Week two begins.  After some very achy legs last week, a couple of days off have given them chance to recover and I’ve posted the first two installments of the blog.  So far, no-one has flamed me.  This may well change if anyone ever reads it.

I am now a seasoned traveler, so elegantly clad as before in T-shirt and shorts I stride off towards the train station.  As I head towards the station I feel somewhat smug as I look at the schoolchildren and commuters as I am still on holiday while they are back to their humdrum lives.  This enables me to ignore the fact that the weather has returned to its previous cloudy and breezy self and by the time I have arrived at Slough train station I am feeling decidedly chilled.  At which point the seasoned traveler realises he has left behind both his trusty baseball cap and his cheap Primark top.

With a sigh the seasoned traveler heads for the platform.  Slough station is becoming like an old friend.  To be more accurate, Slough station is like that slightly strange uncle who gets invited to family events and sits in a corner muttering to himself and worrying the aspidistra.  My journey today is simple – a through train to Evesham.  What could possibly go wrong?

Much to the disappointment of anyone reading this, nothing.  Except for the weather.  Rather than brightening up, by the time I reach Evesham the wind has picked up and it’s decidedly chilly.  It’s not raining yet, but the clouds banking up above me make it extremely likely.  Deciding to ignore them, I shoulder my backpack and head into the centre of town.

My initial impressions are quite positive.  The houses are made of a red brick that is quite attractive.  I’ve been to Evesham briefly when on a canal boat holiday and I know that the main part of the town is sited within a long bend of the river.  Ignoring the flecks of rain that are starting to fall, I head on.  As I do, it becomes clear that Evesham’s architecture is quite eclectic.  Tudor (or mock Tudor) buildings sit beside modern constructions and the more traditional red brick buildings.  In some towns this is done in such a way that seem to work.  Unfortunately, in Evesham it looks like a bit of a shambles.  The town has a huge amount of history — so much that it doesn’t seem to know what it is.

This isn’t helped by the weather which is making me decidedly uncomfortable.  I need to get some kind of jacket and the strange stares I am getting from the Evesham locals are making me even more uncomfortable.  Clearly they have never seen knees before.  Judging by the way they are all walking around in sensible clothing, with thick jackets and sensible hats they clearly only reveal their knees (and possibly their elbows) in the privacy of their own homes and probably after warning their spouses lest they be shocked.  It doesn’t help that the majority of the population appears to be geriatric.

I decide that I need to get myself a jacket – and it does occur to me that maybe I too need to go for something more sensible.  Maybe 53 is the age at which T-shirt and shorts is no longer sensible.  I head for the Riverside Shopping Centre (which I should point out is about 100 yards from the river.  This daring interpretation of the word ‘side’ turns out to be the most interesting thing about it.)  As I try to get into the building I have to leap to one side to avoid the mobility scooter that races out through the door.  This is followed by two more and as I watch open-mouthed as they drive off, scarves and hair-nets flapping in the breeze I wonder if this is some kind of Evesham Rally or whether this is a geriatric team of shoplifters making good their escape.

Nervously peering through the door of the Riverside and seeing that the way is clear (for the moment), I head inside.  And find myself transported back several decades.  I am a good twenty years younger than everyone else in the shopping (including the somewhat shaky woman cleaning the toilets) and the whole place has an air of desuetude.  The feeling of being transported back in time is helped by the music.  Constant Craving by KD Lang is a mere 25 years old but is recent compared to what follows it:  Money, Money, Money by ABBA.  I then wonder if they might be part of a subtle program of suggestion designed to get the customers to buy more.  I dismiss this and head off to find an age-appropriate jacket.  Ten minutes later I leave Sports Direct with a sleeveless hoodie – clearly suitable for the 53 year old man.

Putting the hoodie on and immediately feeling better, I head out the back of the Riverside and find myself at the edge of a small park which at one end has the ruins of Evesham Abbey.

The tower is pretty much the only part of the Abbey that has survived and the other side of it are the 2 Evesham parish churches which have been built right beside each other.  I wonder if there was any rivalry between the two congregations – if there was, they had no way to avoid each other.  By now, the wind has risen and the rain is starting to come down in light showers so I head into the alleys behind the church.

I walk around randomly and find myself at a little museum in the old Almonry that was attached to the Abbey.

The museum is quite small, and for someone of my height has many excitingly low beams and ceilings which, added to the irregular flooring, make exploring a hazardous enterprise.  That, unfortunately, is the most interesting thing about the Almonry.  They have collected a lot of items from the old Abbey, but rather than sticking to one period they have included everything they could find.  As a result a corridor containing artifacts from the old Evesham jail shares room with a display of historical veterinary tools.  Upstairs a recreation of an old schoolroom (I wouldn’t care to hazard the period) is off a room with a diorama of the battle of Evesham (1265).  The next room contains materials brought back from people who fought in the second world war.

