A stint at the hostel reception desk offers a tale of the unexpected, writes Arminta Wallace in the third part of our series in which Irish Times writers take on a tourism job for a day

As I approach the reception desk of the Killarney International Youth Hostel, an elfin French girl beats me to it. She is clutching a map and smiling expectantly. "Please can you explain," she asks, "what are . . . ah . . . ogg-stones?" The young man behind the desk launches into a lively summary of Ogham script and its significance in Irish cultural history. And what, she persists, about lunch? The young man indicates a spot on the map. There's a campsite just about here - see? - with a shop which sells bread, drinks and chocolate. "You won't starve, anyway," he says.

I've come to the hostel to try my hand as a receptionist, and this effortless demonstration of how it should be done - combining equal quantities of charm, lateral thinking and local knowledge - is more than a little daunting. Before I have time to brood on the fact that the sum total of my local knowledge is that I got here via the N21 and the Ring of Kerry Road, however, manager John Claffey is shaking my hand and offering a cup of coffee and a tour of the premises.

Aghadoe House is a gracious 18th-century building, all colonnades and balustrades and impossibly tall windows which translate into a light-filled series of downstairs rooms; TV room, Internet room, library/reading room. Upstairs the bedrooms are simple to the point of austerity, containing bunk beds and not much else. But they're clean and bright, there are plenty of them - this hostel can sleep 184 souls in total - and you won't pay more than €22.50 per person per night, even in high season, while for anyone under 18, a dorm bed costs just €13.

Following a major refurbishment in 2000, however, most of the rooms are now of the four-bed variety, which is what people seem to want. "In recent years," Claffey explains, "hostels have seen a lot of competition from other types of budget accommodation. The tourism business in Ireland has become more fluid. Groups still love the dorms, though," he adds, as we make our way across a leafy path to a purpose-built, self-contained annexe known as "The Lodge", popular with groups who want to have a bit of a knees-up without disturbing anyone else.

Claffey's own introduction to the world of An Óige came when his partner's father "volunteered" him for a stint in a hostel on the west coast. "I knew nothing about the job at all," he says, with a rueful grin. "He said 'Just go and open the house and turn on the lights and see how it goes. Somebody will turn up to replace you in a week.' "

That was 18 years ago. Now, however, it's 3.30pm, and with the arrival of Dan O'Sullivan, who I'm to "shadow" for the next six hours or so, my shift on reception has officially begun.

It feels strange, sitting behind a reception desk. What looks from the front like a solid edifice is - from the back - more like a cross between a junk shop and the cockpit of an aircraft. Arranged in this small space are a till, a computer, a separate computer whose sole purpose is to programme the electronic room keys, a trunk full of snowy bed-linen, a cupboard crammed with everything from rubber bands to bicycle pumps, and a stack of small plastic bags containing neatly-measured quantities of white powder.

"Washing powder," says Dan. For €5, guests can have a bag of the white stuff plus use of the washing machine and dryer downstairs. Towels can be rented, too - and there's a jar with a selection of adaptors and phone chargers. Even so, when a guest comes looking for a stapler, we can't find one.

The check-in routine is straightforward: the guest signs the register, hands over any outstanding balance and is given two sheets, a pillow-case and a room key. Booking is a different matter. A large file sits squatly on top of the desk, its pages a kind of periodic table of arcane hostelling information, complete with codes which would banjax Leonardo Da Vinci and mysterious patches highlighted in green. When a booking inquiry comes in, whether by phone or e-mail, the answer is in here somewhere. I reckon I'd learn more from killing a small animal and consulting its entrails.

But then, as I swiftly discover, augury is no big deal behind a reception desk. The questions are so many and so varied that after a couple of weeks at this game, you'd be able to get a job as the oracle of Delphi.

Where, the man from Oregon wants to know, are the food stickers? He holds up a plastic supermarket bag containing, presumably, his dinner. The stickers - presumably - say something like "Hands off my sausages/pasta/pre-cooked tofu". In the red container by the microwave, says Dan.

A man with a soft north of England accent approaches, brandishing a leaflet for a dance show at a local hotel. The leaflet is attractive but uninformative. What time does the show start? And how much does it cost? We phone the hotel and find out.

"Hmm," the man says. "€30. That's about £21 sterling, isn't it? I'll just go and see what my lady wife thinks."

On the other side of the hall, a girl is studying the blackboard. Then she looks over at me. "What movie is showing tonight - do you know?"

I don't, of course. I didn't even know there was a movie. Dan grins. "I'll get the videos and you can choose one for yourself," he tells her. While he's away from the desk, the phone rings. I pick it up.

