And I’m off again!  Two days after the Fake J and I’m heading out to the Real J.  Let’s just clarify that for those people who complained that I was calling Plymouth “fake”.  This blog is the one I intended for J, Plymouth was just shoe-horned in as I was going there anyway.  Besides, how could you complain about being re-introduced to the delights of the National Express song?

Apparently some people can complain about that as it is a bit of an ear-worm.  I can attest to that as I am alternating between National Express and Prorsum Semper Honeste as I get myself ready to go.  To be fair, it’s not the worst ear-worm I’ve ever suffered from.  This is:

 

Anyway, I shall move on confident that you’ll now be stuck with that for days.  So I wrote up the last blog entry and got some great feedback from it which, naturally, encourages me to keep going.  Will you never learn?

Packing this time is a bit different.  I’m going by plane so decide to pack a small suitcase rather than relying on the backpack.  I then pack a smaller backpack inside the suitcase for use while I’m away.  Because that doesn’t seem weird at all, no Sir, it doesn’t.  Because a flight is involved, there is a deal more planning as I have to get a train, another train, check in and then get the flight.  I have planned everything to get me to the airport right at the start of check in to minimize waiting around.

So I get impatient and head off an hour early.  It’s sunny and warm, the baseball cap and shorts are on, the age-appropriate hoodie has been packed and I’m off to Jersey.  Why Jersey?  Well, I only really know two things about Jersey.  Number One: Bergerac

Number Two: Gerald Durrell

https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Gerald_Durrell

Ok, to be fair I know more than that about Jersey because I know about the cows and the fact they were occupied during World War II and they have a knitted garment with long sleeves named after them.  (The last one could, of course, just be rumour but I couldn’t think of a third thing).  But when I think of Jersey, Bergerac and Durrell are the two things that spring to mind.  Why?  Well when I was young I read Gerald Durrell’s books avidly and always wanted to visit Jersey Zoo as he created it.  And Bergerac?  I think everyone of a certain age would agree with me that John Nettles gave us the finest travelogue inspired police show on television for many years.

So, with a desire to visit based on a TV series from the 1980’s and a set of books I read over 30 years ago I head off.  Clearly my vision of the island will in no way differ from reality.

The suitcase causes trouble from the get go.  Although it’s quite light, it’s still a pain to lug it along.  It does, however, have wheels and one of those little handles that allow it to turn into an Andy-tripping machine as I complained about in a previous blog entry.  I give this a go and then find out why everyone with these things walk so slowly.  If you move at any speed other than glacially slow, the stupid suitcase wobbles from side to side until it flips itself over and drags along the pavement like a recalcitrant child being taken to piano lessons.  So I give up and carry it.  I get to the station, grab my tickets and dive onto the train with seconds to spare (and the extra hour that I have due to being stupidly early).  My reason for using the suitcase, by the way, is so that it’ll be a bit more robust in the hold as I think it’s too big for hand luggage.

I settle down with todays book – Brideshead Revisited by Evelyn Waugh.  Another book that seems to be about the difference between generations that makes me think about the reunion I went to over the weekend.  It’s a good read and I am only occasionally disturbed by concerns about what I’ve forgotten to pack.

I arrive at Reading where I will have a 30 minute wait.  There are signs everywhere saying that Channel 5 are filming there – presumably a documentary about the least attractive train station.  I make up my mind to avoid that.  After my disappointment in Plymouth, I decide to test a pasty from the Lands End Pasty Company.  Not bad – 7/10.  Needs more meat and more seasoning, but definitely better than the Oggy Oggy disaster.  The pastry is marvellously flaky and for the next hour I am brushing them off my shirt, shorts, bag and Evelyn Waugh.

The train arrives and the normal scrum forms to get on.  Given the fact there are relatively few of us, I don’t bother to get involved.  It strikes me that I’m actually taking a very relaxed approach to the whole journey today – maybe the weather is affecting me!  The journey to Gatwick is all very civilized and as we pass through Reigate we get the constant companion of the North Downs to my left.  It’s all green fields and hills and under the sun is very pleasant indeed.  Gatwick, by contrast, is manic with people charging in all directions dragging suitcases and children behind them.  I still maintain a certain composure as I wander through to check in.  As I get there, I look at the frame you can use to see if your luggage is small enough to be taken into the cabin and, not really expecting it to work, drop my suitcase inside.  To my surprise it slides neatly down into the frame – it fits!  My elation is somewhat dashed when I realise that it fits almost exactly.  There is no handle on the upmost side of the suitcase and there is just enough room for me to slide a hand down each end of it and I have to push my hands together and grip it and then try to slide it out.  It takes a couple of tries before I get it out at which point I look up to see a middle-aged woman who has been watching me and is politely trying not to laugh.  Glad that I have made at least one person happy, I head to the check in where the very helpful lady takes one look at my height and moves me to an aisle seat.

