Before I start on todays travels, there is one important thing to do.  As a result at about 07:30 I wander into my local polling station and cast my vote.  This neatly allows me to ignore it for the rest of the day – with any luck.  Heading across to the station, I nip into the coffee shop for my first caffeine infusion of the day and my chances of ignoring the election are destroyed.  A stand of newspapers proudly displays what pass for headlines nowadays, and I feel my gorge rising at the streams of bile and invective that are being displayed.

I feel sorry for journalists – real journalists that is (there are surely a couple of them out there somewhere).  I’m sure that at one point they viewed their field as a noble one, somewhat like the lone crusader in a film noir fighting for justice and truth.  Instead, journalism seems to have descended to a level where it has no credibility whatsoever and where it has taken to pandering to the worst excesses of the public, with no moral compass and no thought about the results of their actions.

Can you imagine a parents pride when their eldest child comes home and proudly announce they wish to be a journalist?  Can you imagine their beaming faces as their pride and joy gleefully states that they wish to regurgitate bile, drivel and un-researched innuendo and serve it up under the heading of “news”.  What happiness they must feel as the fruit of their loins announces its intention to materially add to the reduction of intelligence and civility across the globe.

The only saving grace is that this is nothing new.  While the Internet and an increasing desire for things to be dealt with in 140 characters does not help the situation, complaints about the press have been going on for years.  I recently read something written at the end of the 19th Century making exactly the same complaints about the press.  So, scum have been with us for a long time and making a living encouraging all of us to act just like them.

So, people, RESIST!

Stepping down off my soapbox and storing it in my backpack for later use, I head onto the platform where I am greeted by the apathy of the Slough station staff.  Checking the board and listening to the announcements, it appears that their general ennui has affected the entire system and there are a slew of cancellations and delays.  It is of no matter to me and I settle down with my cappuccino and Night and Day by Virginia Woolf.  My brain is now dying for something trivial, light and airy to read after its recent deluge of weighty tomes.  And before you ask, yes there is an order to the books I read and, no, I won’t explain it.

Despite the station announcements threatening doom, destruction and delays my train arrives on time and I head towards London.  Today is a another complex journey involving the Tube and thetrainline has advised me to change at London Bridge.  I’m a little bit nervous about that given the terrorist attack there last weekend, and when I look at a map it seems clear that the line from Victoria runs to Hever.  So I decide to ignore thetrainline and head for Victoria (as clearly I know far better than they do).

Leaping on to a Spiral line train, I settle down on one of those flap-down seats that manage to provide support without any measurable degree of comfort.  My perusal of Night and Day is interrupted by a noise reminiscent of a medium sized cat attempting to spit out a hairball.  I look around but cannot locate the recalcitrant feline.  Going back to my book, the noise is repeated and again I cannot find the cat.  Wondering whether the Cheshire Cat has sneaked onto the train, I try to read while keeping an eye on my fellow passengers.  Sure enough, I spot a woman opposite who looks like she is going to cough, but just as she does so she holds it in and makes this bizarre noise instead.  She is now doing it more often and judging by the colour her face is going, she may actually have a hairball stuck in her throat.  Eventually she stops trying to hold it in and lets out a series of coughs which return the appropriate colour to her face.  Judging by the sigh around me, I was not the only person concerned by her antics.

Without any further incident apart from an American woman who was unwilling to sit by anyone wearing shorts, I get to Victoria.  This is a very familiar station and so I head down to the Departures Board and look for my train.

Which I cannot find.

I check the line Hever is on and can’t find any destinations down that line on the Departures Board.  Looking around for some assistance, I see an Information desk in the centre of the concourse and head over for advice.  There’s a man unfolding a map for someone else in need of directions and chatting away to them quite happily.  There is a second man, sat down with a lugubrious expression on his face which has clearly been caused by whatever trauma has put his wrist in a brace.  I explain that I want to know which train to catch for Hever and I get a look which makes it perfectly clear that the man has far better things to do than answer my questions.  So I repeat it.  Slowly.