"Killarney International Youth Hostel," I say, in my best receptionist's voice. "Hello - this is Cork calling," says the voice at the other end. For a panicky second I'm gripped by the conviction that I've fallen asleep and into some Eurovision-esque nightmare. Then the voice wonders whether I'd have three male dorms free for the night of the 22nd.

Oh, God. The square file. "Em," I say, "would you mind holding on for a minute?" Then I hold the phone at arm's length, close my eyes and wait for Dan to come back.

The evening passes in a flash. I learn that 20-year-old Dan, who lives just five minutes away and is studying accountancy in Tralee, has been working at the hostel for five years. Of all the nationalities who stay here, who are the most demanding?

"Australians," he says without hesitation. This is a surprise. Or maybe not. They're not backward in the complaint stakes, I gather. Americans are more easy-going, he says.

At various intervals, other members of staff pop in to say hello. Arek is Polish and competent and all smiles. Dave is English and knows all the best mountain walks, plus - a rare skill, this - he can give proper directions. Paul, aka Bugsy, fixes anything that's broken and does a regular gig in Killarney with a band called Bombadil, singing songs about ecological disaster and takeaway pizza. Brian has a degree in environmental science from UCC, which may explain why he's so knowledgeable about "ogg-stones".

The structure of the house, Claffey told me earlier, encourages a laid-back atmosphere at the hostel: but I suspect the structure of this bunch of creative, enthusiastic people also plays a major role. And it's still a major part of the hostelling credo that if funds are short or you want to stay for longer than your budget permits, you can arrange to work for your keep.

A night at reception is a tale of the unexpected. Somebody who rented one of the hostel's bikes is stranded on the other side of Killarney with a puncture. We dispatch a car to bring her back.

An anxious mammy phones from Belgium. Could she speak to her daughter, please? No problem - provided we can find her.

Somebody's door key isn't working; somebody always wants change for the internet. Regular as clockwork, the phone rings. Everybody wants a bed for tomorrow night - and this, says Dan with one of his cheeky grins, is quiet. Wait till I see the morning shift.

It begins at 7.30am, and within an hour or so the action is in full swing. There's a brisk trade in breakfast tickets at €4.50 a pop. Checking people out is easy - just take their room keys and get them to shove their sheets into the big linen bags by the hall table.

Due to the arrival of two big groups this evening, however - one French, one Czech - a couple of people have to move from one room to another. They want to go out now, and the new rooms are still occupied. Just leave your bags in the old rooms, Brian says, and he'll move them later. The trick is to remember which bags are to go to which rooms - let alone that he has promised to bag that nice Danish woman a lower bunk beside a window.

Then there are the tours to be organised. Several people want to go to the Ring of Kerry and/or the Gap of Dunloe, which means checking with the tour companies in Killarney to make sure there's space on the appropriate buses.

There is. They pay, and we issue them with receipts. So all they have to do is show up here just before 10.30am - or sit in the kitchen and have a cup of coffee, suggests Brian, and he'll come and find them.

The trick, I muse, is not to leave them sitting in the kitchen for the day. Brian laughs. The first day he worked at reception on his own, he says, he felt as if somebody had just cut his umbilical cord.

Mention of the kitchen reminds me that I'm supposed to be checking the self-catering kitchen, keeping a supply of clean J-cloths and dry dishcloths and making sure nobody has abandoned unwashed cereal bowls, or left manky stuff in the sink. To my astonishment, they haven't.

On my way through the dining-room, I catch sight of a little girl of about nine gazing dubiously at a basket of brown bread. "Is this toast, Mom?"

A striking-looking woman of indeterminate age in a brick-red vest top is sitting on a wooden bench eating a yogurt. The two lanky Germans who checked in last night in great spirits, having just walked the entire length of the Kerry Way, rub their eyes and look sleepily around for coffee. The side door is open; sunlight is streaming in through the ivy-covered walls. An Irish youth hostel, circa 2006. I smile to myself and hurry back to work.

The hostel receptionist: highs and lows

High

The hostel vibe is very different from that of, say, a four-star hotel. The fact that guests are expected to make up their own beds and have the option of self-catering contributes to a positive, "we're all in this together" atmosphere - which, in turn, is good for both guests and staff.

Low

Working at reception is a bit like being at war: lots of sitting around doing nothing, then everything happens at once, with people - and problems - coming at you from all angles. The shifts are long and the responsibility level high. Staying cool, calm and unfailingly polite - no matter what - is a real challenge.

•Series continues. Tomorrow: Róisín Ingle makes waves on the Viking Splash tour. Friday: Rosita Boland takes on the tasks of a bean an tí at Bunratty