So now I have 3 hours to waster before my flight goes.  I grab a coffee and carrot cake and sit watching four men who are clearly having a business meeting while they wait for their flight.  Chuckling to myself at my good fortune to be on holiday I wonder how long I should nurse the coffee before heading through for the fun of the security check.  I leave it about 45 minutes and head through.  Now, I last traveled by plane a year ago – and as far as I’m aware nothing has changed since then.  However, it’s now clear that my shampoo and deodorant will have to be dumped as 100 ml is the largest size allowed.  I dump them – but manage to ignore the 150 ml can of Ralgex,  I’m glad I hadn’t bought suntan lotion as they would just be something else to replace.  I head through to the gate where I have to stand on a line and look at a camera.  Which doesn’t like me.  At all.  After about 4 rejections, the security officer suggests I remove my cap and glasses.  I do so and get straight through.

Now the luggage gets scanned and I start to question some of the rules.  The iPad mini has to be put through separately, but my phone can stay in my luggage?  I don’t have to take my watch and Fitbit off – that’s a weird one.  The Ralgex catches me out, so my bag gets shoved to one side and opened – along with about half of the bags.  The customs officer looks at the Ralgex and replaces it, saying that it’s below the limit (which it clearly is not).  I sigh, accede and smile sweetly before heading through to the Departure Lounge.

Inside, they have taken a leaf out of Ikea’s book and you now have to take a long winding march through the Duty Free shops before getting to anywhere with seats.  Ignoring the “bargains” I head through and look for the Boots on the other side.  Boots are clearly aware that everyone will need to replace items, so they have deliberately hidden away all the 100 ml items.  They have also got a lot of offers on 200 ml items that make them cheaper than the 100 ml ones.  Hmm.  I’m not too impressed with their business model though I can see why they do it – gives them a chance to cash in twice.

So I then settle down with Brideshead to wait for the Gate to open.  I amuse myself for  a while listening to the couple sat opposite me.  I can’t work out whether they are speaking a foreign language, or whether it’s English but with a very strong accent.  By the time the gate opens I still haven’t made my mind up.  I head through the gate with everyone else to find myself in yet another queue.  This has another facial recognition machine — but this one doesn’t mind caps or glasses.  Or so I am informed after I have taken mine off and am trying to juggle suitcase, glasses, cap, book, passport and tickets.  Whatever.

Eventually I get onto the plane where thankfully I can stretch one leg out into the aisle.  It’s actually not too bad – until the man in front decides to bounce up and down on his chair, ramming it against my knees.  Luckily he stops and falls asleep.  But the flight is nice and short and remarkably quickly I find myself walking out of Jersey Airport.  I’m not sure whether to get a taxi or a bus, but my decision is made for me as a bus pulls up literally as I walk out of the concourse.  I head on and grab the front seat upstairs.  I’m glad I did – given the size of the roads the taxi wouldn’t have been much faster and I get a great view across the bay towards St Helier.  As a school colleague might put it, it’s quite a cerulean scene.

It’s a beautiful day.  The accents on the bus are fascinating – a mixture of English and French and sometimes its difficult to make out what language is being spoken.  The roads are quite small and it reminds me a lot of the Isle of Wight.  A further similarity is the large number of bicycles and motorbikes being used.  Jersey is clearly well sorted for bikes and motorbikes, including making sure there is enough parking.

I will later be assured that Jersey is renowned for politeness and courtesy – but my initial experience is not a good one.  The bus is full and the back of the top floor has got several schoolchildren in.  One has got quite the mouth on him and I (like everyone else) have noticed this due to his predilection for using some of the coarser of the Anglo-Saxon terms available to him.  I have to admit that it’s getting to the point where I was going to ask him to tone it down, but one of the other passengers does it for us.  Shame he’s had too much to drink himself.  It ends up with him swearing just as much as the kid did, slapping the phone out of the kids hand, the kid yelling that he is going to call the police, the man being thrown off the bus and general mayhem and excitement.  I did consider getting out my warrant card and calming things down — but then decided that I can’t evoke my usual air of authority while my knees are showing.  Also, I’m on holiday.  So sod it.

Despite that, I’m in a good mood as I get off the bus and navigate my way across St Helier to the Hotel Sandranne.  I’m glad I’m not driving as St Helier has a large and complex one way system which would guarantee confusion.  However, for a pedestrian it’s not a problem – especially as the drivers are all incredibly polite and keep stopping to let people cross the road.  It confuses me initially – we so rarely see politeness in Slough!

