It was a lonely spot. A rustic cottage deep in the woods, distant from the hum of civilisation. Just the wind in the trees and the screech of an owl, and the darkness pressing against the windows. The whole building had a pervasive chill, as if dying, only to be revived by the presence of the friends seeking to spend the night under its protection. They arrived in twos and fours, stumbling down the long track from the cars and hoping they were on the right path. A wrong turn could mean hours lost in the forest, possibly never to be seen again.
It seemed barely credible that the house was actually colder on the inside, the chill seeping under the doors and through the timber floors. The first job was to put the kettle on. It was a long time since any of them had used a hob kettle. It was awkward and unfamiliar, and they had forgotten how long they can take. They were surprised when the eerie whistle sounded, marking that at least one thing in the house was warm at last.
Clutching steaming mugs of tea they explored the building. The narrow wooden stairs, bounded by twisted branches from the forest fashioned into a handrail, led up to the dormitory. The windows were low, letting in no light to speak of even in the day, and bunk beds lined the walls.
They unpacked and settled in as much as they could. Each room had a small electric heater, but it seemed to make no impact as the walls sucked the heat away. The toilets were outside, a short distance down a lonely path. Once you steeled yourself for the journey, you could feel the eyes of the forest watching you stumble along the concrete. Returning to the front door, it wouldn’t open: the lock seized as if trying to keep us out. Shaking, prodding, pulling had no effect and entrance was only regained when someone opened it from the inside.
By the end of supper the temperature had raised by about 2 degrees Celsius, reaching 10 degrees in the kitchen. They pulled their coats about themselves and began to talk about going to bed. However, one of their number was still to arrive.
It was pitch black, with light only weakly leaking through the windows to make negligible impact on the dark. In the woods the leaves rustled – the wind, or some large animal? A cry was heard: barely human. They used torches to push back the darkness and finally, the last guest made it to the house.
They went up to their rooms hoping to be warm at last. Warm bodies hunkering under duvets to keep out the cold. As the quiet of the night settled on the building, the soundscape shifted. The creak of a floorboard, the rustle of clothing, the loud snuffling of something that must surely be animal in nature. Each man and woman drew down deeper into their beds in the hope of an undisturbed night, only to be woken by a blood-curdling scream….. OK, OK, so none of that actually happened. Tanners Hatch hostel in Surrey is a lonely cottage, but it’s also quaint and charming and a great place to stay. The central heating was broken, so it was pretty nippy, and George did get a bit lost trying to find us, but otherwise it was an uneventful and delightful stay. We had sunny weather during the day, so fabulous views when we walked up Box Hill; it’s all National Trust, so you can barely go a hundred yards without tripping over a coffee shop; and by Saturday night we got the temperature in the cottage up to about 20 degrees. We did somehow manage to break the lock on the front door, but hopefully YHA will forgive us and allow us to stay again sometime. Perhaps in the summer, with a barbecue... Ali