Travel Letter 3: Out on an Adventure

A group of drunk young men came singing their way up the street towards the university at half past three in the morning, leaving me with just three and a half hours in dreamland.

These things happen.

There's no point getting annoyed about it.

I can sleep another time.

Besides, I'm hungry.

My stomach gives a noticeable rumble when I realise I've completely forgotten to eat dinner.

You can't remember everything.

The past few days have hardly been short of impressions, so it's not exactly surprising.

I know myself well enough by now.

Quiet as a slightly clumsy mouse, I get dressed and sneak out of the dormitory, fairly confident I've managed not to wake anyone else. I make my way downstairs to the kitchen on the ground floor.

In the fridge, I have a box containing six pieces of sushi and a Diet Coke, both bought on special offer.

I also acknowledge that it's probably time for a shower.

That can wait until I'm able to pull the steel storage basket containing my backpack out from under the bed without waking the entire room.

For now, I spend a couple of hours doing very little.

Simply enjoying the freedom.

The two American girls leave early.

Fortune is up not long afterwards, sticking faithfully to her own itinerary.

She's heading to a museum, so we say our goodbyes.

We'll never see each other again.

We both know it.

And that's one of the things I rather like about travelling this way.

Chance encounters that were never meant to last.

Eventually, I make it to the shower.

I don't have a towel, but then again, what are dirty clothes for?

There's really only one thing on today's to-do list.

Check out.

Walk through the rain in search of the new hostel I've booked.

And hope they'll let me check in early.

It isn't a long walk, but every distance feels a little longer in the rain.

Especially without waterproofs.

By the time I'm making my way along University Street in search of my new home for the next three nights, I'm feeling just a little grumpy.

The lack of sleep from the night before is beginning to catch up with me as well.

The place is called Global Village, and the front of the building is wrapped in yellow scaffolding that almost hides the sign.

I ring the bell, pass through two doors straight ahead and another on the left, and arrive at reception.

Someone has forgotten to switch the lights on.

It doesn't seem to bother the three people inside.

A trio of older backpackers are heading out with rucksacks on their backs and smiles on their faces, which immediately reassures me that the place can't be all that bad.

I'm allowed to leave my backpack in a locker and check in, although I won't be able to get into my room for another couple of hours.

I hand over the money.

About a thousand kroner.

The hostel doesn't feel quite as established as Vagabond.

There isn't as much art on the walls, and the colours are noticeably lighter.

In the short time I'm there, I can't quite get a feel for the place.

The girl at reception offers me a seat in the common room, but she says it at exactly the same moment as another member of staff starts stacking all the chairs onto the tables.

I take the hint.

Instead, I set off in search of the nearest café that serves coffee with milk.

I find one only a couple of minutes away.

The coffee menu is refreshingly short and straightforward.

The only problem is that there's no mobile signal.

So I end up sitting quietly with nothing but my own thoughts while I slowly drink my coffee.

The place is perfectly pleasant.

A little studenty.

A little cramped.

I don't stay for long.

After checking that my phone has signal again, I simply cross the road and walk into another café.

I'd only intended to order another coffee, but the waitress insists she'll persuade me to eat something as well.

She's right.

One glance at the time tells me it's really lunchtime.

So I order the soup of the day without even asking what it is.

Afterwards, I wander into a bookshop and then a second-hand shop before killing enough time to return to the hostel.

Or rather, to my ten-bed dormitory.

Half the beds are already occupied.

I drop my backpack onto the floor and collapse onto my mattress.

From this moment on, it's officially a rest day.

In the interests of maintaining some kind of balance, I continue resting until the following day.

Shameless scrolling.

Plenty of sleep.

And when I wake up...

Perhaps the world has changed a little.

Life carries on while you're travelling too.

A text message arrives from my landlord.

He's sold the property.

Which means that when I get home, I'll have to move.

Again.

I'd only lived there for a month before leaving on this trip, so I think it's fair to file the news under unfortunate.

There's very little I can do about it from Belfast, though.

For now, it remains nothing more than an unwelcome reminder of how hopeless things feel back home these days.

The biggest question today, however, is whether it's actually going to rain.