I dump my luggage and then head to Royal Square where I have an average dinner sat outside in cafe style.  I could almost be in France – especially as there are several conversations in French going on around me.  It’s very relaxing and pleasant and definitely a good start to my visit.

Day Two

So here I am at the Hotel Sandranne – which can at best be described as faded chic, and at worst be described as tacky.  The room is a good size, but the bed linen is all pink except for the duvet cover which is floral with ruffles.  I don’t think I’ve ever seen a ruffled duvet cover before.  The room has a trouser press (definitely old school) and a fridge.  Not a mini-fridge, a proper fridge which sits and hums quietly to itself all night.  My window has a delightful view of the backs of some houses and looks directly onto a flat roof, which does give me some security concerns.  There’s no welcome pack or anything like that and the Wifi password is grudgingly given out by the receptionist when I ask for it.  (Actually she puts it into my phone without telling me what it is).  However, the bed is comfortable and they do serve a passable full English breakfast.  At breakfast I can see that most of my fellow diners are workmen, two of whom seemed to spend all night sat on the front porch smoking.  I mention this as you don’t often see people in armchairs on the front porch of a hotel.  All in all, I feel the best days of the Hotel Sandranne are many years past.

As I head into the bus station I note the odd naming conventions of the roads in Jersey.  Some are English (Charing Cross, Broad Street), some are French (Rouge Bouillon, La Rue des Mielles) and some have 2 names — although unless my linguistic skills are seriously atrophied they are not direct translations:

I am also somewhat confused by the naming of the road that the Hotel Sandranne is in — Rouge Bouillon.  As far as I can work out the road is called Red Soup.  I cannot imagine how it got that name.  Other names are easier to work out and as I get to the bus station I see some of the evidence of the pride that the residents take in their history.

So, today I’m off to the Zoo.  Some may say that travelling to Jersey just to go to a zoo is a bit of a waste – but I really don’t care.  I’ve wanted to visit here for nearly 50 years and I’m really excited that I’m finally going to get there.  The zoo opens at 10:00 and after a chat with the very helpful customer service lady at Liberation Station I sort out which bus I need to catch.  We have a short chat which involves having to explain my shirt to her (Good grief, it’s like talking to a dolphin).  It turns out she is not a fan of the Big Bang Theory but she still gives me some good advice.  I have about 45 minutes to wait so head out to some local geocaches.  I find one that involves a revolving clock – but it doesn’t operate before 10 am so I’ll return to this one later today or tomorrow.

I return to the station where I pass the time by reading The King in Yellow by Robert Chambers.  This is meant to be a book of horror stories but after the first couple, it’s padded out with some very bland material.

The bus arrives and just before 10 am I arrive at Jersey Zoo.  The zoo is quite small – only 32 acres – but is very well designed and so seems much larger than it actually is.  All of the enclosures are large and so I send a lot of time trying to find the animals.   They are also remarkably well trained.  When I do find them, they always manage to turn away from the camera just as I take a photo.  However, I do catch a few of them out.

The fun of the zoo is somewhat dampened by the arrival of some children – but they are actually quite well controlled and taken around in small groups rather than  a coach load at a time.  I have a really enjoyable wander and then head for the Dodo Restaurant where I am quite disappointed that they don’t serve any poultry at all.  I am very sensible and have soup….and because I’ve been sensible, I then have cake as well.  I then head out for part 2, including feeding time for the gorillas and the orangutans.

The feeding times are excellent as the keepers accompany them with some very informative talks about the animals and the way they are looked after.  It’s good to hear them talk as they both clearly care deeply for the animals they look after and talk about the work they do with them.  Really impressive.  This is definitely a zoo for people who don’t like zoos as the trust does a lot of good work around conservation.

On the way out I manage to resist buying a ton of books (I already have most of them, but it’s a book shop!) and I head back to St Helier happy in the knowledge that I’ve managed to tick something off my bucket list.  Back at St Helier I have a good wander around, firstly down by the sea front and then around the town.  The docks give some great views over the bay and to Elizabeth Castle.

However, low tide does seems to have caused some parking problems for some people.

In town, there is quite an array of artwork to look at.  Some is clearly to do with the liberation.

Some celebrates the produce of Jersey.

And some is just a bit random.

While I was photographing this I asked a police officer what it was about.  He had no idea.  Though he said that it might be because the residents of Jersey are referred to as crapauds as Jersey is the only Channel Island that has any toads on it.  Sounds as good a reason as any, but doesn’t explain why the toad is on top of a column inscribed with the names of crimes.  This road also has a lot of insets on the pavement:

I can only assume these are somehow related.

What it does mean is that a walk around the centre of St Helier is surprising and interesting.  I finish off the day with dinner at the Adelphi (http://www.randalls-jersey.co.uk/pub-guide/st-helier/adelphi-lounge/).  This was recommended to me by the lady at the Hotel Sandranne and is a very good meal.

