I HAVE never been part of large-scale social experiment. Or, at least, not to my knowledge. (Who knows what all those CCTV cameras are really for?) But, after a week away from the office, I feel I might as well have been in the Big Brother house. The reason? Multiple stays in a variety youth hostels, both here, in North Yorkshire, and in Snowdonia.

Originally set up early in the last century, youth hostels have the noble ambition of providing cheap accommodation to enable young people to explore the countryside. The mission statement is still embossed outside many hostels. This was a time when rambling was a mass-participation activity among the young, especially factory workers in northern industrial cities.

Well, things have moved a long way since those golden days. The average age has certainly shifted upwards, certainly in the rural hostels; my friends and I lowered the mean considerably. And if the clientele are middle-aged, they are also unmistakably middle-class. Thus a stay at a hostel casts a microscope over the mores of Middle England; it feels like a social laboratory.

This was most vividly the case at a hostel which, for the sake of those mentioned, shall remain nameless.

One of the weirdest elements of the hostel experience is undoubtedly the bedroom. My room comprised three bunk beds to sleep six, and it was pretty small. So, there is the inevitable rush for the top (or bottom) bunks, depending on your preference. Also predictable are the morning rebukes over snoring, night talking or moving about in the rickety, squeaking bunks.

One of the friends I was holidaying with was new to the bare-bottomed joys of hostels, and was terrified there would be naked "strutting" in the bedroom. We avoided that with late nights and, on his part, hiding under the covers until everyone had left the room.

Others weren't so lucky. There were reports from another room of a middle-aged woman, naked, variously squatting and prancing about. Every time she appeared in the lounge, a whisper would go round: "that's Naked Woman".

Which brings us to another dilemma of hostel stays: how do you interact with someone you're sharing such intimacies with?

Naked Woman chose to approach this problem by simply ignoring us. Despite prolonged eye-contact, and a broad smile on my part, I got nothing in return. I think she was shy.

Others have no such concerns. One of the regular hostel "types" is the lone male hill walker of a certain age who, on becoming room buddies, also wants to be friends. He often chooses to bond over a 1:25,000 scale map and a comparative discussion of routes up Snowdon, or some other hill.

The lone trekker, however, is a breeze compared with the formidable of hostel species: the big group. We had to contend all weekend with a raucous walking party of about a dozen middle-aged Lancastrians.

As soon as they arrived, they were eagerly eyeing-up our spot on the hostel sofas. And making dinner was a nightmare when their catering team invaded the members' kitchen. Another friend became mightily paranoid over overheard comments about her presence in a room with some of the women Lancastrians. In the end, they moved to another dorm to be with their friends.

I suppose a large group will naturally dominate, but the discomfort shown by us and other hostellers at their presence was slightly amusing. While nothing was said, there was a tangible air of hostility from some of one or two of the group's members. Very English, I thought.

The final straw came on their, and our, final night. They had a fancy dress party in the communal lounge. With togas, skimpy nurses' outfits, Arab robes and every emergency service uniform you can think of, they looked like a cross between a low-budget Carry On set and the Village People, 30 years on.

We fled to the pub before their bottles of Lambrini kicked in and thigh-flashing turned into Goodness knows what. And, while it wasn't quite Big Brother, by the end I was ready to scream: I'm a young person, get me out of here!