I head outside for a short walk to take the measure of the weather.

There's a cold breeze and plenty of grey cloud, but I can see the occasional gap opening above.

With a bit of luck, Belfast might even get some sunshine today.

Back in the dormitory, there's only one other person in the room.

I've been wondering whether it's simply coincidence that I've ended up in hostels where everyone seems a little shy and reserved, or whether that's become the new normal for travellers these days.

Either way, I don't hesitate to introduce myself.

Simen is from Canada and has only recently begun a three-month journey around Europe.

A journey before another journey, really, before starting his master's degree.

After swapping a few experiences, we both arrive at the same conclusion.

People generally seem more withdrawn than they used to.

I'd assumed it might simply be part of the culture in this part of the world, but it would be interesting to compare hostel life here with somewhere like Southeast Asia.

Has something fundamentally changed about the way people socialise?

And if so...

Why?

We have a pleasant conversation.

Simen is leaving the following morning, so before long he's keen to squeeze in one last shower and a final wander around the city before moving on.

As for me, I still have several days left.

I'm in no hurry whatsoever.

I fetch myself a coffee and spend a few minutes wrestling with the wire storage cage beneath my bed.

It's far too large, and you have to pull the whole thing out before you can even lift the lid.

Eventually, I realise I don't really want to make anything of today either.

I'd rather take things slowly.

See what happens while I recover a little more.

There's no point overdoing it.

The next couple of weeks will provide more than enough to keep me busy.

I sit down on the floor because it's impossible to sit upright in my bunk without bending my neck.

Fortunately, the room is carpeted.

A little while ago I bought myself a small orange notebook to keep track of everything that happens along the way, and I spend a few minutes leafing through it.

It reads something like this:

Yesterday I woke up with the feeling that something was slightly out of alignment.

Nothing dramatic.

Not like the warning before a storm.

More like an instrument quietly reading a few degrees too high without me really knowing why.

I'd slept badly for several nights in a row.

My travelling routine had drifted off course, and the past few days had involved a little more alcohol than my body really tolerates over any length of time.

Not drunkenness.

Not chaos.

Just enough for my body to start whispering instead of cooperating.

I felt emotional.

A little fragile around the edges.

At the same time, I still felt calm and in control.

That's exactly what makes it so difficult to know where you are.

When you live with bipolar disorder, you learn to read the weather inside your own mind.

But sometimes the sky is simply overcast.

Not every cloud is the beginning of a storm.

So I did almost nothing.

I opened the curtains halfway, bought myself a burrito, drank plenty of water, and let the day pass without expecting anything from it.

Later I fell asleep again and woke up still feeling heavy and exhausted, as though my body was trying to recover several nights of sleep all at once.

Oddly enough, that felt reassuring.

Hypomania usually doesn't feel like that.

The following morning, something had changed.

Not happiness.

Not euphoria.

Just... more normal.

It felt as though my nerves had settled back into my body.

Even so, I decided to take another quiet day.

Partly to be on the safe side.

Partly because my bank balance had already decided this wasn't going to be a day for expensive adventures.

So the plan became a short walk, a few peaceful hours, and as little noise as possible.

Sometimes, that's a way of travelling too.

The biggest expense of the day ends up being a packet of cigarettes.

A silly purchase, I realise afterwards.

I'd actually quit smoking.

But today...

Today it was what I needed to keep my head steady.

I decide that today's food budget belongs to Subway.

It seems like a sensible choice.

Their enormous sandwiches easily count as two meals when I'm not doing very much anyway.

Before lunch, I wander into a second-hand bookshop and come across a Dirk Pitt adventure novel for one pound.

I'm ridiculously pleased with the purchase.

Book tucked into my pocket, I make my way to Subway and eventually manage to place my order on one of the touchscreen kiosks.

The hostel isn't far away.

Back there, I top things off with a free cup of coffee, lean back with a full stomach, and open my book.

A couple of hours later, the sun begins shining through the window.

Time for a little walk.

I don't feel like going very far, so I stay in the neighbourhood, sightseeing among long rows of red Victorian brick terraces that, for the most part, have seen better days.