I head back to my hotel and review the general hilarity and mayhem going on in the WhatsApp group that was created on Sunday.  It’s been a good day and I head to bed.

Day Three

My last day dawns and its farewell to the Hotel Sandranne – which overall gets a 4/10.  It’s still sunny today but chillier so I’m doing a bit of dodging between pools of sunlight to stay warm.  However, as it goes on it gets warmer and the age-appropriate hoodie gets left in the pack.  My flight is at 17:40, so I need to be at the airport by 15:40.  Because it’s me that means I’m planning to leave St Helier at about 14:00.  My first task is to dump my suitcase and get rid of any of the local currency that I’ve managed to accrue.

As I walk around, I notice that there are no high rise apartments in St Helier – nothing over about 6 stories.  So although there has been some development around the docks it doesn’t make a huge impact.  (I later do see some high rise blocks but they are far from the centre of town).  I leave my suitcase in Left Luggage and start off with some geocaches.  The first one takes me on quite a hike out of the centre of the town and into the St Saviour area.  From here there are some great views back over the town and I also find the grave of someone famous.

Leaving Jersey Lillie behind, I head back into the centre of town and then head up to Fort Regent.

Fort Regent looms over St Helier in the same way that Dover Castle does and as I climb up the steps towards it I’m expecting a similar experience.  Imagine my surprise when I get to the top and find that my options are a car park or the front entrance of an Active Gym.  I head inside and speak to the receptionist who confirms that this is the entrance to Fort Regent and I wander inside with a deal of trepidation.  Basically, the entire Fort has been converted into a leisure complex with a central area that is used for an arena (Sarah Millican is performing here in September, folks!)

The central area has been covered and in the whole is billed as follows:

A dedicated children’s play area with PlayZone, arts &crafts, quad bikes, excellent café and free films every Sunday at 9:00 make this a fabulous family venue. Our fully equipment gym caters for all needs or why not have a quick game of table tennis or pool or join one the sports workshops and try something new. Visiting acts and local productions provide entertainment year round plus The View Bar offers amazing views over St Heller whilst you relax with a glass of wine or too.

I am in two minds about this.  One side of me says that it’s great that use is being made of a heritage site and that it is adding value to the lives of many people who would otherwise never use it.  It’s a very efficient way of using something that otherwise would be left to slowly ruin over time.  The other side just keeps yelling the words “Bloody philistines!” in my ear and after a while gets quite annoying.  Despite that, as time goes on my view tends towards the latter as I walk around a site that has existed for centuries and is now being set aside for pilates classes.  There are information panels that tell you about the history of the fort, but they are carefully put up so as not to offend the people who are here to improve their bodies.  In fact they are so carefully placed that some are difficult to find — and if a major event is on, you can’t get to one of them.  But I persevere and find an external walk that allows me to walk around the ramparts.

There are some marvelous views across the bay and out into the Atlantic Ocean.

I am massively disappointed and I head back into town.  My feet are aching which doesn’t help my mood.  As a result, when I see this sign I feel the need to mock.

Oh really?  The best in the world, eh?  Well, we’ll see about that.

Bugger me, they might be right.  Superb pasty, right balance of meat and veg, good seasoning, great pastry.  I can’t fault it.  Buoyed up by that I get my exploring feet back on and see what I can find.  That includes the revolving clock that I missed out on yesterday.

The clock has three scenes on it representing Finance, Tourism and Agriculture and it rotates on the hour.  As it rotates, the clock chimes and plays tunes and is, frankly, the tackiest thing I have seen in quite some time.  If you visit St Helier make sure you see it.  It is to fine clock making what the Eurovision Song Contest is to classical music.

In my wanderings, I find some more art and a maze which is half hedge, half fountain.

It’s excessively entertaining watching someone try to get their child through the maze.  Suitable cheered by the site of other people getting wet, I head back to Liberation Station and board my bus back to the airport.

Today’s book is The Enormous Room by E E Cummings.  It’s the story of what happened when he was accused of treason when working as a volunteer ambulance driver in Paris during World War I.  It’s remarkably good, surprisingly funny and (even more surprising) he uses capital letters!

I get to the airport in good time and then have my usual wrangle with security.  This time the Ralgex is rejected and I point out (in vain) that it was allowed through on the way out.  This time security required watched and Fitbit to be removed.  The security guard is very apologetic –  I can’t really blame him though.

I manage to get an aisle seat on the plane again and we have an uneventful flight which gets us in 20 minutes early.  That’s just as well as it means I catch an earlier connecting train which gets me home an hour earlier.  But it still means that its 21:30 when I walk through the door.  I’m knackered and I wish I wasn’t doing K tomorrow.

