Mary Cecil, click
here to update your pages on AuthorsDen.
'Confessions of a Hostel Manager' by Mary Cecil
Tuesday, May 26, 2020
Rated "G" by the Author.
A short inside story of managing a hostel in Northern Ireland.
'Confessions of a hostel Manager'
My life has been very different from the ordinary, growing up in a city, moving to a small island off North Antrim at the height of the troubles in the early seventies, marrying, having a big family, setting up a dive business with my late dynamic husband who died tragically in a diving accident; then having to rebuild my life and my children's, by moving to the mainland.
Life on a small island was extremely challenging and demanding with the integration into a close-knit community requiring tenacity and adaptability that I never knew I possessed,however I did love the island and it taught me much about human behaviour and I learned valuable lessons in sometimes painful ways, but learn them I did.
All of these skills about human behaviour came into their own when I took on a new role of managing a brand new hostel set in a north coast town blighted by unemployment especially difficult for the young people. The hostel was a community project to address these issues. The job required living in which is difficult in itself.
The town was on the route to the fabulously scenic Causeway Coast yet it was beset with many of the social problems you would find in an inner-city such as a lack of development, yet it was a traditional and proud loyalist community, very different from my previous life. I like old places with history so it appealed to me in many ways.
The hostel was a large and very modern open plan, with en suite rooms and conference facilities. The small staff were locals and my most immediate task was getting the inside track on the movers & shakers in the locality because you must bring the people with you if you want to be successful in such a situation. I was aware of being viewed with a fine degree of scrutiny but I'd been down that road before and understood it very well but I was determined to make it work regardless. They would put me through my paces, but I'm no novice and made sure we all understood the limits and the give and take of the business vital to the town's success.
Tourism was the main plank of the business but there were local groups who were essential too, such as church weekends away, community conferences, and youth groups. So in my first year, a booking was made with a young football sports team, an under fourteen, and an under sixteen, group along with their trainers, taking part in a week-long event. They had booked the whole place out and I provided the catering for them and their coaches. A big deal as it were.
Rules had been laid down for their behaviour but boys will be boys and it quickly became a matter of 'keeping an eye on them'. I also had a middle-aged volunteer, Donald who was dealing with the desk when I was busy. Donald had worked in a tax office role before this so the trials and tribulations of dealing with the hazards of hosteling was a new experience for him.
The fine day arrived and the team was settled in. On a Sunday the boy's mothers came to visit their sons. As I've said before, the building was open plan so the office was at the reception with the large lounge beside it where the guests would sit. My daughter came in to tell me there was a right character at the desk trying to flog a leather coat for a 'fiver missus'. I went out to deal with him. The mothers were coming and going, chatting to their sons and all appeared fine. Now the lads had been prancing about the town in their football outfits which they were forbidden to do but were difficult to restrain. This caused a sensation among the young fillies from the town who had the glamour of footballers in their midst much to the annoyance of the local lads. We had a back garden beside the dining room so they congregated there but the blinds were brought down and the girls ordered away.
Once again I was called to the desk as a stroppy woman had appeared. She demanded 'her room' The young lads were offering friendly advice such as 'room 16' where the trainers stayed. I deduced she was inebriated and gave Donald the nod to get rid of her. He came out and offered her his arm so they went off down the front entrance with her clinging to him and asking if 'it was just you and me' Somewhere around the coat seller lurked and the mothers sat looking on as I tried to present an air of normality.
The woman had been offloaded into the pub next door and Donald returned to the office. At that point, some of the lads came galloping down from the front rooms yelling that someone was shot. The coaches rang the police and went off chasing the perpetrators who were the disgruntled local lads. Turned out they had shot up from the street below into a tiny gap in an open window and with a pellet gun. The police turned up and who came trotting out from the bar beside them but our troublesome woman, who swayed at the front door and decided to offer them 'services' along with efforts to disrobe, whereupon she was immediately arrested and off she went.
The coaches came back defeated in their efforts to apprehend the shooter, the girls vanished, the mothers sat looking at me as I was scanning the place for the coat seller and Donald sat shell-shocked in the office. I still tried with great difficulty to adopt an air of that disappearing normal, nothing wrong here folks.
I found out later that poor Donald had been physically molested by the woman who it turned out, had the splendid name 'Priscilla'.
Donald left the hostel and never volunteered again. The footballers had mixed results and peace reigned again in the town. I recounted all of this madness to the manager of the main hostel in Belfast who reacted with coolness and I was left feeling deflated and all I could say about it was 'I guess you had to be there'
There were many situations in the later years such as a mad Italian who complained at the local police station that I had evicted him and left a suitcase abandoned ominously inside the front door for several hours, which left me debating whether I needed the services of the bomb squad.
Middle-aged male cyclists whom I soon learned to keep a close eye on because I found out that they had a rebellious attitude to rules and a great fondness for 'tinkering with controls' after one nearly set fire to the kitchen.
Weddings which were a great joy mixed with accompanying debatable behaviour and I sometimes wonder how did I survive the ten years I was there, in one piece.
Every day became a battle to overcome my growing desperation to return to the island but the years passed despite it. I made many friends in the town and am extremely grateful for the invaluable lessons which living on a small island, gave me otherwise I would have quit in that first year of being a hostel manager.
Your last sentence left me hanging: "I would have quit in that first year of being a hostel manager ... [were it not for the drinking and the rough necks who entertained me no end?] Nice job, Mary. Did you get that lady's name and phone number who wrestled poor Donald into submission? A friend of mine wants to know... ==smiles== Ed
I could definitely see these goings-on as fodder for a sitcom. The fact that you survived ten years at the hostel is testament to your strength and resilience.
Your initial description of the island is reminiscent of rural United States, filled with unemployment, dysfunctional living and yet, loyalist leaning people. Here, the cities are more progressive, especially the poorer parts of cities, perhaps because of the proximity to centers of higher education, often bordering on poverty areas. I can't imagine what it was like living in Ireland during those tumultuous times.
Your description of what happened when the footballers came to stay would make a good soap opera--never a dull moment. But I have to admire your perseverance after your husband died to care for your children and move forward, challenging yourself to do things you thought you never would do.
I have never stayed in a hostel, but I did stay at a bed and breakfast during my honeymoon that was very enjoyable and inexpensive for the first-class treatment. Also, I stayed once in Montréal in the basement of a fraternity house during Expo 67. Only two dollars a night for a cot to sleep on. Later when I returned to Toronto for a major world future conference, I stayed in the dormitory of a local university with windows that didn't open during a summer heat wave. I just came there to both places to sleep with no drama. Too tired from all the activity away from the place to do anything other than just sleep.
Sherlyn Powell opens up about her love and devotion to her family and the overwhelming repercussion when communication breaks down. Heartbroken and distraught she learns to release her prayer and realize with faith God would reunite her family.
Rosetta was born in 1909 as the youngest of ten children. The family had more laughter than money and neighbors would knock on their door to ask, "Can we come in and laugh, too?"