This time he leaps into action.  By which I mean that he used one finger to stab at an iPad Mini without moving anything else, including the muscles of his face.  (I hesitate to make a joke about him watching porn here as clearly this was a work iPad.  Probably.)  Then, with a shudder of disgust at heaving to speak to a member of the public, the Delphic Oracle spake:

“Change at East Croydon.”

Feeling somewhat like Claudius, I haltingly stagger away from the Oracle and stammer my thanks as he turns his attention back to … well, whatever the hell it was that he was doing before I rudely interrupted him.  To be fair, his wrist injury may have been so traumatic that it caused him physical pain to speak.  Or else he was an idle bastard.  Only the Gods can tell.

At least I now know where I’m going.  Who would have thought that my journeying would take me to the Nirvana that is East Croydon?  My journey to the train is hampered as suddenly my feet stop walking forwards and drag me to the right.  By an effort of will I manage to walk past the International Cheese Shop – but if I come back this way, I fear for my wallets safety.

At East Croydon, my problem recurs and once again I cannot work out which train I need to get on.  I decide to head up to the ticket barrier and see if I can get a better idea from the Departures Board there.  And so I discover the joys of the “Station without Stairs”.  Instead of stairs heading up to the concourse, East Croydon station has ramps.  Long, long ramps.  Ramps so large they have developed a micro-climate and halfway along the one to platform 6 a small civilisation has developed that will be the subject of a 4 part series by David Attenborough.  So long that by the time I get to the top I have passed through 2 timezones.  So long that in the time it takes to climb them the Millenium Falcon could have made the Kessel Run.  So long….you get the idea.

Having got to the top of the ramp, the Departure Board is as much help as the one in Victoria.  I begin to appreciate why thetrainline sent me via London Bridge – but I refuse to admit that I am wrong.  This is clearly just a different kind of being right.  I spot a couple of employees talking by the barrier, so I walk over to ask directions.  Being a polite chap, I stand waiting for them to acknowledge my presence.  After a while I check that I am not invisible and try a discrete cough.  After another while I give up and interrupt and ask about trains for Hever.  They have clearly been trained in brevity by the same people who trained the man in Victoria as the reply I get is:

“Uckfield train.”

Clearly Customer Service is an optional extra for National Rail staff.  Not wishing to disturb the clearly excessively busy gentlemen further, I locate the relevant platform and head off down the ramp.  I don’t have to wait long for the train, which when it arrives is tiny – 2 carriages only – and we set off to the wilds of Surrey and Kent.  (I should point out here that this train is actually shorter than the ramp I walked down to get to the platform!)

I manage to get a seat at a table, which is always the preferred option.  I then go about trying to make sure no-one will sit beside me – backpack on the luggage rack with the straps hanging down, book on the table, coat on the seat beside me, surly look on the face.  That usually works.  But the man on the other side of the aisle has his strategy perfected.  He has plonked a sports bag onto the seats opposite him and his coat on the seat beside him.  He has his lunch (a tad early for that I feel!) liberally spread over the table and in between mouthfuls he is having a loud conversation on the phone.  Bizarrely enough, no-one wants to sit near him – and I reap the benefits of that as it means I also remain the sole occupant of my table.

At Hever I get off and follow a small group of walkers out of the station.  I assume they’re walkers as they’re all terribly jolly and have sturdy boots on.  As opposed to ramblers, who also wear sturdy boots but are generally miserable and walk around in groups of at least 20 accompanied by spaniels and the smell of tweed.  We start to head off down the road and I get my first look around.  It’s an attractive area – very green, mostly farmland with houses and cottages scattered about.  It reminds me a lot of Surrey and is extremely relaxing.

 

For some reason I assume the walkers are heading for Hever Castle as well so I follow them down the road, where we all find that the direct route is currently closed.  They head off and I check on Google Maps which sure enough sends me down the road after them.  They quickly turn off down a nettle-infested path.  I check the map which directs me to follow the road but the path clearly cuts about a mile off the journey.  Given that I’m wearing shorts, for the moment I decided to trust Google and I stubbornly head off down the road.  Five minutes later I find another footpath which again Google Maps ignores.  This time common sense prevails and I head down a narrow footpath between fields – both more attractive and much safer than the road.  Sure enough, the path meets the one taken by the other group and by the time the pathway rejoins the road I have caught up with them (primarily because they are a subgroup of walkers that I think of as “amblers”).