And so, nearly a year after starting and 10 months since “I is for…” the journey continues with a trip that originally I wasn’t going to include on the blog.  For those of you unfamiliar with the term “Janners”, the definition is as follows:

janner. Proper noun. (UK, dated, slang) An English person born within ten miles of the sea. (UK, slang) Someone from Plymouth, (UK, slang) The accent and colloquialisms of such people used by the people of Plymouth.

I qualify as I attended Devonport High School for Boys between 1977 & 1980, and this weekend saw a reunion take place down in Plymouth.  Despite living in Plymouth on and off for 2 decades I haven’t actually been back there for 10 years – and only made occasional visits in the decade before that.  There are a variety of reasons for this, which I’m not going to go into in such august and delicate company.

Anyway, I wasn’t going to include the trip as J (the “real” J is planned for tomorrow) but on the first evening in Plymouth I really wanted to write down some things that had happened – and so, dear reader, you get inflicted with an extra blog entry of drivel!  To whet your appetite further, I can tell you that J (the second J) – N will be done over the next 2 weeks and will involve (hopefully) flights, cable-cars, swash-buckling, dinosaurs and undoubtedly some very annoying fellow travelers.  I know you can’t wait, so let’s get on.

Day One

So with some misgivings, a sense of excitement, an age-appropriate hoodie and enough books for 3 days, I head out into the early morning sunlight of Slough.  Misgivings? Many.  I’m off to spend some time with people that I haven’t seen for 37 years and none of them are from the group I used to spend time with.  So I’m not sure how things are going to go.  Apart from that, it’s a warm day even at 06:15 and the shorts are on ready for a good weekend.  I do, of course, forget the baseball cap and as a result I’m writing this with a decidedly red head.  Even the book is appropriate – Fathers and Sons by Ivan Turgenev.  It’s about the difference in attitude between generations and will gel nicely with conversations that I have over the next 2 days.

All starts well with a hike to the bus stop.  I sit down, store the rucksack and reflect on the rather odd journey I’m taking today.  When planning this trip I found that the train ticket was wildly expensive (£50 more than the cost of the flight I’ll be taking tomorrow!).  Car hire was similar and so I fell back on coach travel.  However, to properly start that I have to get a bus to Heathrow.  So, 45 minutes after leaving home, I find myself heading in the wrong direction and become possibly the only person to travel to an airport in order to catch a coach.

For once the people on the bus with me aren’t annoying enough to entertain, so I alternate Turgenev with checking where I am and as a result realise that the bus could do the journey in about 15 minutes, but instead stops absolutely bloody everywhere.  I also discover that my luggage is, apparently, fair game for anyone else to move around for their own convenience.  An American couple join the bus and want to put their suitcases in the storage area, so just move my rucksack and shove it onto a shelf.  I, naturally, say nothing and sustain myself by glowering at them and then return to Turgenev.  Little did I know this would be the start of a trend.

So we arrive at the glittering emporium that is the Coach Station at Heathrow.  I join the small sea of people that are waiting for coaches and, like them, start to stare at the Departures Board which seems to enjoy showing little but “Wait in lounge”.  I wonder whether it’s like a kettle and watching it stops it from changing.  Despite my attempts to will it to change, it doesn’t so I settle down to wait for the coach.  In some ways this is very familiar – I did the journey from Plymouth to London by coach a lot in my teens and twenties and very little has changed about it.

And for some reason, this tune keeps running through my mind:

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=bc6qFpbAgwM

 

..and that’s why sometimes I laugh softly to myself as I wait for the coach.

When the National Express coach finally arrives I’m a little disappointed that they don’t have trolley service on them any more – though it would have probably started me giggling, so it’s just as well they don’t.  However, the embarkation plan works.  As the time approaches, I lurk close to the doors and as soon as the coach is announced I’m off to ensure I get first in line.  And of course, I’m behind the people who already knew which bay the coach would be coming into and thwarted my cunning plan.  The next plan is to try and get the seats with some reasonable leg room, so having handed my rucksack to the driver I head inside.  Right at the back, conveniently directly opposite the coffin-like toilet I find the seats with the decent leg room and grab one, only to find that it might have leg room, but it certainly doesn’t have arse room.  This is going to be an uncomfortable journey – and unfortunately someone decides to sit beside me so a cramped seating position now becomes a decidedly painful one.  That’s OK though – it’s only a 5 hour journey.  One note here – while clearly I am wider than the normal passenger the pain is not solely my fault as after a couple of hours my traveling companion turns to me and says “These seats are a bit bloody tight aren’t they?”  He is considerably thinner than me, so I am somewhat comforted.  Comforted mentally but not physically – after half an hour I’m wondering what the best way to avoid DVT it.  I resist the temptation to look up symptoms as my mobile phone although I am regularly checking it as other people heading for the reunion are updating our Facebook group.  I’m momentarily distracted by the man in the seat in front of me who is very proud of the fact that he paid £2.40 for his ticket – so much so that he tells the people with him 4 times in 5 minutes.  I have the horrible feeling that he’s going to keep going for the next 5 hours.  Luckily his batteries run down and he keeps mercifully quiet.