There is nothing essentially wrong with the Almonry.  It just doesn’t come together as a cohesive whole.  But they do sell bookmarks, so at least one objective is achieved.  As I leave the Almonry, the rain that has been teasing me with showers has decided to throw all subtlety aside and is pissing down.  I am tempted to go and get something warm to eat and drink (the cafe called The Valkyrie tempts me as I want to know how it got the name).  However, I’ve come a long way for a rather disappointing cup of coffee so I decide to laugh in the face of the weather and continue to explore.  One thing mentioned in the Almonry several times is the Hampton Ferry.  I haven’t caught even a glimpse of the river yet, so I head down the road towards it ignoring the rain.

The Hampton Ferry is operated by a complicated engineering system knows as “a man pulling on a rope”.  As I approach a woman is huddling in the Ferry and I see the Ferryman about to wait for me as clearly no-one would come down this long lane without wanting to cross.  With a wave, I confirm with Charon that I do not want his services and then enjoy watching them struggling across in the rain.

I spot a sign for a walk along the river and as the pathway goes under a convenient avenue of trees, I decide to take this longer walk back.  I then find out that the people of Evesham are proud of the strangest things.

If nothing else, the Award Winning Toilets are going to be something to see.  The walk along the river is really pleasant.  I only pass a handful of people (including one girl who is clearly playing hookie from school).  The rain stops and the air has that marvellous smell of wet grass.  That combined with the sounds of the river and the sights of swans floating serenely around makes the walk very pleasant.  Evesham has actually got quite a lot going for it – some interesting architecture, decent history and a nice riverside.  All they have to do is make sure they don’t screw it up by making sure that anyone building here makes sure that they fit in to the overall look.

Oh dear.

As I head around the riverside walk (which is far better defined than the shopping centre is) it becomes clear that someone in Evesham has a sense of humour:

I never actually check out the Award Winning Toilets but I do pass this place:

Somewhere I have clearly missed the less inclusive play areas and I have to wonder on what grounds children are barred from playing.

I also note that the local constabulary are, like many areas, fighting a battle against rural crime.  As usual, they are running an operation and the one around Evesham is focusing on fishing.  Also as usual, the police have named the operation with suitability and care.

Just how big are these fish?

I head back into Evesham and have a very nice lunch and a pint of Razorback at the Royal Oak.  I had planned to do some more walking around the area, but the weather is just not good enough so I head back to the station.  As I walk up to the closed ticket office, I reflect that you know you’re in the sticks when the station closes for lunch.  Despite that, I’m soon on the train and heading back to Slough with East of Eden by John Steinbeck.

After an emotional C, time to return to being resolutely and stalwartly British – and where better to do that than Dover.

The journey to Dover is going to require three trains and a tube journey, so having convinced the ticket machine to vomit forth about 8 bits of paper, I stride confidently forward to the barrier.  And immediately try to get on using my seat reservation ticket.  Clearly having learned nothing from 3 days of travelling by train, I endure the pitying looks of the station staff as they point out which ticket I should use and I get on to the platform.  (As an aside, why do they issue a seat reservation ticket, when no seat has actually been reserved?)

I mull this over as I wait for the train.  Today is more leisurely than the last couple of days – at the start at least – so I’ve had the chance to relax a bit at home.  I still end up at the station far too early for my assigned train, so have my first cappuccino of the day.  While waiting I start my next book: Pierre et Jean by de Maupassant.  Which I am not reading in the original French.

The train arrives and the usual scrum forms to get on board.  I settle myself in, looking forward to a swift journey to Paddington as this is the express service.  It turns out that “express” means “train that travels at a snail’s pace through the first 5 stations”.  At one point I’m convinced that I could have got out and walked faster.  My irritation is soothed by the fact that the man diagonally opposite me is seething at the delay and his explosive huffs and constant checking of his watch keeps me highly entertained.

At Paddington, it’s a transfer to the Tube to St Pancras.  And this is when I discover that the Circle line is no longer circular.  Yesterday, I transferred to the Circle line without difficulties – we went a different way to the one that I used to take and the Tube platform was not the one I was used to using.  Today, I was at the front of the train, so headed straight to the Tube platform I have been using on and off for 35 years.  I jumped on the first clockwise train (easier than trying to describe it using eastbound/westbound) and got as far as Edgware Road where the train stopped.  The Circle Line is in fact now the Spiral Line.  It seems to start at Hammersmith, sweeps majestically past Paddington and then goes all the way around Central London until it passes Paddington again and terminates at Edgware Road – a station that no-one ever seems to want to use anyway.

Having huffed to myself about Trades Descriptions, I get back on the Spiral Line and head for St Pancras.  Sorry, St Pancras INTERNATIONAL.  When you enter St Pancras INTERNATIONAL you might be mistaken for thinking you have accidentally walked into the kind of soulless concourse that you find in any airport around the world.  Because you have.  The vast, dramatic arched roof of St Pancras still exists, but if you don’t raise your eyes you miss it and instead see nothing but steel and glass.  Having long been a fan of Kevin McCloud I can tell you he would not be impressed as nothing has been done to integrate the new and old architecture.  The new reminds me of Prince Charles’ quote about the extension to the National Gallery:

“ like a monstrous carbuncle on the face of a much-loved and elegant friend.”