I later discover that they were built towards the end of the nineteenth century to house the rapidly expanding industrial city.

Back then they were probably elegant places to live.

Now, much of what I pass looks tired and worn.

Many of the houses have boards covering their doors or windows, and it's surprisingly difficult to find an entrance without at least a little rubbish scattered outside.

Nearly all of them have a small fenced space at the front.

Once upon a time, they would probably have been perfect for a couple of chairs, a little table, perhaps a few flower boxes.

I don't see many that are still used that way.

Instead, weeds grow between the paving stones, and wherever the windows aren't boarded up from the outside, there's almost always something hanging behind the glass.

I find myself imagining that very few people actually own these houses.

Most probably rent them.

And if you don't own the place, why spend time improving the frontage?

Closer to the main roads, the ground floors are often occupied by businesses or organisations.

Just as often, I come across premises that appear to stand completely empty.

Between them sit the occasional church or a small parade of local shops.

My hostel is one of these buildings too.

As I mentioned, it's wrapped in scaffolding.

It doesn't look as though anyone is actually doing any work.

By the time I return, the young Australian is back.

He's travelling on his own, probably no older than eighteen or nineteen, and I can't shake the feeling that he isn't entirely sure what he's let himself in for.

Naturally, I don't say that.

Instead, I offer my own explanation for days like this.

I tell him that I've become so overwhelmed by new impressions that I've deliberately decided to slow down for a couple of days.

That it's actually rather nice to spend part of the day resting in the dorm, because travelling through cities can become surprisingly exhausting.

His face lights up.

He knows exactly what I mean.

A little later, Simen comes back.

He's really a chapter all of his own.

I'm sitting on the floor, while Dakota — as it turns out the Australian lad is called — is lying on his bunk scrolling through his phone.

It doesn't take long before Simen and I discover there's an art exhibition nearby, so we persuade Dakota to come along.

We're the Dorm Three gang.

There isn't anyone else.

We walk a few blocks until we arrive at a remarkably anonymous entrance tucked among rows of identical terraced houses.

Inside, we spend about ten minutes looking at the twenty paintings on display before deciding to leave the other visitors — most of them fairly well lubricated — to enjoy the exhibition in peace.

Rather than settling into a pub afterwards, we stop by a supermarket and buy a bottle of wine instead.

We take it back to the hostel, where the common room contains a pool table that only half works.

The cloth has been torn in two places, and it takes us a while to find enough balls to put together a proper game.

Still, it's playable.

After two rounds, the Australian comes out on top.

Thankfully.

He deserved the win more than anyone.

From midnight onwards, the hostel is supposed to be quiet.

We manage that without any trouble.

The evening comes to an end.

And that's perfectly fine.

The other two are leaving the following morning, while I'd been hoping for sunshine.

No such luck.

The sky is grey, heavy drops of rain are already striking the pavement, and it's shaping up to be another quiet day.

There's no point wandering around for the sake of it if all you're going to do is get soaked.

I start the day with a free coffee from the hostel kitchen.

The atmosphere is calm, and I intend to enjoy it.

It's Friday, after all, and although I have the dormitory to myself for the moment, there's very little chance it'll stay that way by the end of the day.

I'm beginning to get my fill of cities.

From London to Belfast, the activities are much the same.

What I probably miss most are places where you can simply sit down without feeling obliged to buy another coffee.

It's not that there's any shortage of things to do.

You just become a little saturated.

Perhaps it's only the weather making me feel that way, but I decide to head back to the Ulster Museum.

There's so much to see there that I don't think I managed to take in even half of it the first time.

Besides, it's an activity that keeps me dry.

I begin my second visit with a large cup of coffee.

A small attempt to shake my brain loose from the clouds it's become stuck in.

Afterwards, I spend a long time wandering between rows of terraced houses.

Naturally, I get a little lost.

Not that I was ever trying to get anywhere in particular.

Every street looks more or less the same.

They have their own charm, though, and I find myself wondering what one of these houses would cost.

I simply assume they're hopelessly overpriced.

After rather longer than I'd intended, I pass a street sign I recognise.

A few minutes later, I'm standing outside the hostel again.

Probably just as well.

Time for a break.

