Hostel Life: Where Packing Becomes an Extreme Sport

Travelling solo is great —until you’re crouched in a dorm room at midnight, trying to pack quietly by torchlight like a burglar in hiking boots. My life in hostels is basically a cycle of packing, unpacking, and wondering where on earth my socks have gone. But here’s the thing: despite the chaos, I wouldn’t trade it for the world.

Pack, unpack, hunt for things I’ve packed, discover things I haven’t packed yet! Why? Because in a dorm room, someone is always asleep—no matter the time of day—so you’re creeping around like a ninja with a torch, trying to cram your worldly possessions into a space roughly the size of a tea towel.

But here’s the thing: I love hostels. The vibe is unbeatable. You can cook your own food, do laundry cheaply, and chat with fascinating strangers who’ll tell you about hidden gems you’d never find on Google. Sure, you might share a room with someone who thinks 11:30 p.m. is the perfect time to wash and blow-dry their hair, but, it’s all part of the adventure. It seemed churlish to complain given the DJ at the bar next door went on till 4am.

In a hostel, I feel less anonymous and safer—though sometimes it’s a bit much. Take Oamaru, for example. I went to see the little blue penguins and stayed in a small independent hostel with faded charm (much like the town itself). I tried to read my book for two hours but only managed five pages because everyone wanted to chat. Did I mind? Not really—I had a lovely time.

Occasionally, I crave a hotel room to myself, but honestly, when travelling solo, that feels soulless.

In New Zealand, chain hostels like Haka House are popping up everywhere. They’re slick, well-run, and have everything a backpacker needs—but they lack the quirky charm of independent hostels.

Today, I’ve hit the jackpot: the nicest hostel so far—Global Village in Greymouth. It’s wet, grey outside so the hostel is perfect for chilling out. I can sit in a lounge and write by blog, snacking on things from the local supermarket, I even have a room to myself! There’s a hot tub for later and, if the weather behaves, free kayaks and bikes in the morning—all for £23 a night. Bargain! Even better, there’s a 10% discount on the local brewery’s beer tasting tour. Since it’s too wet to do anything else, I suppose I’ll have to go. Tough life, right?

So far, I’ve shared rooms with women from China, Japan, Australia, Switzerland, Canada, America, New Zealand—and, of course, Ipswich. Shockingly, she didn’t know the Adams Family. I’m still recovering. Ages have ranged from 18 to 70. Some were on quick holidays, others starting gap years. One lovely young Chinese woman was studying in NZ and hoping she wouldn’t have to return home. An American woman had just finished working at the Antarctic base—how cool is that?

For a change, when I get to Hamilton, I’ll be cat-sitting for a long weekend. Fingers crossed Margot and I get along.

Hostel life isn’t perfect—it’s noisy, cramped, and occasionally smells like someone’s hiking socks—but it’s full of stories, laughter, and unexpected friendships. Hotels might give you privacy, but hostels give you memories.