The train schedules are clearly displayed — if you are travelling internationally.  If, like me, you are staying in this country it’s a deal more difficult to find out where your platform is.

So, I start to fight my way through the people waiting for their INTERNATIONAL arrival and glare at them as they hold up signs with peoples names on them.  I head past the boutiques and coffee shops and still have no idea which platform my train is on.  And after a lengthy walk there it is.  The equivalent of being on display in the bottom of a locked filing cabinet stuck in a disused lavatory with a sign on the door saying ‘Beware of the Leopard.’  (as Douglas Adams might have put it).  As I finally get to the platform, I see there is another entrance with what looks like a shortcut to the Tube station – this was, naturally, not signposted from the Tube as why would anyone possibly wish to go anywhere other than an INTERNATIONAL platform?

Despite all of the barriers to my finding the platform, I get to the train in plenty of time and get myself a decent seat.  I have noticed that every train station now has large friendly signs telling people using the trains that the doors will be locked 40 seconds before the train leaves.  Clearly everyone will pay attention to this and not do anything stupid – or would they?  Today clearly not.  Just before the train is about to pull away, there is some banging on a door further down the carriage.  A woman inside the carriage starts yelling “DENNIS!” at the top of her voice and is soon joined by a child screaming and crying.  It was clearly loud as people were completely abandoning their attempts to pretend not to be listening, but were standing up to see what was going on (I’m sure it’ll be on Youtube somewhere by now).  As the time for the train to leave got closer, she got louder and shriller until one of the railway staff took pity on them and opened the doors again.  As Dennis (presumably that was his name) got on, the child attached himself to his leg like an over-affectionate Jack Russell and we all returned to our seats, secretly sad that the railway staff had caved from their strict position regarding door closure.

I have to change at Ashford INTERNATIONAL and so the train proceeds through Stratford INTERNATIONAL and Ebbsfleet INTERNATIONAL.  Without wanting to cast aspersions on anyone who lives in these delightful areas, they really seem to have nothing going for them whatsoever apart from the word INTERNATIONAL added to their station name.  The stations themselves have little to be proud off – steel, glass, no character.  Now let’s be clear, I’m not railing against modern architecture.  Some of it quite attractive.  This is not.  It’s bland, boring, soulless and reminds me of a McDonalds Happy Meal  (mass-marketed and not at all happy).

The change of trains at Ashford INTERNATIONAL gives me the chance to observe a group of chavettes in their natural habitat.  Tottering around on ridiculously high heels, and shrieking with apparent glee at nothing whatsoever they made the choice of carriage an easy one — any carriage that they weren’t in was clearly the good choice.  Having made my tactical choice, the train thundered on.

I always like the sea, so the approach to Dover by train is a treat.  Starting off high up above the sea, the track descends close to sea level before heading into Dover itself.  On a windy day it must be truly spectacular.  Today the sea is millpond flat with a haze in the distance through which France can be dimly glimpsed.  Pierre et Jean gets abandoned so I can stare out the window.

So I’m all keyed up when I get to Dover.  Which almost immediately is a bit of a disappointment.  I’ve forgotten that it’s a working port and a town.  But at least I can see the castle across the town, so I head across and soon find myself at the bottom of the hill.  It’s at this point that I should mention that it was a very hot today – clearly the right sort of day to climb a hill up to a castle.  This of course is nothing and so I trudge on up, quite glad that the road switchbacks on the way and a convenient gatehouse gives me a good excuse to stop and take a picture.

I then headed on up to the castle and towards the ticket kiosk.  As I hiked towards it, the two women inside give me the sort of look that Livingstone gave Stanley.  I was clearly not looking my best as when I asked for an adult ticket she very carefully asked me if I was eligible for any concessions.  Resisting the temptation to say “I am only 53 years old, madam!” I carried on — to find that the climb was not yet over.

Dover Castle itself is absolutely excellent.  I had not realised how long there had been fortifications here and it’s a rare place that has seen use from Roman times right through to the Second World War.

It’s varied and interesting with a ton of exhibits to walk around and some excellent views across the channel and up to the White Cliffs.

Now, I have to freely admit that this week has definitely started to take its’ toll on my legs.  My calves were aching at the start of the day and by the time I got up to the castle, they were killing me.  I had originally planned to hike across to the White Cliffs but threw that out very quickly.  Once I got up there I thought I would have an easier time of it, but the castle is on a variety of levels, so I maintained a constant level of discomfort.  Which I then topped off by going to the top of the Great Keep.  The Great Keep has 115 steps and by the time I got to the top my legs were complaining and clearly considering filing for a divorce from the rest of my body.  The top of the Keep was crowded, but just after I got there it started to spit with rain and most people disappeared.  Personally I welcomed it.  The views from the top of the Keep are quite amazing.