I tramp along the road, passing first the amblers and then the Village Hall which today is doubling as a polling station and head up to the gatehouse of Hever Castle.

Having parted with the requisite entrance fee and bought a guidebook which will undoubtedly sit on my table until my next clear-out, I head down into the grounds of the castle.  It’s a really excellent place to visit.  The grounds are huge and vary from walks through quiet woodland paths, to the extensive lawns leading down to the castle.

There are some great views and a lot to do – though I decide not to go into the Water Maze as I suspect my hand towel will prove insufficient afterwards.  The castle itself was the residence of the Boleyn family but by the start of the 19th century it was largely disused.  It was bought by the Astor family who completely renovated it and added some bits of their own – like the mock-Tudor style “village” that they built so that their friends had somewhere to stay.

The grounds are well worth exploring.  The castle wasn’t open when I arrived, so to fill some time I wandered through the extremely claustrophobic Yew Maze and then around the Tudor Rose garden.  Turns out the Tudors used herbs for all sorts of things.

It’s weird, but when I go shopping I always forget about the herbs for strewing.  Silly me.

Inside, the Castle has been well restored and maintained.  You can walk around a lot of it, though some rooms have areas roped off to stop the endless stream of bored toddlers from walking on everything.  (Really, why would you bother to take toddlers around somewhere like this?).  There’s a good audio guide you can purchase which has a “rub-away” feature on its’ screen which allows you to see what the rooms looked like before the Astors restored them.  Gives you a really good idea of just how much work was done here.

It is a really interesting place to wander around, and I have a very happy hour in here.  It is an odd mix of Tudor and early 20th century style.

Astor shamelessly stole from other stately homes and put in things that he had seen elsewhere and liked.  He must have been a nightmare to work for as he insisted that the work was done using only tools that would have been available in Tudor times.  Work like this must have taken ages:

I enjoyed spending an hour or so going around the castle and then headed out to walk around the grounds some more.  Astors sense of style is apparent everywhere.  The Italian garden is odd – a sequence of lawns and arbours, studded with Romanesque statuary and occasional busts and sculptures peeking out of bushes.  It gives the overall impression of someone trying to copy Italy without having ever actually been there.

It is a really nice walk, however and finishes by the lake where they have cunningly placed a kiosk selling ice cream.  There are a lot of people walking around, though some are considerably less enamoured by the gardens than I am.  Walking into the Rose Garden, I heard one woman exclaim:

“But there’s nothing here but roses!”

Clearly she is the level that the modern press is aiming at.

Suitable cheered by the castle and gardens I head back to Hever station.  I brave the nettles on the way back and get there quite quickly – which is good as the weather has started to turn.  When I arrived I hadn’t really looked at the platforms.  Now I get a look and see that they have been designed on the same scale as the ramps at East Croydon.  I peer into the distance and try and make sense of the electronic sign which is as far from shelter (and the only seat) as is possible.  There are large friendly signs up pointing out that the station is un-staffed, but that the timetable is on display.  If the timetable is on display, it looks remarkably like the minutes of the local village council because there is sod all else up anywhere!  I make the trek to see what the electronic sign says, which naturally is exactly the time that the train turns up.  Grumbling mildly (grumble? me? how unusual!) I get in and grab a seat.

This train actually goes all the way to London Bridge, and so I find myself in a quandary.  Do I stay on it, or so I stubbornly stick to the original plan?  Clearly it would be stupid to change trains at East Croydon when I can just stay where I am.  Clearly only a fool would break their journey just to go to the International Cheese Shop.  Clearly by the time I get back to Slough, I have some nice Cheddar, Manchego and Vacherin as well as a box of crackers.

H is done, F tomorrow and I’m back on track!

