In recent weeks, countypress.co.uk has run several stories about homeless hostels potentially being set up in Newport and Sandown.

The hostility to these plans immediately became evident, with many comments suggesting the planning applications were unwelcome, with property values, crime and anti social behaviour cited as reasons the hostels (or HMOs) would not be welcome in these locations.

The story was spotted by former County Press reporter Hattie Pilkington-Rowland, who now lives in South Wales but has had her own encounter with homelessness.

 Hattie has written down her experiences and hopes her insight will give people another view on homelessness.

Alan Marriott, County Press editor, said: "Having worked with Hattie during her time with the County Press I was truly shocked to read of her problems.

"Hattie was well-loved by her colleagues and several of us are still in touch with her.

"Her words here show that demonising the homeless is not something that puts society in a good light."

Hattie's story...

Isle of Wight County Press:

"Two scuffed holdalls dumped on the chipped, greasy laminate; perching on the edge of a sagging old Homebase bed with a savagely squeaking rubber cover.

In the corner, a yellowing fridge complains. I imagine I am a student again.

I am in shock and it is the only thing I can think of to allay the reality and terror of landing in this grubby, sad Monmouth homeless hostel that straddles the bridge opposite a sprawling, luxury branch of Waitrose.

My mind returns to travels in Europe as a teenager; the grotty hostels of Copenhagen, Berlin and Vienna ... how none of it mattered, only the adventure and particular sense of wonder that is the playmate of growing up and exploring the world; life unfolding.

I have stayed in places far less salubrious than this.

That's what I have to do; I am backpacking around Wales. I will spend each day planning an outing to the mountains, the River Wye, the woods...historic properties that I realise I no longer have anything in common with.

I will do that and in doing it, I will survive, while I wait, penniless and hungry, for Universal Credits to cough up.

At least the local council has taken pity on me temporarily. I have a roof of sorts over my head. I remember that I am, in fact, blessed.

Yes, UC did lend me £300, but it will have to be paid back. I realise I am suckling on the hind teat right from the start. We all know that £300 goes virtually nowhere nowadays.

My life was always was blessed ... and privileged; one of the entitled elite who seem so fashionable and talked about nowadays, mostly for the worst.

I am somebody to whom this kind of thing simply doesn't happen.

Isle of Wight County Press:

I make no bones about it; what for? I am human, but also somebody to whom this kind of thing simply doesn't happen.

Privately educated at Upper Chine School in Shanklin, multi-lingual, cosmopolitan, cultured and expected, by the age of 55, to have a comfortable home, plus a spare in another country and possibly a French bulldog or the like.

After leaving the Isle of Wight, I spent 15 years in a remote Spanish village with money to burn, but a failing relationship and no means of income.

Add to that accidents, operations and other health problems, political and market downturns and there you have your recipe for disaster.

We left it too long, trod water. In the end, we ran away, lost the lot. I still grieve for strange things sometimes, not that I am materialistic by nature. I wake up at night mourning my desk, a painting, a poetry book, the animals.

We landed in Wales but couldn't make it work. I struck out alone with my two shabby holdalls on an especially wild March night.

The first morning in the hostel, I go down to the communal kitchen.

There is an overwhelming smell of old grease, fag smoke and misery. Also the stench of urine.

That's when I spot the flower lady, witchy, old, long yellow white hair splayed around a pair of watchful, surprised black eyes.

In her I identify the source of the urine.

She drinks Carlsberg Special from a china mug at seven in the morning. She is too old to be in such a place. My heart opens.

Her worldly possessions are scattered, stained and mouldy, around the kitchen. She says she is sorting her life out. She is recently evicted from her crumbling home, for refusing to let workmen enter. She was frightened. Nobody cared. She lost her cats too.

She still goes to market, but now she sells what few ancient possessions she has to try to survive.

She will probably be sanctioned for that. In the days that follow, we form a tentative bond. After all, we are clearly quite mad in our stupefaction.

Later, a young couple arrive. The girl is heavily pregnant. The boy wears the requisite beanie hat and Nikes with trackies.

All the parents have thrown them out for idleness and a devil-may-care attitude.

Young ... so young and clueless in their purgatory

But they love each other. Young ... so young and clueless in their purgatory.

I bet they never Interailed around Europe. In the days following, I give small life tips for the terminally naive.

But we are all four of us in the last-chance-slaoon, a merry troupe of n'er do wells; clearly.

They ask me to be godmother to their child. I accept. I know it will never happen, but for the moment, we pull together and fight the stench of flower lady's urine and age with cheap chemicals from Poundland. Sometimes we laugh.

All I can find to do is love more. I am learning something here."

Read part two of Hattie's story at countypress.co.uk tomorrow (Wednesday).

All pictures courtesy of Susan Lyons.