It’s at this point that I became aware of a bit of a problem.  Ladies, children and gentlemen of a delicate disposition may wish to skip the next couple of paragraphs and head down to where I start talking about scones.  I have always been pretty hot.  By which I do not mean that I am a magnet for either sex, no I mean that I am usually fairly warm.  My hands are hot (which makes making pastry a nightmare) and I’m the sort of person that happily wanders around in shorts in winter.  It also means that when I exercise I sweat a lot.  The Victorians claimed that:

“Horses sweat, men perspire and ladies glow”

In which case, I am about 80% horse.  (And before some bright spark decides to make the obvious comment, don’t go there.)  As time has passed, something in the atmosphere has made me sweat more.  It’s clearly that rather than the fact that I am old, fat and unfit.  Whatever this mysterious thing is, by the time I got to the top of the Great Keep I was sweating like a Shire Horse that has just completed the St Leger Stakes.  My t-shirt was sodden, my baseball cap was wet and my backpack was horribly wet as well.  Then, of course, I made the mistake of taking the pack off to get to my water bottle and then had to put it back on.  It’s difficult to describe the feeling of putting a wet pack on over a wet t-shirt without shuddering.  Naturally I didn’t have anything useful like a towel with me.  Luckily I had packed a spare t-shirt and I mentally added a towel to my list of things to pack for next week.

Suitably disgusted with myself (and relieved I was wearing a black T-shirt) I headed back down through the keep.  Inside several rooms have been set up as they would looked in the time of Henry II and it’s really worth a good look around – unless you’re wringing wet, that is.  I wandered down and then out and into the cafe.  I decided to go for their cream tea so after a couple of minutes headed over to a table with a cup of coffee and a scone, jam and cream which were elegantly and traditionally served in a moulded plastic tray.  No plates were provided, so I ended up putting the scone in the lid of the tray while I negotiated my way into the jam.  Managing to get a decent amount of jam on the elegant plastic knife, I jogged the moulded plastic tray and nearly knocked everything over the floor.  I managed to stop it, but let go of the pot of jam which, of course, disappeared under the table.  Now, being a bit embarrassed about my sweatiness I’d managed to sit away from anyone else and the last thing I wanted to do was draw any attention to myself.  So I furtively peered under the table for my pot of jam.  Couldn’t see it anywhere.  I thought at this point of giving up and doing with what I had in front of me, but as I looked at the sad amount of jam on my scone, I decided to keep looking.  Not under the table, not under my chair, not under the other chairs…..how the hell did it get over there?  I finally spotted over the other side of the room the jam jar on its’ side right beside a table full of american tourists.  Trying to look as casual as possible, I ambled across the room and (trying not to whistle nonchalantly) I collected the jam and headed back to my table.  The fact that their entire table went silent as I approached and then conversation started as soon as I got back to my table leads me to believe that I may not have been as subtle as I would have liked.  Ignoring them all, I tucked into the cream tea.  Which wasn’t bad.  Completely inappropriate of course – real cream teas, as we all know, come from Devon or Cornwall.  But it filled a void.

After some more wandering around, I headed back down the hill across Dover and back up towards the train station.  At the station I changed into a dry T-shirt with a great deal of relief and started the long journey home.  On the way back Pierre et Jean got finished.  Interesting book about familial rivalry and the effects of the revelation of old secrets.  If it was a long book, it would have been turgid and angst-ridden but as it was it moved along very nicely.  I then turn to something lighter – East of Eden by John Steinbeck.

As I head home, my first week is complete and I’m looking forward to next week.  This has been quite a success, with some surprises and been far more enjoyable than I anticipated.  The tickets are all booked for next week, and I’m looking forward to F – H.

 

 

 

I forgot to mention that I posted photos from Avebury and Bath on Facebook with the titles that I’ve been using on this blog.  As a result I had a storm of guesses as to the location of C.  Well, three guesses actually – so quite a small storm.  Anyway, no-one got it right.  I also sat and booked my train tickets for E -H, so my activities are now locked in for the next week.

I’m really looking forward to going back to Cambridge.  I went to university there (1981 – 1984) and had a fantastic time.  I haven’t been back there for about 30 years, so a visit is long overdue.  The day dawns with suitable fantastic weather – though even a gloriously sunny day does little to raise Slough above its usual standard of “grim”.

I hit the train with no issues and as we head towards London I finish off A Disaffection.  I put the completed book back in my bag with no reluctance at all and a sense of relief that I’ve ploughed my way through it.  My next book is White Peak by Martin Smith.  A book of 35 circular walks (some of which are not circular).  While I don’t anticipate great plot or character development, it will probably be more engaging than A Disaffection.

Changing from train to underground at Paddington and the whole atmosphere changes as well.  Walking between the platforms is fast and loud with a hubbub of activity and noise.   Old instincts come to the for and I enter “commuter mode” – elbows out, head down, pace slightly faster than normal.  If you see a space, stride to get into it.  If someone pauses, leave them behind as they are too weak to commute!  Normal rules of courtesy get thrown out the window as if you politely wait for people, you’ll never get on the tube.