As we head down the motorway, I dip in and out of Turgenev in the same way people dip in and out of a jar of Nutella.  No, sorry, that just doesn’t work.  We all know what happens with Nutella.  The first slice of toast gets covered with a thick layer of brown deliciousness, flecked with the occasional sliver of yellow from the butter underneath.  The second comes about five minutes later and this time the Nutella is roughly knifed on in peaks.  For the third we barely wait for the bread to be fully toasted before covering it in Nutella and for the fourth we use our fingers to smear Nutella onto barely warm bread before gobbling it down, leaving ourselves with chocolate-smeared hands, face and (bizarrely) elbows like some avant-garde performance artist demonstrating his piece called “Secret Shame”.

Which explains why I never buy Nutella.

Anyway, I dip in and out of Turgenev in the same way people dip in and out of … fuck it, provide your own simile.  Let’s just say the book isn’t gripping and isn’t helped by the extreme discomfort of the seat.  I am distracted a little early on as I look up and see us sweeping majestically past the hotel at the end of my road.  I check my watch and, yes, it’s just gone 9 o’clock and 3 hours since I left home I have gone nearly 400 yards.  The journey gets lengthened near Reading when, for no reason I can divine, the driver turns off the motorway and heads down to a Park and Ride area where he stops the coach for about 12.7 seconds before heading back again.  The main reason for doing this appears to be the chance for us to sit in a traffic queue before we get back onto the motorway.  The man beside me turns to me and says “That seemed a bit pointless” and I have to agree with him — though the reason becomes clear on my return journey.

Apart from this brief interlude and the increasing pain in my arse and thighs, the journey is relatively uneventful.  We seem to have a set of very low tolerance drivers because we change drivers twice.  I’m sure drivers used to just drive the whole journey and wonder if it’s some health and safety legislation (it isn’t, as I find out on the return journey).  We get a break at Tiverton Parkway and while I normally begrudge the stop as it delays the journey, I’m desperate to stretch my legs.  But before we get off, we get the rules:

• 20 minutes only.  There will be a headcount taken and we will leave people behind if they are late
• Do not bring hot food onto the coach
• We can bring hot drinks on but only if they have lids on

I’m now wondering what the problem with hot food is?  What if the food is warm?  How about food that was hot, but has now cooled down?  Does the lid on the hot drink have to fit?  I am full of questions that I wisely do not ask the driver as he fixes with me with a baleful eye and I head off to buy cold food and a cold drink (because it’s still really warm here, not because I want to avoid testing the boundaries).

I give up on Turgenev and have a chat with the man next to me.  He’s also heading to Plymouth for a reunion – he served there in 1962 and is meeting up with a group of ex-servicemen and women.  We both have a good moan about the price of beer and I help him with the location of his hotel — somewhat marred by the fact that the Coach Station in Plymouth has moved since I went there last so I give him some massively bad advice.

Luckily I spot this error as we approach and I correct myself.  The coach station is now located just off Western Approach and as we approach it is clear that Plymouth is welcoming us in the best way it knows – to absolutely piss down with rain.  The Coach Station exterior has been designed with an eye to form and nothing to do with function.  It looks trendy and interesting but provides absolutely no protection against sun or rain.

The whole area is on a hill so when it rains heavily (like now) a lovely river runs across it — which is where some prat has decided to deposit my rucksack.  As I’m last off the bus, it’s completely soaked – and in about 10 seconds, so am I.  I dart for the lack of shelter provided by the structure (it looks far more effective than it actually is) and get the age-appropriate hoodie out of the pack.  Slip it on, hood up and head out for the guest house.

I head off to Citadel Road and the George Guest House.  It’s wet and bloody cold and I wonder what the hell is going on — I thought it was meant to be warmer down here!  By the time I get there, I’m soaked and it’s a relief to get into the room that I’ll be staying in for 2 days.  I’m right on the Hoe, so I’m looking forward to a good view up to the War Memorial.  Instead I have a lovely view of the backs of some houses with the Guildhall in the distance.  My room is clearly in what used to be the attic, so I can only stand upright in half of it.  This promises to give exciting opportunities for smashing my head open.  But it’s clean and I make myself a coffee before putting on some dry clothes and heading out for the first element of the reunion – a trip around the old school.

