the best bit.