Once you get on the train, silence reigns – except for the woman jabbering excitedly into her phone.  I yearn for the days when mobiles wouldn’t work on the tube and look around to see that she is being glared at by at least three other people.  As the required glaring has been done by someone, I return to my book.  My tube journey is short and I head back to the surface at Kings Cross.

As I’d been to and from college several times, I expected Kings Cross to be more familiar – but it isn’t.  Only then did I recall that most of my journeys were done by coach to save money and I only took the train when I was lugging my cello with me.  I manage to locate my platform and head in the right direction only to come to a halt as I view a massive queue in front of me – clearly I am going to have to wait to get on.  I then realise this is the queue for platform 9 3/4 and I walk past and straight onto my train.

Which then sits there for 15 minutes.

The passengers are as subdued as ever, with the exception of the person loudly arranging a business meeting on his phone.  He’s doing it so loudly that at one point I think he’s yelling to a friend on another train, but when I check I can see him sat there with his phone pressed to his ear.  Clearly he has the only phone in existence that does not amplify his voice as he is having to virtually shout down it to be heard.  By now there are several of us trying to ignore him.  Clearly we are not on the underground as no-one is glaring at him.  Mercifully he terminates the call, though not before using the word “addendum” more times than is allowed in most conversations.

When I get to Cambridge, again I don’t see anything that is familiar.  The station (which I didn’t visit much anyway) has clearly been rebuilt and without pause I head out and start to walk into the centre of Cambridge.

To my surprise, the closer I get to my college, the more emotional I start to feel.  I had expected excitement, nervousness and almost disappointment.  Instead, I begin to feel overwhelmed by sadness.  I turn into Trumpington Street and finally start to see landmarks that are familiar to me – the Fitzwillliam Museum, Peterhouse, Pembroke.  The more familiar the street becomes the more emotional I feel.  It’s weird.  It’s like a pressure behind my eyes and in my stomach.  I find myself walking slower, and also rubbing at my eyes trying to convince myself that the water in them is due to me getting suntan lotion in them.

I head past Eve & Ravenscroft and finally the frontage of Corpus Christi is in front of me.

I find myself stood there for a while, not sure whether or not I’m going to go in.  I’m not good at this emotional thing and this is very foreign territory for me.  I’m very close to turning around and heading home, but I realise how ridiculous that would be, so I set my jaw and head up the steps into the entrance.

And it’s closed.

On my way it had occurred to me that Cambridge is in the middle of exam season and the colleges usually stop tourist access so that the students can revise in peace.  And so it transpired.  So I stood with the other tourists (including the woman bravely ignoring the “No Dogs” sign) and peered into New Court.  Just looking around brought memories flooding back of my time here.  I could have stood there all day – but sense prevailed. Before leaving, I thought I’d check with the porter just in case the college would be open later in the day.  He patiently confirmed my worst fears, cheerfully explaining that the college wouldn’t be open to the public until July.

At this point, I was pretty close to crying – so to avoid the total embarrassment of doing such an un-English thing in a public place made a jokey comment about “leaving it for 30 years and then coming back at just the wrong time”.  The porter politely asked (and he was excessively polite) if I’d been a student at Corpus and when I confirmed it, asked for my details.  He then checked an impressively thick binder and when he found my name, welcomed me back and handed me a card to give me access to the rest of the college.

Five minutes later, I was the other side of the barrier and wandering around.  Corpus is arranged around 2 courts – New Court (see above) and Old Court.

I was particularly happy to get into Old Court as the rooms in my First and Third year both looked onto it.  (First year – top floor, the windows above the gateway; third year, ground floor the two windows in the bottom left of the picture).  To my amazement Old Court looked completely unchanged.  As I walked past the door to my Third Year rooms, I swear it was exactly the same door as was there 30 years ago.  As I walked past I could see the resident inside, the desk exactly where mine had been illuminated by a small lamp as even on the sunniest days, the room was quite dark.  I was very tempted to tap on the door and introduce myself, but realised just how much of an imposition I would have considered someone who had done that to me, so I wandered on.

I spent a very happy hour here, exploring my old stamping grounds.  Some things had changed – a new bar and a new library – but some things looked identical to my memories.  Still feeling a bit emotional, I headed out and thanked the porter for giving me access.

As I headed back onto the street, I was brought back to modern life with a thump as I saw two police officers walking towards me.  A second look made it clear one was a PCSO, but the other was wearing a harness and cap that made me think he was an armed officer.  I then noted he wasn’t carrying a gun or any handcuffs.  As they walked past I looked on his back to see he was an “Environmental Crime Officer”.  What the heck is that?

The rest of my trip around Cambridge was full of mixed emotions.  I received a huge lift when I saw this shop still existed:

Heffers is almost a holy place for me.  When I went up to Cambridge for my interview in 1980, my English teacher told me that I had to go to Heffers as it was the best book shop in the country.  I did (I bought a book called The Finer Tone) and during my time at Cambridge I went there a lot.  I love book shops and Heffers is one of the best.  Was I disappointed when I went inside?  Hell, no.  While it may have bent its’ knee to the modern requirements for book shops to stock drivel by Dan Brown and E.L. James, it still stocks a bewildering array of literature and reference material.  It is a book-lovers paradise.  Going in while being a bit upset was clearly unwise – I left with my pack weighed down with nearly £100 worth of books.  Retail therapy works in many ways!

