Day One

As with my previous journey, preparation is key for this trip and so I am up early.  In fact, I am up at 2am playing Red Dead Redemption 2 and at 6am I decide that maybe I had better sort out the rest of my preparation.  As well as the usual attire, I dig out a thick MA1 jacket and my trusty three-ton walking boots.  These are not walking boots for the light-hearted.  These are not ones that are worn for idly rambling around fashionable locations in the Home Counties.  No, these are boots that have been to Egypt, Wales, Scotland, the Lake District and Croatia and are the hard man of walking boots.  They are now nearly 20 years old, and have never been cleaned.  They are probably the best £100 investment of my life.  (Except for the £100 I sent that nice Nigerian Prince who emailed me last month).

The day starts off beautifully sunny, so I pack everything in my rucksack and head out with no jacket, just a t-shirt.  At which point I remember that its December.  But I persevere and as I walk into the centre of Slough I get a lot of strange looks from people who are far more suitable dressed.

Their strange looks may also be due to something else.  As I walk along I bird flits across the street and my brain clicks into “select Varmint Rifle, shoot” mode – yes, I’ve been playing that game far too much.  I also find myself making sure I don’t walk too close to people – because if you do that in RDR2, the NPCs start to complain and eventually shoot at you.  Yes, definitely playing the game too much.

Unusually I’m not ambushed on the way to the station and now I face the excitement of using my E-ticket.  This involves showing a QR code on my phone to the automated barrier which then lets me through.  It’s magic!  Or technology.  I am both excited and worried – what if I lose my phone?  What if my phone runs out of power?  It occurs to me then that it would be exactly the same as if I lost my paper ticket.  Great way to be ecologically friendly though — but I wonder just how green the trains are themselves.

The journey today is a long one with 2 changes.  So just to make things exciting, the first train is already running 6 minutes late which is going to make the change very risky at Reading.  I really don’t want to miss my connection as the journey is already going to be over 3 hours.  However, the train finally arrives and I settle down to finish off Howards Way.  Which I’m really enjoying, despite his views on Cambridge.

My reading is undisturbed by people as the train is remarkably empty.  Everyone has a double seat to themselves and the only sound (apart from the train) is the polite murmur of distant conversation.  Highly tranquil, but doesn’t exactly give me anything to write about.

Or does it?  At the next stop two women get on and (contrary to the rules of this train) sit beside each other.  One is having an animated conversation on her phone.  When she finished, the two talk – though it’s unclear whether they are actually speaking to each other as they never look at each other, instead being glued to the screens of their phones on which they are continuously texting.  They finally make eye contact as one starts to describe a mutual acquaintance who assaulted an unnamed third party.  I’m hoping she names the people as by then she has the attention of not just myself, but the entire carriage.

Her discourse is interrupted by the conductor and I then have the excitement of showing her my e-ticket.  I hold up my phone, she holds up hers and the flaw of the system then becomes apparent — a moving train is not exactly a smooth platform.  However, eventually the technology works and my ticket is accepted.  With a “Thank you, Mr Barkham” she moves on.  Hold on, the QR code includes my NAME?  With a shudder at what other secret information the code may hold, I return to my book.

When we get to the delight that is Reading Station, I have 5 minutes to make my connection.  Or have I?  When I get to platform 7b (back again, like a particularly nasty curry), the signs aren’t working so I have no idea whether my train has been or gone.  I check and confirm this is the right platform – and that my connection is running 7 minutes late.  This makes life easy here — but not at Winchester where I had an 11 minute gap between trains.  If this one is delayed much further, I won’t make that connection.  I now become convinced that the rail network is deliberately taunting me.

The train arrives and I pile on to another largely empty train.  As we proceed, the trolley lady arrives.  Though as she is the quietest trolley lady ever, I nearly miss her as she moves ninja-like down the aisle.  She is clearly trying not to disturb the businessman halfway down the carriage who is loudly talking on his phone so as she passes me she apologetically whispers “anything from the trolley?”  After she moves on, even the businessman goes quiet and we head south in silence.

The silence is broken by an overly loud announcement over the tannoy.  “Arriving now at Basingstoke, Basingstokeaaaaah.”  I have no idea why he chose to add the extra syllable but it has been so quiet on here that it just stands out even more.  This is clearly his way of doing things though and on time we arrive at “Winchestaaaah”.

The train arrives in good time for me to grab a cappuccino and a cherry bakewell to fortify myself for the longest stretch of the trip – the 2 hour journey to Weymouth.  The coffee is really tasty (far better than Patisserie Valerie).  It’s very pleasant at the station as the sun is still blazing away and I hope it will be like this tomorrow as Portland is going to be very exposed.

This train apparently stops everywhere and is much busier.  I manage to snag a double seat to share with my rucksack and settle down.  The level of conversation is much more normal, though seems loud after my two silent trains.  Behind me are two Germans who are young, loud and mildly annoying.

I look at the extensive list of stations we are stopping it and realize this is the same line I used to travel every couple of weeks when I was delivering training courses in Bournemouth.  So the names are familiar, but little else about them is as I usually slept through most of them.

