The worst hostel of my life

Eauze, in the Gers, in the heart of south-west France. Duck, local produce, good French cooking… I'll let you imagine. Everything I love.

I have been walking the Camino de Santiago for over a month. Around twenty-five kilometres a day, with nearly twenty kilos on my back. At this stage, the legs are broken in, and so is the head. I am starting to tell myself I can sleep just about anywhere.

I was about to get the chance to check that.

On the way, I regularly run into a pilgrim about three times my age. A very friendly retired man, with fourteen kilos on his back and dozens of stories to tell. A slightly mysterious character, with whom conversations about how the world and our society work could last for hours. He deserves a story of his own.

But today, it is our accommodation I want to tell you about.

About seven kilometres from the hostel, a good hour and a half of walking, we go into a small building. To be honest, I no longer really remember why. We get talking there with a man wearing a bandana, very alternative in style. As the conversation goes on, we mention the place where we are going to sleep.

"Oh, the guy is super nice! It's just that women aren't that keen, because he is always barefoot."

At the time, nothing sets off any alarm. A guy who walks around barefoot is not what is going to worry me. So we set off again.

At the end of the day, we arrive in front of an old building surrounded by greenery. Everything is damp. The mosquitoes, for their part, have clearly found the perfect spot.

Our host welcomes us warmly. Long hair, in his forties, very natural in the way he carries himself. He explains that he inherited the house and makes a living taking in pilgrims and teaching traditional dance.

He is likeable. Genuinely.

Then we go inside.

The first thing I notice is the floor. Very dirty, with logs lying on the ground. I almost feel like I am still outside. Except that outside, it bothers me less. Nature in nature works. Inside a damp house, a bit less.

He shows us around, then shows me my bed. The sheets are stained on every side. With the same easy manner as if he were offering me a coffee, he says: "It's one euro if you want me to change the sheets."

I say no. Why? With hindsight, that is an excellent question. At the time, I simply tell myself: at this point…

He then tells us that unfortunately he will not be able to cook for us this evening, since he is teaching his traditional dance class.

I am fairly relieved. The tour has not exactly made me want to discover his cooking. And what my companion tells me the next day will confirm that instinct.

So for dinner, I buy a frozen stir-fry at the supermarket and cook it in one of the hostel's pans. I'll let you appreciate the consistency: I don't want to taste his cooking, but I still use his pan.

Then comes the time to go to bed. It is hot. It is damp. And I have no desire whatsoever to touch the bed.

So I slide into my sleeping bag, firmly intending to stay entirely shut inside it. The practical detail is that it is designed for temperatures close to zero.

The night comes down to this: being too hot, wanting to get out of the bag, looking at the bed, then deciding that in the end, being too hot is acceptable.

I wait for morning.

When I wake up, I find wine glasses and a cheeseboard on the table. Friends of our host came round for a few drinks the evening before.

Me, I only want one thing: to leave. I am tired, covered in bites and already impatient to take a shower at the next hostel.

Before leaving, there is one formality left. On the Camino, you get your credential stamped at each stage. It is the pilgrim's booklet, which keeps a record of the route and then allows you to request the Compostela on arrival.

Here, no stamp.

So our host goes into the garden, picks a few flowers and uses them to draw directly on my credential. Still with that disarming ease.

In the middle of the neatly lined-up stamps, I leave with a botanical artwork. If you want to see the result, send me a message and I'll show you the photo.

My companion stays for breakfast. When I run into him later, he tells me he saw our host bring out what he took to be blue cheese.

It was mouldy butter.

I think back to the pan from the night before. Then I prefer to think about something else.

The tally: an almost sleepless night and close to twenty mosquito bites. But no harm done, a story to tell and a slightly tougher head.

With hindsight, I don't regret sleeping there. One night, mind you, was quite enough.

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