I felt the opposite when I realised that the cinema has gone to be replaced by an M&S Food Hall.  The place where I first saw Time Bandits and the Rocky Horror Picture Show has disappeared.  More than anything else, that makes me feel bloody old and bloody awful.  I hoist my backpack slightly higher and head back to the train station.  I spent a lot less time here than originally intended – maybe I’ll come back soon at a time when the colleges are open.  Though that might break down my determination and I will end up weeping on street corner.

The journey home is strangely befitting such an oddly emotional day.  For the first time, my train is delayed and when it finally arrives keeps giving out a series of bone-crunching crashed and lurches that make me feel we’ll never get back to London.  On the journey back I finish White Peak and rather than start another book, I just stare out the window.

 

 

 

 

Day 2 followed an overnight at the Arnos Manor Hotel in Bristol.  Great looking place (check out its’ web-site: https://www.arnosmanorhotel.co.uk/) but what it fails to mention is that it’s right on the extremely busy A4.  Also they have a chef who is seriously trying too hard.  I had the Venison Lasagne for dinner.  While it was tasty, I can’t honestly say it was any better than a lasagne made with beef.  They also decided to provide garlic bread – not unusual but the bread they provided was flat bread.  Now as we all know, flat bread is not known for it’s ability to absorb things.  As a result, the garlic butter lurked like a ninja inside the bread only to spring forth and run over the table, floor and my left leg as soon as I picked the bread up.

Having said all that, the room was huge (and cheap – £35 via Tripadvisor) and I slept extremely well.

Started off with a hike to the train station.  As I left the hotel a light rain was falling, but light enough that I ignored the bus stop taunting me with its’ allure of dryness and walked anyway.  Turns out that this was the kind of rain that seems light but persists – persists until you are thoroughly moist and cursing the warm and dry people in the bus that skimmed past 10 minutes later.

Bristol Temple Meads station has two queues when you arrive – the short one for the cashier windows and the long one for the self service tickets.  The latter moves ridiculously slowly and so I, like the more incisive commuters, joined the cashier queue and swept forward towards the platforms while the people in the self service line could only shuffle forward slightly faster than the glaciers are melting.  My strategy worked perfectly and I jumped onto the train with 2 minutes to spare.  (Once again, this was clearly the result of excellent planning rather than sheer blind luck).  My planning didn’t extend to a seat however, so I was forced to stand and spent the journey half hunched over as I tried to see anything of the scenery rushing past.

My book is still A Disaffection.  I am wavering between indifference and active dislike of the book.  The style follows the internal thoughts of the main character and copies the way someone thinks.  As a result he often stops before the end of a

Annoying isn’t it?

By the time I got to Bath, the rain had stopped and I started to hike around the town centre.  The town centre, although full of the standard shops you’ll find anywhere, is still really attractive as the majority of the buildings are built of a cream coloured limestone.  The result is quite soothing and, even more soothing, I didn’t see anywhere disfigured by a set of golden arches.  The people of Bath do have an odd taste in modern art, however – what is the obsession with umbrellas?

While in Bath, I had a few things that I absolutely had to visit – the Royal Crescent, the Circus and the Roman Baths.  Apart from that, there was one place I definitely was not going to visit – the Jane Austen Centre.  While I understand that many people get a lot of pleasure from reading Jane Austen I read all of her works while I was at university.  And I read them in a week.  Like anything, you can have too much of a good thing (except for cheesecake).  In Ms Austens case “too much” arrived far earlier than anticipated – well before the end of the first book in fact.  To say that I am underwhelmed by her brand of wittily mannered literature is like saying Donald Trump is only slightly orange.  I also imagine the Centre will be filled with “actors” pretending to be her characters and giggling behind their hands while simpering “Oh, Mr Darcy” in affected tones.  And that will be just the men.  The thought of wandering around in the rain has more going for it — and luckily the rain has stopped.

I’ve managed to get here before most of Bath is awake, so I walk through the town past largely closed shops.  The day is mercifully warmer than yesterday so my cheap hoodie can get stowed away and probably never used again.  (This is extremely likely as it transpires that Primark thinks it’s a good idea to put a Large hoodie on a 2XL hanger, because let’s face it who will ever notice?  I will).

Bath is full of attractive buildings and little sights tucked just out of view.  Just off the Royal Avenue I see a sign for the Georgian Garden and I explore to find a well laid out little garden that I happily wander around.

But then it’s off to the main attraction – The Royal Crescent.  Approaching this from the Royal Avenue is definitely the right way to do it as you get a fantastic view of the whole crescent as you walk up the hill towards it.  There is a broad lawn in front of it and the place to take the best photographs from is marked by the gaggle of Japanese tourists.  Bizarrely, half of them are looking the other way and excitedly taking photographs of something else.  When I get closer, I find out what has grabbed their attention – a squirrel.