The Germans behind me keep up a constant stream of conversation.  It’s not that loud and provides a sort of background music – a bit like a Teutonic “Girl from Ipanema.”  What is annoying is the fact that one of them somehow manages to stretch his legs under my seat and kick my feet.  Just how tall is this guy?  He must be like the Slender Man.  While I consider remonstrating with him, I then worry about turning around and finding that it really is Slender Man – so I manfully put up with it and consign such thoughts to the back of my mind where I can pull it out for a suitably disturbing scenario later on.

The train itself is incredibly smooth.  So smooth that it pulls into one station without me actually noticing it stopping.  Mind you, that’s probably due to the fact that the train is moving glacially slowly due to issues on the track ahead.  Normally this would bother me, but I have nothing planned for the rest of the day, so I can settle in to enjoy my book.

My reading is briefly disturbed as someone who was sat on the other side of the aisle decides to swap seats and to take the seat on my table directly opposite me.  And I can see absolutely no reason for him doing this.  I consider it might be for a better view, but the view is exactly the same on both sides of the train.  Maybe he’s a spy and he thinks I’m his contact?  I keenly look forward to being passed a note or to hear him whisper a pass phrase.  I suspect I am going to be disappointed.

The train gets so far behind time that they cancel half of the scheduled stops to try and get it to Weymouth before Christmas.  The Germans slip out at Poole, as does the spy.  The carriage is now mostly empty and I find myself missing Das Madchen von Ipanema.  It is highly relaxing though and, as is usual practice for me on a moving vehicle, I grab some sleep.

As the journey draws to an overdrawn close, the sun disappears and is replaced by cloud.  It now feels much more like December and the light makes it seem much later than 1pm.  I check the forecast for tomorrow – rain.  Oh, won’t that make it a fun day!  The cloud is suitable though – Hardy country doesn’t loom appropriately in the sunshine.

As we arrive at Weymouth I realise that my well-planned packing this morning failed to include my wash bag — time for some emergency shopping.  As I get off the train I can hear gulls and smell the sea.  I also reflect on the fact that I’ve been on three trains and only had my ticket checked once — and as there is no barrier at Weymouth, I walk straight through the station and into the town.

A seaside town in December is a strange place.  There is a general atmosphere of desuetude as I wander through an extremely pointless subway to get to the beach.

After I posted some of my photos, someone comments that it looks remarkably like Russia.  I can kind of see what they mean.

I find my B&B, but it’s too early to book in so I head off to the south and find the centre of Weymouth.  It’s all pretty boring and standard and I can’t really see anything here which would make me rush to Weymouth as a holiday destination.  Then again, it is December so it’s probably not at its’ best.  As I walk through the shopping centre there are other people shuffling along while one of the street drinkers plays Christmas Carols on a penny whistle.  It’s remarkable haunting and a great way to make carols sound seriously creepy.

I finally find a pub to grab some lunch in.  I’m the only customer and drag the two barmaids away from what must have been a fascinating and stimulating conversation judging by the poisonous glares I am given when I have the temerity to disturb them.  When I order food, the barmaid snaps “What table are you sat at?”  as though I was going to disappear in the seething mass of humanity that is going to miraculously appear.  I point at one and she stabs in the number with all the subtlety of Graham Norton on Eurovision Night.

While I’m waiting for what will undoubtedly be a disappointing burger and chips, she is vindicated when 2 other customers arrive and sit at a table.  Clearly she would now be completely unable to remember which of us is which.  Luckily as she had written down the table number, she manages to bring me my dinner — which is surprisingly good, although they’re really mean with the chips.

Given the extremely unwelcoming staff, I then head off to my B&B – the Redcliff  (https://www.redcliffweymouth.co.uk/).  I meet Sue the owner who is really friendly.  Although the room is small with a lovely view of a back yard, it’s clean and nothing to grumble about for £29.70.  The only sticking point is that breakfast is served from 08:30 and I want to catch at 08:22 bus.  Sue promises to get me some toast.

I have a relax and a doze before heading out to find some dinner.  A friend I’ve been chatting to online has warned me that the forecast is dreadful for tomorrow, so it looks like I’ll be getting very wet.

I do some checking online and end up at the Homemade Pie and Ale House (http://www.thehandmadepieandalehouse.com/).  The food is excellent and I have a fine steak and ale pie.  My only complaint is that it is served on a remarkably stupid plate.

I pass this feedback to the barman who nods and laughs  “Yes, lots of people say that.”  So change the damn plates then!  But seriously, if you visit Weymouth, this place is right by the train station and the food is very tasty.

Now replete I walk back to the Redcliff.  As I do, I pass hotel after hotel full of diners obviously having Christmas meals.  Just as obviously they are all OAPs and it feels like I have stumbled into Heaven’s waiting room.  With a feeling of “there but for the grace of God”, I head to my room.

