The capital of Slovenia is a wonderful place for a weekend break – elegant architecture, grand buildings running along a small twisting river, lots of nice bars, cafes and restaurants, a castle on a hill, quiet squares, interesting museums. It’s a very romantic spot. And you can also take a day trip to see one of the most beautiful lakes in Europe, if not the world: Lake Bled, about 45-minutes by bus to the north. There are some very good hotels in Ljubljana, but I go for something different: a hotel/hostel called Celica, in a building that was formerly a prison.

My Celica cell is tiny. I’m sharing it with two “cell-mates”. Their backpacks are on the floor, leaving me just enough room to stand and survey things. No sign of the backpack owners – well, you wouldn’t want to hang around in here. Original prison bars have been left on the door and on the windows. There’s enough room for two single mattresses on the floor in front of me. Above, a bunk provides the third berth. I’m left with one of the lower beds. A starchy sheet, a pillow cover, a duvet cover and a towel are piled on this – like I’ve just arrived for a long stretch.

I make my bed, wondering whether I should just go and find somewhere a little bit better than this. A prison-like sign on the wall says: “Respect other guests and treat them like you would like them to treat you.” I shut the inner cage door to leave. It rattles, echoing down the hall. The title sequence to Porridge flashes before me: “Norman Stanley Fletcher [Thomas Doyle Chesshyre]. You have pleaded guilty to the charges brought by this court [that you’re a complete cheapskate] and it is now my duty to pass sentence [and show you this room]. You are a habitual criminal [long-standing tight wad] who accepts arrest [poor digs] as an occupational hazard [all part of my travels] and presumably accepts imprisonment in the same casual manner [in an old Slovenian cell]. We therefore feel constrained to commit you to the maximum term allowed for these offences. You will go to prison for five years [two nights in my case].” Ker-chunk.

Downstairs people are smoking hookah pipes in a Moroccan-themed room with low level tables. They all look very young. Some of them have pink hair. I log on at one the free internet terminals. “MONTENEGRINS LOOK SET TO CHOOSE INDEPENDENCE FROM SERBIA TO ADVANCE THEIR EU MEMBERSHIPS HOPES” runs the headline on the BBC – a big story for round these parts. I eat a bowl of beef goulash, with hunks of bread and two pints of lager, down at a café by the river. This seems suitably prison-like food, if you take away the beer. It comes to just £8.86. I wander around for a while. It’s a balmy evening. Lots of people are out and about. There’s a buzz on the streets.

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And there’s excitement back at Celica too, where people are glued to the Eurovision Song Contest in the bar. It’s amusing to watch the Finns run away with it – a heavy metal group called Lordi, with all its members dressed in mutant monster outfits. Great Britain is miles off the lead. Slovenia isn’t even in it. I have a pint and try to discuss the score with the lesbians, who I noticed earlier and who have also ordered pints. The woman with short red hair says: “Oh, we do love the Eurovision Song Contest.” And that’s as far as the conversation goes. The lesbians don’t really want to talk to me.

At 11.30pm I stumble to my cell. More or less simultaneously the other occupants arrive. There’s a British man called Clive, who’s just been to watch La Boheme at the opera house, and a guy from America who enters and loudly announces: “Hi! I’m Randy!” Clive and I exchange glances: he’s from America and he’s Randy. We mutter a few words, like old prison lags; I’m sleeping next to Clive, not “Hi! I’m Randy!” We crash out to the sound of “dark industrial” music pounding through our bars – coming from a noisy bar round the corner, praying for sweet dreams.

How Low Can You Go? Round Europe for 1p Each Way (Plus Tax) by Tom Chesshyre (£10.99, Hodder & Stoughton, or buy it from BooksFirst for £9.89 including delivery).

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