Ignoring the local rodents, I turn my attention to the Crescent itself.  It’s a truly spectacular range of buildings – and, for once, larger than I thought.  I manage to get a good video of it on my phone, spoiled only by the coach parked in front of No 1.  Did they not understand they were in my way?  Surely they would have known of my visit and cleared out the parked cars as well.  Shrugging at the repeated realisation that the world does not revolve around me, I carry on.

I learned that there are rules for taking pictures around groups of tourists.  When I see someone trying to take a picture, I stop and wait and then move on when they have finished.  The same people then turn and just as I am about to take a photo walk right in front of me, ruin the photo and then walk off completely oblivious.  Luckily I am about a foot taller than most of them so it makes very little practical difference.

I head up to walk around the Crescent itself and immediately it gets calmer and quieter.  Mainly because no other tourists seem to bother to do this.  Also with no roads in front of the Crescent, the car noise fades away and the view across the valley below makes it clear why this was built here.  My reverie is disturbed by a Chinese lady who asks me if I am a tourist and then acts in a most bizarre way.  First, she wants to talk to someone she doesn’t know.  Second, she has an extremely poor sense of direction and as I’ve unwisely admitted to being here all day wants to walk around with me so she doesn’t get lost.  So, basically, I think she’s bizarre because she’s being friendly.  It’s a sad indictment on our culture that this is unusual, and a sadder indictment on myself that I spend some time trying to think of an excuse before agreeing.

So we head off, visit the Circus and Pulteney Bridge and then head off towards the Roman Baths.  

On the way we have a long chat about many things – including the fact that she is concerned that English people think they are better than everyone else.  When I ask why she thinks this, she says it’s because when she was in London and travelling on the Tube, no-one would talk to her.  I find myself apologising for my country and trying to explain “commuting” to her.  We head off to the Roman Baths – after clarifying that I wasn’t suggesting we take a spa, but instead that this is a tourist attraction.

The Roman Baths make the visit to Bath worthwhile on their own.  The tour is well structured with an audio guide that can be fast-forwarded, paused and generally ignored when you feel like it.  They have constructed the tour so that there are several displays and it takes you through the whole place quite seamlessly.  Or it would do were it not for the 2 coachloads of French school children.  It turns out that there is nothing that a group of gibbering children cannot screw up.

I move ahead to get past the damn kids, and so manage to lose my companion.  I waited for her once I left, but didn’t see her again – so she probably thinks I was very rude.  Either that or she had been trying to get away from me and took the opportunity to do so.  It’s only then that I realise that despite walking around Bath for a couple of hours at no point had we asked each other our names!  Feeling somewhat chastened, I head off for lunch and I choose an emporium where I can be assured of the finest of foods and wines – Smashburger.  As I go in I notice that the lurking presence of McDonalds has installed itself opposite and I mentally spit in their direction.

Smashburger is interesting.  Not unpleasant but I’m not sure I’d go out of my way to eat there again.  Following lunch, some more ambling around before getting the train back home.  On the way back, I afford some amusement to a group who watch me falling asleep as I continue to plow my way through A Disaffection.  What they don’t realise is that I’m awake enough to hear one of them patiently trying to explain to his airhead friend what the attraction of the book Shogun is.  She clearly doesn’t get it, but he continues trying to explain what the book is about which speaks of either extreme patience on his behalf, or a desire to get in her pants.  I smile to myself and put Shogun on the list to re-read.

I get back to Slough with a mingled sense of relief and disappointment.  Relief that I have started this project and got the first two places complete, disappointment that I live in Slough.

 

 

 

 

 

I started off today with a good weather report and confidence that everything would go smoothly.  My tickets for the next 4 days have been booked via Thetrainline.com and so I head off to the station elegantly attired in shorts and T-shirt.  First disappointment of the day was delivered by the weather which was not the baking sunshine predicted but instead was bloody cold.  Secondly, the ticket machine at Slough refused to believe I was pressing buttons when I was and so an increasingly irritated line of people swelled behind me as I tried to use this “simple method” of retrieving my tickets.  Having finally got them, I strode onto the platform and then checked them noting for the first time that I had a seat booked from Reading to Swindon, but that ticket wasn’t for an hour and a half.

I made the decision to head for Reading as I could nip out of the station there and get myself a jacket as I had managed to pack poorly as usual.  I had, however, got the most important thing with me – a book (actually, I had two).  The trip from Slough to Reading was quite strange.  The train was almost completely silent, with various people sprawled across seats asleep.  It felt more like the last train of the night rather than the 09:00 that it was.  It was good to see a couple of people with books – I thought they had almost died out!