 

 

 

The discerning, aware and mentally astute amongst you will recognize that something is missing.  “What the F can it be?” I hear you cry.  Clearly it is the missing F that has drawn such turbulence into the calm of your usual mental state.  Before I explain, it has occurred to me that I really don’t need to for the following reasons:

1) Anyone reading this probably isn’t terribly mentally astute;

2) It’s so long since the last update that no-one would notice anyway;

3) The Alphabet is an artificial construct, so I can do it it any order I like.

Given that (3) removes what little excuse there is for this blog, I’d better ignore that one and press onwards.  In explanation, I got up ready to go and visit F, only to find that the weather was similar to that which cause Noah to start building a really big boat (with, as Eddie Izzard has mentioned, a really big room for poo).  I know that  all of my loyal fans  both my loyal fans will be disappointed but seeing as I made up the rules for this little odyssey, I also get to decide how much misery I will endure to keep it going.  I waited until 11am on the day in question and there was no let up in the weather – so F was deferred and will appear somewhere between H and I.

G Day dawns bright and sunny and with  a very strong wind.  Not strong enough to require the age-appropriate hoodie, so that gets stuffed in the backpack with everything else and I head off to Slough station.  I am now quite bored of Slough station – though nowhere near as bored as the staff appear to be.

There is some nervousness on this journey as this is only a couple of days after the terrorist incident on London Bridge.  However, I’m determined not to let it change anything that I do, so I head off occasionally glancing furtively at my fellow passengers over East of Eden.  I also have some trepidation about today’s destination – Gravesend isn’t exactly known as a tourist spot so I’m not sure this will be a fantastic day.

My journey through London does little to change this feeling.  On the Underground I get to watch a seriously stupid commuter trying to force his way onto the tube train while large numbers of people are trying to get off.  I resist the temptation to scream “IF YOU LET THEM GET OFF, THERE WILL BE ENOUGH ROOM, YOU COCKWOMBLE” as I’m not sure whether or not “cockwomble” is a word allowed to be uttered on the London Underground.  Such direct commentary is clearly a violation of the Commuter Code so I restrict myself to glaring and grumbling like everyone else around me.

But how can my journey be anything but enhanced by my second visit to St Pancras INTERNATIONAL?  In every way, apparently.  Once again I have to trek through the sterile passageways of the INTERNATIONAL station to find my platform.  On the way I pass those shops that frequent every station across the country: Fortnum and Masons, Hamleys, John Lewis, Le Pain Quotidien.  (If the last sentence sits somewhat strangely upon my gentle readers’ ear, try reading in Stephen Fry’s accent and with as much sarcasm as you can muster).  I also reach my breaking point with people who drag their suitcases around behind them on leashes, sticks or handles.  Apparently, once your suitcase is behind you you don’t have to pay any attention to it and you can let it swing wildly to and fro behind you so that it barks viciously against the shins of other people.  Also don’t forget to leave it in the middle of the path when you stop to look at something – especially when that something is your own damn mobile phone.  These people do offer some amusement though.  Because they are dragging them they overfill them and then stand plaintively at the bottom of staircases hoping that some kind passer-by will help them.  This passer-by does not and instead continues the trek to the platform.

Poor Gravesend.  After a set of INTERNATIONAL stations, it is sadly and plainly just “Gravesend”.  This clearly affects the people alighting here as we all shuffle off quietly and apologetically and head out of the station, averting our eyes so as not to embarrass it.

Gravesend itself meets my every expectation.  It has all the attractiveness of Swindon as well as the charm and grace of Slough, together with a soupcon of the delicacy of Hull.  Hoping that things will be better down by the river, I head in that direction.  As I get close to the Thames, things start to perk up.  Gravesend, like so many other places along the banks of the Thames, has had a great deal of regeneration work done.  So, old warehouses have been converted into luxury flats and there are several attractive new builds that look over the river.  Though as much as I love the river, I’m not sure that is a selling point.  The Thames is tidal here and that, combined with the detritus washed down from the rain yesterday, has left the water an unattractive shade of brown.  The view across the river isn’t much better either, with lovely views of a working dock and a power station.  The most interesting thing to see is the cruise liner moored opposite which dwarfs the tourist boat nearby.