Gradually, the room begins to fill with people.

One of them is Troy from Texas, and before long we're chatting.

He's travelling alone after his travelling companion went home a few days ago.

So this solo trip wasn't exactly part of the original plan.

Still, he seems to be taking it in his stride.

"It is what it is," as he puts it.

We each have a glass of wine and decide to go out for dinner together.

I choose the street.

He chooses the restaurant.

Two complete strangers eating bao buns — or whatever they're called.

I'd never had them before.

They're actually very good.

So is the company.

On the walk back, we end up talking about the city's architecture.

We're both planning an early night.

The following morning it's time for me to check out.

Checkout isn't until eleven, though, so I take the opportunity to have a shower and make the most of the free breakfast.

With my backpack on again, I still have a few hours before I can check back into good old Vagabond Hostel.

I'd been sensible enough to pay in advance, so there are no real expenses waiting for me there.

I have decided to do some laundry before moving on, though, so my only real mission this morning is to find a cash machine.

I also stop by the Botanic Gardens to say hello to Stjerten, but apparently he hasn't got out of bed yet.

The Ulster Museum isn't open that early either.

Instead, I find a café.

I ask for a black coffee.

They bring me a six-shot Americano.

After dropping my backpack off at the hostel, I find a brown little football pub.

It suits me perfectly.

The music is good, and the pint is the cheapest I've come across so far.

I can't understand a single word anyone is saying.

The accents are deeply Irish, and I choose to ignore the sideways glance I receive when I order an ordinary Carlsberg.

On the television screens, the build-up to some football match flickers away.

As I have so many times before, I find myself wishing I possessed even the faintest spark of interest in ball sports.

I don't.

Not even a little.

By the time I'm halfway through my pint, I still haven't worked out which teams are about to play, but I'm perfectly prepared to provide the small amount of role-playing required for me to remain seated.

It's Saturday now.

My last full night in Belfast.

Tomorrow I'll have to sleep with one eye half open to make sure I don't oversleep, something I've historically been exceptionally good at doing.

The weather has finally turned.

Blue skies and sunshine.

Only a fierce, cold wind spoils it, but with a bit of luck it'll ease off later in the day.

Players in blue and red walk onto the pitch.

It turns out it's Liverpool against Chelsea.

The music is switched off, and the pub fills instead with football songs.

I play the part of the bloke who comes to the pub alone to sit quietly and watch the match.

I earn a few bonus points when the elderly gentleman at the bar drops his walking stick and I pick it up for him.

The first goal goes in before six minutes have been played.

I think it was Liverpool.

The rest of Saturday passes quietly.

I'm actually feeling a little restless, but I make myself slow down.

The alternative would be another long walk through the city streets, and by now I've had plenty of experience with that.

Instead, I give priority to doing my laundry and catching up on the backlog of self-inflicted office work, which mostly ends up degenerating into shameless scrolling on my phone.

The following morning, however, it's finally time for an adventure.

I've done something I almost never do.

I've booked myself onto a guided coach tour of Northern Ireland.

After far too many days spent in cities, I'm more than ready to see a bit of the countryside.

Naturally, I don't sleep particularly well once I know I have to get up early, but I make it through the night despite what is easily the noisiest dormitory I've stayed in so far.

The day before, I'd met Tiago from Brazil.

As it happens, he's booked onto the same tour.

We're bunkmates.

He has the lower bunk.

I've got the top one.

We manage to get ourselves out of the hostel on time.

I even have enough time to grab a coffee and brush my teeth.

The meeting point is only a couple of minutes' walk from the hostel, and at the very least we succeed in getting ourselves onto the coach.

Following Bob's advice from reception, I choose a seat on the same side as the driver.

It doesn't take long before we're out of the city.

It soon becomes apparent that the driver, whom I initially suspect might be mute, is in fact barely capable of keeping his mouth shut.

He talks almost continuously, drawing breath only when absolutely necessary, until we stop in a small town with a modest marina and one of the oldest buildings in the country.

A huge castle overlooking the sea in the general direction of Norway.

The sheep seem to be doing exceptionally well in this part of the world.