At Reading, I blagged my way out of the station and headed into town to buy myself a jacket.  I found myself torn between M&S (pricey but good quality) and Primark (cheap and definitely poor quality).  Finance won the day, so after grabbing a cheap hoodie I headed back to the station for the first coffee of the week.  Back there I made the mistake of heading into the waiting room to use the toilets.  The toilets themselves had that delightful smell of stale urine usually reserved for the landings of multi-story car-parks, while the waiting room itself reminded me of the one in Beetlejuice – only with less cigarette smoke.  When whatever Supreme Being decides where I go after this life, I suspect I’ll be spending some time in the purgatory of a room just like this.  With that cheerful thought, I decided to leave the glumly staring and largely silent people behind me and concentrated on my book.

The book referred to is Drawing Blood by Poppy Z Brite.  If you like drug use, casual homosexual sex and a story that flirts with the supernatural much in the way McDonalds flirts with the concept of fine dining, this book is for you.  Personally, it was a book I endured rather than enjoyed.  I finished it with a sense of relief.

The train on to Swindon was far more crowded than my first train and I wonder why people claim to enjoy train travel.  As I watched a harassed mother being bullied by her 3 year old child, and got to experience the piercing shrieks with which he indicated his displeasure I appreciated even more the pleasures of driving or motor-biking.  Though both those options would have made it a lot harder to read my book.  By now, I have moved on to the second book: A Disaffection by James Kelman.  The story of a Scottish school teacher who is increasingly unhappy with his lot and who seeks solace in drink.  To describe this book as “grim” would be the sort of under-statement that is used when describing Alan Carr as “mildly annoying.”

Before I started this holiday, someone asked me if I enjoyed travelling by train.  I have to say, that I do not.  The train is merely a device for moving from A to B and doesn’t seem to have the mystery and majesty that people used to ascribe to it.  That may be something to do with the current trains, or possibly a savage indictment on modern society.  But it’s way too early to do start with a savage indictment – especially with an election looming.  My lack of excitement about travelling by train is not helped by my arrival at Swindon.  I am greeted by drizzle and a town centre that is grey and grim.  The upside is that I arrive at the bus stop with seconds to spare and settle myself into my seat congratulating myself on my excellent timing.  This was, of course, in no way complete luck.  The bus itself was a double-decker and so I sat upstairs with a sense of excited nostalgia – only to find the the roofs are considerably lower than they used to be.  Some may claim that I may be taller than when I used to ride regularly on double-decker buses, but I poo-poo such comments as fake news.

The bus headed out south and it wasn’t until we crossed the M4 and got into the countryside that I felt that my holiday had properly started.  For the first time I got to look out at green fields and hills and the prospect from the top floor of the bus gave me a good view.  Of course, the view was somewhat marred by the rain on the windows of the bus, but that would clearly stop before we got to Avebury…wouldn’t it?

As it happens, it didn’t, so I decided to look around before tramping around the stones.  Avebury itself is an odd little place.  The centre of the village comprises a handful of cottages and a pub (The Red Lion) all of which are sited within the stone circle.  The remainder of Avebury lies to the south the of the circle.  The insistent drizzle led me to take shelter inside The Henge Shop.  This sells an array of typical tourist souvenirs (including bookmarks which I made a beeline for).  There were no henges to my disappointment.  Probably just as well as I am a renowned impulse buyer and I don’t think my backpack would have been up to the challenge of carrying a henge.  I also suspect my landlady would object to the installation of a henge in the spare room.  The shop had a large selection of books on witchcraft, dowsing, crystals and the sort of topics that a friend of mine would describe as “New Age Crap”.  Bizarrely, it also included the Harry Potter books.  I also spotted a DVD of Children of the Stones.  I remember this TV series from the late 1970’s when it scared the crap out of me.  I have a copy at home, though I’ve never watched it as I suspect I will be disappointed.

Having indulged in some retail therapy, the rain had stopped so I was able to head out for the main event in my visit – the stones themselves.  While this isn’t a Karnak, the stones are certainly impressive.  I’d like to say that walking around them was a deeply spiritual experience, but the presence of a busy road going through the middle of them tends to distract you from their contemplation.  There’s also a variety of other things to distract you.   A woman in a long green robe, with a walking stick topped with a carved goat head was explaining to some bemused tourists that they had to speak to the staff in its’ own language or it wouldn’t understand them.  Another woman thought it was a good idea to let her delightfully rambunctious children climb all over the stones.  But apart from the distractions, it’s a nice walk around the stones.

Once you’ve done that, a walk into the village to the south reveals a very pretty little village and a fairly attractive church.  There is also an avenue of stones that heads out about 1 km to the east of the main ring.  The road they parallel is far quieter than that through the centre of Avebury and for the first time I could hear birdsong and get some idea of being in the countryside.

I actually really liked it here – not least because The Red Lion serves good food and a fine cider.  (I’ve been here once before many years ago for a ghost hunt at the pub.  A frustrating night as one of our group was a confirmed sceptic and spent most of the night making silly jokes.  The best moment of the night was at the end when we were all sat downstairs for our final chat and could quite clearly hear footsteps above us in what were completely empty rooms.)

So there is it, A is done and I’m heading off to Bristol to get myself in the right place for B.

I hope this was slightly more than an inconvenience.  If not, blame R – contact me and I’ll send you her email address so you can forward the hate mail.