However, it’s still pleasant to walk along the river and so I follow the signposts for the Saxon Shore Way.  The SSW (as those in the walking fraternity refer to it) is 163 miles in length and runs from Gravesend to Hastings.  I only plan on following it for a few miles – I’ve decided to try and get out to Shornemead Fort which was built in the 1860’s.

Initially the SSW is pretty standard fare, following roads and footpaths alongside the Thames.  Greater familiarity with the Thames does not make it look any more attractive, though as I head on I spot the occasional building that shows the age and history of Gravesend.

There is also the occasional statue, including one that I think is particularly apposite given the current trend towards considering the Indian community to be “newcomers”.

Mohinder Singh Pujji was one of the first Sikh pilots to volunteer with the RAF during the Second World War and among many other medals was awarded the DFC.

As I continued through Gravesend I kept seeing signs of the links the town has with the armed forced.  Walking down a residential street, I suddenly came upon the Riverside Leisure Area  (unlike the naming conventions in Evesham, this is actually beside the river).  I entered the Leisure Area (which is what we call a “park” in Slough) and immediately found myself in New Tavern Fort.

The fort is an 18th & 19th century fort that still has emplaced weapons that you can just wander around, take photographs with, sit on and (as is usual) dump your rubbish in.  It’s an odd feel as it is overlooked by blocks of flats and it is extremely incongruous – but a delight to walk around.  Once I finish with the fort, I head out into the rest of the park   Leisure Area, and find a very attractive green area with a small lake and fountain.  The photo gives an idea of how windy it was.

Something occurred to me at this point.  The wind meant that I hadn’t really thought about the fact that it was blazing sunshine.  Stopping to get the sun tan lotion out, I also checked the map and then, suitably armoured against the evils of UV, I followed the SSW to the East.  The next section is one of those sections of a footpath that is more endured than enjoyed.  It passes a series of industrial complexes varying from small garages to large concrete works.  The path runs along alleys and along the back of a series of buildings, hiding the country away between walls on either side and I start to think about turning back.

Eventually, I come out – still nowhere near the Thames, but at least I now have a view.  By now I am right on the outskirts of Gravesend and the SSW runs alongside the Thames and Medway Canal.

The canal is ruler straight, as is the road and footpath beside it.  To the left are industrial buildings and the mysteriously sign-posted MPSTC.  When I pass the MPSTC there are no signs outside to say what it is and I am glared at by the G4S employee who appears to have got into his security hut with the judicious use of several shoe-horns and a tub of lard.  Of course, the police vehicles parked inside gives things away and the fact that Google clearly labels the site as the Metropolitan Police Specialist Training Centre also spoils their attempts at stealth.  I wave cheerfully at the happily rotund security guard and carry on.  (At this point, I will admit there is an element of “pot calling the kettle black” here, but he really was not the sort of person you would call on in a crisis).

The reason for enjoying this part of the walk is to the right.  Across the canal is nothing but fields and I can see small villages in the distance.  It’s a really attractive view, spoiled only occasionally by trains thundering towards Gravesend along the track that also paralleled the canal.

Past the *shhh* MPSTC I stop at a crossing that gives me a fantastic view over the canal and railway line.  I can see that the path and canal continue ahead out of sight and make absolutely no attempt to get back to the Thames.  At this point, the Milton Rifle Range stands between me and the river and I will clearly have to go several miles before I have the chance to get to Shornemead Fort.  Deciding to give up I turn and head back towards Gravesend.

Walking back, one thing is immediately visible – the golden roof of the Guru Nanak Dabar Gurdwara.  The Gurdwara was built in 2010 and is one of the biggest in the country and apparently one of the biggest outside India.  It is certainly obvious from outside Gravesend, but as I get closer it disappears behind other buildings.  I spend quite some time working my way towards it, but close up it does not disappoint.

Having seen it, only one thing remains to be seen – the grave-site of Pocohontas.  I head back into the town centre and there I find it in the grounds of a small church.

Suitably satisfied, I can now grab something to eat and then I head back to Gravesend station for my return to Slough.  On the way back, East of Eden gets finished just in time for my arrival at Slough station.