A patchwork quilt of green stretches across the landscape, and before long the sea remains steadily in view along one side of the coach.

Our driver-guide keeps talking, repeatedly making me laugh with his dry humour and wonderfully odd observations.

The sun is shining.

I don't even mind that it's a little cold outside.

All in all, it rather looks as though the people here are doing almost as well as the sheep.

The little harbours scattered through the villages immediately make me want to go sailing.

It's completely impossible to remember the names of all the places we pass.

They all have long Northern Irish names, and they come one after another in quick succession.

Our next stop is a small, charming harbour town with a local shop, public toilets, a handful of little bars and a couple of restaurants.

Apparently, it was used as a filming location for Game of Thrones.

The landscape is constantly changing.

Long stretches of beach covered in black volcanic rock give way to what feels like a boreal version of Central America.

A few minutes later, it almost resembles the Finnmark Plateau, before we're back among dense conifer forests.

All the while accompanied by our driver's steady stream of stories and anecdotes.

He mixes history stretching back hundreds of years with amusing facts and the latest news about the motorcyclist who came off his bike on one particularly nasty bend the week before.

It's quite a journey.

There are plenty of places where I'd happily have stopped for a few extra minutes, but I'll have to make do with the scheduled breaks.

Ten minutes at a viewpoint is pleasant enough, although there isn't really all that much to photograph.

The scenery is beautiful, of course.

But you see far more of it while you're moving.

We stop for lunch.

Tiago and I have brought packed lunches, so we're directed to a few tables and chairs behind the restaurant.

Our budgets won't stretch to anything extravagant until tomorrow afternoon.

That's when the next instalment arrives.

But first comes Giant's Causeway.

And it's free.

Known as the world's eighth wonder—among other things—it's a small stretch of coastline where an estimated forty thousand interlocking hexagonal stones reach out into the sea.

It's a remarkable place.

Naturally, quite a few other people seem to think so too, which means Tiago and I certainly have no shortage of company as we wander across the strange basalt formations.

Even so, it feels good to tick the place off the list.

The weather holds.

The sun has warmed the stones, making them pleasantly comfortable to sit on, and the countless natural rock formations create little sheltered corners if you happen to want a few moments of peace.

I wander through the entire area.

And once that's done...

I've been there.

I've seen it.

Walked it.

Felt it.

Done it.

I even managed to have a discreet pee behind the large boulders farther along the beach without anyone noticing.

For one pound each way, you can take a small electric shuttle bus up and down the kilometre between the Causeway and the visitor centre.

We walk.

The journey to the destination is still half the experience.

I'd assumed I'd be one of the first people back on the coach.

Instead, it turns out I'm the last.

After a few more minutes of the driver's endless commentary, we stop at another viewpoint.

From there we photograph the ruins of an old castle that looks as though it could tumble into the sea at any moment.

It's scenically beautiful, although at some point the maintenance department clearly gave up.

We only have a few minutes before continuing to the Bushmills Distillery, which has been operating since 1608.

I check my bank balance and manage to persuade the bartender to serve me the smallest measure of the cheapest whiskey they have available.

I very rarely drink spirits.

Somehow, though, this feels appropriate.

With only twelve hours left before I have to check out of the hostel, it would be a shame if my last few pounds didn't go towards an Irish whiskey.

The journey back to Belfast is mostly along the motorway.

Tiago dozes quietly in the seat beside me.

We're both mildly irritated when the coach drops us off much farther from the hostel than where we'd boarded nine and a half hours earlier, but it's hardly worth making a fuss about.

The sun is shining.

Sunday afternoon hangs peacefully over the city streets.

I have a very modest programme ahead of me.

Pack my backpack.

Take a shower.

I manage both without any great difficulty.

I spend a little while chatting to one of the new roommates who arrived while we were off looking at rock formations and Game of Thrones trees.

It's a pleasant conversation.

I feel ready.

Curious to see what the next twenty-four hours have in store for me.

Later, my sister lends me a few pounds, and I spend them on something to eat that night.

The alternative might have been to save the money for public transport to the airport.

Then again, I have a perfectly good pair of legs.

They're more than capable of handling a two-hour walk.

Especially with a large pie in my stomach.