Hofstade Youth Hostel

Tuesday 6th September 1983. Hofstade Youth Hostel

After a good nights sleep in Ostende we had a light breakfast (not of our choosing) and set off for a walk around the town. Situated on the coast in north-western Belgium, it lies along the North Sea and at the end of the Ghent-Brugge Canal. A fishing village (originally Oostende-ter-Streepe) since the 9th century, it was fortified in 1583 and became the last Dutch stronghold in Belgium, falling to the Spanish in 1604 after a three-year siege. Now a thriving resort and important fishing port (especially for mussels, a gastronomic specialty of Belgium), it has industries that include fish curing, oyster culture, shipbuilding, and tobacco and soap manufacturing. Landmarks include the Vismijn, or Minque (fish market), the 3-mile (5-km) Digue (promenade), the Kursaal (casino), the Chalet Royal, the Thermal Institute (for hydropathic and electrotherapeutic treatment), and the racecourse. Connected with England by boat and by air services (airport at Raversijde), Ostend is the railroad “gateway to Europe.” Its role as an English Channel crossing point, its extensive beaches, and its popular casino complex have made the port town a major tourist destination.

Ostende is a nice place and the weather was still good. I cashed a £20 travellers cheque and we hit the road. The motorbikes continued to perform well and when we stopped for petrol we had gone 120 miles since the last refill and still had some in the tank. To fill up cost about £1.50 U.K. Sterling.

Our first stop was at Brugge for a pricey cup of coffee (about 60 pence each). We moved on through Ghent (nasty cup of tea and a couple of apples), Zele, Dendermonde, Mechelen and then on to the Youth Hostel just outside Mechelen. We are about 10 miles north of Brussels. The hostel is deserted at the moment. We discovered the three medieval towers of Ghent and navigated on some ropey directions to get out of town. Sign-posting is minimal and often appears when it is too late to act and you’ve committed yourself to the wrong route. Earlier we had fun getting out of Ostende as we took the wrong road and ended up following the coast north. Today, as yesterday, our sadness and fears are vented in uncontrolled giggling at the least provocation. In the evening we took a walk along the main drag of Hofstade, which was boring. Back a the hostel I had a warm shower which cheered me up a lot. Then I sorted out my kit to put my valuables into the shoulder bag. Earlier we had another good feed from the army ration packs – a chicken curry mixed with spam affair, which was very pleasant. Our only fellow hosteller was a wretched cyclist who kept offering us unsolicited advice and details of his trip.

Later note made on 26th September 1983

The hostel at Hofstade was a massive old mansion-type of place with a table tennis table in the Vestibule-come-Common Room. The hostel hosts allowed us to use the kitchen but then locked themselves into their quarters as if we were dangerous animals, or as if lurking spectres haunted the guest sector of the hostel. George and I chortled at the American Hunting Magazines whilst drinking coffee from jugs (cups too small).