I’m due there at 16:00, so naturally I give myself an hour to complete a journey that will take about 20 minutes.  On the way, I take a quick trip down memory lane and stop by one of the places I used to live.

Yup, 45 years on and it’s still a dump.  As I get closer to the school it starts to drizzle, but I want to try and get a photo from across the playing fields.  As I try to find a spot, but am thwarted by the trees that have grown up since I went here, I see another man who seems to be doing much the same.  I suspect that he may be one of the people I’m here to meet – so typically I don’t go and say hello but head on to the school.  I get in there at 15:30 and he joins me a few minutes afterwards – so Stu Evans and I become the first people to get to the reunion.  (Bizarrely, we later realise that he and I live within 10 miles of each other).

Over the next 45 minutes there is a steady stream of people arriving.  It’s weird.  People walk in and I look at them and there is something about their face that is familiar.  A few I can put names to but most have to give their names.  We soon get over the embarrassment of asking and very quickly the Conference Centre is full of the sounds of chatter and laughter.  It starts what is to be quite a strange feeling across the next couple of days – it’s not sad, it’s not maudlin (except for Dave May’s poetry!), it’s not depressing, it’s happy but tinged with a bit of regret.  Part of that regret is undoubtedly for the time that has passed – but it doesn’t feel bad.  Instead it’s exciting to find out what people did and what they are doing now.  I find it quite jarring when I find that 4 people here joined the police after school and have all retired after 30 years in a job that I am still doing — and hell that really makes me feel old!

The journey around the school is fascinating.  Since we were there it has increased in size and taken over buildings that used to be used by another school.  So initially we’re all in unfamiliar territory.  But as we go on we head into areas that are familiar and we all get into conversations about which rooms we used to use for what subjects and realise that after 40 years some things are exactly the same.  The colonnade is exactly how I remember it.

But I’ve got a mission while I’m here.  I was never sporty at school and so haven’t got the memories that a lot of the guys have – or the team photographs that have been shared over Facebook in the last few weeks.  I only did one thing while I was at school that should have been recorded – and I don’t know if it was.  I’ve meant to come back to school to find out multiple times since I left but never have – so now the time has finally come.  Typically, the Honour Board I’m looking for isn’t with the rest of them in the Sixth Form Centre, but there in the School Theatre is the proof that I did go to this school and that I got one thing right:

I know it’s stupid, I know it doesn’t make any difference — but hell it matters to me!  (If you want to know about small things mattering, just ask Tim Hoy about Prefects.  Ask, then prepare to be talking for a long time.  You may need a drink.)

The guy showing us around is justifiably very proud of the school and is very patient with us.  The Sports Hall is amazing as well as the Learning Commons  (you and I would call it a library, but a previous head apparently thought it somewhere people could “graze” for knowledge.  Damn good job I didn’t meet him or there would have been a good deal of mocking!).  By the time we finish we’ve been there for 2 hours, the caretaker is very keen on us going and we head off to our next stop – the Walrus pub.

The Walrus has clearly been selected due to its ambiance rather than the fact that it’s right beside the restaurant.  Wait sorry I meant that the Walrus has clearly been selected due to its proximity to the restaurant rather than its ambiance.  It’s always nice to walk into a pub where the glare of the barman and the regulars makes it perfectly clear that they do not welcome strangers here.  Because its a local pub.  For local people.  The barman was clearly efficiently and effectively trained at the local undertaker school and is one of the few people I have ever met that allow me to use the word “lugubrious”.  He was joined by someone who looked remarkably like Rolf Harris and being children of the 1970’s we left rapidly.

The evening carried on with our dinner at Everest Spice – http://www.everestspiceplymouth.uk/.  A very nice meal and I can thoroughly recommend it.  Unless you’re sharing the room with 24 people on a school reunion which means you will be crammed against a wall and have to suffer a rendition of the School Song.  If you go there, try the Lamb Kathmandu.  It’s excellent.  Unlike the rendition of the school song.

The evening finished at The Bank – a slightly more up-market pub than the Walrus. Not difficult.  Sitting on a kerb drinking Stella would be more up-market than the Walrus.  Plans are made for tomorrow.  We have our formal reunion in the evening, but a group is heading out to the Plume and Feathers and Dave Ware offers me a lift.  So with plans made, I head back to the George.

Day Two

I’m in the only B&B on the planet that doesn’t do breakfast.  I sleep fitfully – nothing to do with the alcohol obviously, and I’m up by 08:00 to start exploring Plymouth.  It’s sunny so the shorts are back on though it’s still chilly enough for me to put the hoodie on from time to time.  As I’m right beside the Hoe, that’s where I head – and it’s as fantastic as I remember.  As I head up to the Hoe, the familiar shape of the War Memorial rises in front of me.

I head past the memorial to the statue of Sir Francis Drake and then across to Smeaton’s Tower.

The Hoe has a ton of memories for me and, as an extra bonus, a couple of geocaches as well – so I tag them while I’m here.  After a good wander around here I decide to head into town and grab some breakfast.  As I’m in the West Country it seems only right to grab a local delicacy so I pick something low calorie and carbohydrate free.

The particular one if provided by the Oggy Oggy Pasty Company who claim to serve “Pasties to Shout About!”  I will happily shout about the pasty I had.  Half of it was empty.  The other half was well filled, but seemed to have no seasoning whatsoever.  The meat was cooked to a temperature similar to the surface of the sun and as a result I still have a burnt tongue.  The main taste was that of the pastry – which was burnt.  2 out of 10.

After my disappointing pasty, I continued my exploration of the centre of Plymouth.

Some things are new like this statue outside St Andrews Church, some are old like this place:

This used to be the Drake Cinema and is the place where I saw Star Wars (the original one!).  Quite sad to see it this way.  But not quite as sad as when it becomes clear that Dave Ware has forgotten his promise from last night and I am left to fend for myself.  Which actually isn’t a huge problem.  I spend several hours wandering around Plymouth, taking in the Barbican, Sutton Harbour and the University campus.  It’s a really interesting day.  The Barbican is in the middle of Pirate Weekend which seems to be an excuse for children to hit each other with plastic swords and for people to play the Pirates of the Caribbean theme at high volume.  But the Barbican itself is still charming with its’ narrow cobbled streets.  Some things have been let go – the Plymouth Mural is now a sad remnant of what it used to be.

Other places were always there, but I had never found them before now.  I walked past the strangely named “Drake’s Place” for years without knowing it was there but it has now been turned into a very attractive park.

And some things are new.  The University campus is completely new and really well put together and there are signs of new builds that are appearing everywhere – and some buildings here are quite striking.

Walking down the streets behind the Hoe, the whole place gives a feeling of shabbiness.  It looks exactly the same as it did when I lived here and doesn’t seem to deserve the sobriquet of “Britain’s Ocean City” that is on all the tourist signs.  But all the guest houses are full, so clearly something is working.  I want to get a photo looking down Armada Way as you used to be able to get a clear shot from the War Memorial right to the other end of the shopping centre – but the trees have now grown up and obscure it.  Annoying to photograph but actually is great for the town as it breaks up the buildings in a very pleasant way.  My feelings about coming back here were mixed but as I explore old stamping grounds I fall in love with Plymouth all over again.

And so on to the final event in a function room of Porters in Looe Street.  Twenty or so people in their 50’s all drinking (well most of us drinking).  What could possibly go wrong?  Luckily nothing does.  It is a really good evening renewing old friendships and hopefully making some new ones.  There is obviously a lot of nostalgia and a huge amount of laughter – and of course a final rendition of the school song (there is a video of it, but I won’t inflict that on you).  We end up at gone midnight eating a greasy burger on the Barbican and then go our separate ways.

It’s an odd feeling.  Do we wish we were all 18 again?  I’m sure we do but more than that what I got was a sense of accomplishment, of maturity and of people who had done some amazing things.  Some of the guys have traveled huge distances to get here – Australia, New Zealand, California.  One even had to get permission to leave Liverpool to attend.  On the previous night Paul Woods had asked me if I would change anything about my life.  On the whole, I have to say that I wouldn’t and that’s the sense I get from everyone here.  My only regret is that I didn’t get to see their stories as they developed rather than having such a huge gap in the middle.  We have all promised to keep in contact and meet up again – I hope we do.

Day Three

Blazing sunshine again and it actually feels warm today as well.  I have a lot of mixed feelings this morning which is a mixture of reaction to last night and the looming fear of a painful journey home.  I sit in Costa coffee drinking a remarkably bland cappuccino and posting on the reunion forum.  As I do, I can’t get “Prorsum Semper Honeste” out of my head and at one point I realise I’m humming it quite loudly.

Leaving before people complain, I head towards the Coach Station, pausing to snap a picture of the sundial…which is wrong by an hour.

As Graham Prisk sets up a WhatsApp group for us I make a half-hearted attempt to get the coach driver to fake a breakdown on the M4 and thus shorten my journey by 3 hours.  He doesn’t go for it.  At least this time I’m alone in my double seat, so I have a pleasant journey back buoyed up by memories of a great weekend and by my current book: The Ring of Thoth by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle.  It’s a book of short stories and it gets finished before I get home.

So J is for Janners is done.  The “real” J awaits.