Day Two

I sleep well despite the incredibly loud plumbing.  I check outside and it looks moist…though not actually raining so I hope that my friend is wrong and I’m going to get away with it.  So I dive into the shower – which turns out to be the first mistake of the day.  It turns out that as I’m at the top of the house, I have to run the shower for quite some time before it becomes hot.  So I’m standing there – too cold, too cold, too cold, ahh fine, fine, fine, too hot, too hot too HOT!!  And now it’s too cold again.  Despite my struggles with the plumbing, I get showered and dressed and then try to make a discrete exit from the house.  Now my three-ton walking shoes are a definite liability as they are also incredibly loud – not just from the clump as they hit the floor but from the way they creak loudly.  So I’m pretty sure I wake everyone up as I exit the building.

I queue up for my bus with a group of delightfully garrulous schoolchildren and we head off for Portland.  As I had (as usual) done no research I assumed that Portland would be relatively small, so I’m surprised as the bus passes Chesil Beach and I see the island rising up in front of us with the houses of Portland clinging to the side of the steep hill like limpets.  As we pass the small harbour I overhear someone saying that they are planning to have cruise liners stop here.  I find that hard to believe as there is nothing here.

The bus continues through Portland which reminds me more and more of the towns in the Lake District.  It then passes into some farmland followed by what can best be described as a massive council estate.  I’ve asked the bus driver to let me know where the best place to get off is and he drops me in the middle of the estate, directing me down a lane that all the school children are heading down.  They seem to be heading for a prison on the top of a hill — as I get closer it becomes clear that this prison is in fact their school.  It also becomes clear that I’m getting some very odd looks from the parents escorting their children to school, so I put on my best “I’m not a serial killer look” and head on.

The path heads in completely the wrong direction and winds through the council estate.  I am the only person walking around and see very few moving vehicles, so it starts to feel as though I’m on one of those fake towns that the Americans dropped nukes on just to see “what would happen.”  Eventually, the path leads onto a more rural road and along a clifftop towards Portland Bill.  Bleak is a good word to use here.

There’s quite a wind coming off the sea but luckily the rain that was forecast has decided to keep clear, so I have what can best be described as a bracing walk down to Portland Bill lighthouse.

No, that’s not it – that’s somewhere for watching birds.  I’d thought it might be Portland Bill initially, but then as I got closer, I could see the real lighthouse in the distance.  As I get closer, I find a pub that clearly could have been the template for The Slaughtered Lamb.

Basically, everywhere around here would be a great place to murder someone.  With that cheery though in mind, I plod on and finally approach Portland Bill lighthouse.

I’m sure this are is usually busy.  Today it’s just me and 4 men who are lurking suspiciously around their car.  I wonder what they’re doing, and then find out as they launch a drone and fly it around the lighthouse.  It’s having as many problems with the wind as I am, so it’s not up for long as I head out to the point.

This would be a great time to grab something to eat, but there is absolutely nothing here, so I head back towards the nuclear council estate.  This time, though, I decide to take the coastal path.  It’s a very bracing clifftop walk with the stretch of Chesil Beach visible in the distance.

It’s a great walk back and I manage to find myself at the bus stop I was dropped off at – and I arrive just in time to sit on the bus.  As I open my new book “Grave Secrets by Charlaine Harris), I am distracted by a family who are getting very excited as one of them has worked out how to gamble on his phone.  I never realised people could get quite that excited at winning 14p.

The family soon leaves and it then becomes clear that this is the OAP bus as I am soon the only person on the bus that wasn’t alive during the Second World War.  As I try not to listen in to June and her concerns about her health, I look up to see on old lady giving me evils — either I’m sitting in her seat or I’ve accidentally kicked her dog.  I’m not sure which it is, but as she doesn’t have a dog with her I assume it’s the seat thing.  Seeing as she has been able to sit down, I stubbornly stay where I am.

Back in Weymouth, I stagger straight onto a train and begin the ridiculously long journey home.  This time it takes me over 4 hours and by the time I stagger through the door I’m knackered.  It’s only then that I realise that my jeans are covered in mud — which may well be why the old lady was glaring at me!

Anyway, my journeys for 2018 are over.  Q-V will be completed in April/May 2019.  I hope to vaguely entertain you then!

 

Welcome to the blog if you’ve never read it before.  If you were looking for something entertaining and useful, you may well have let the internet lead you down a blind alley.

Once again there has been a delay between my peregrinations and me writing this blog.  There is no excuse for this, and I now find myself in a different flat writing this up.  So, welcome to 2019 and the first of (hopefully) 8 updates this year.  O and P were both completed in early December 2018.  Q – V will be completed by the 16th May 2019.

And so at the start of December I am off again.  I decide to prepare for the journey in the only sensible way – by getting up at 4AM to play Red Dead Redemption 2.  As a result, I am somewhat nervous about my journey being interrupted by train heists but despite this obvious threat I get myself ready for an early start.  At 08:00 I leave the house, the baseball cap and age-appropriate hoody supplemented by a thick green MA1 jacket as it’s pretty cold.  I’ve also packed a towel, having learnt from my trip to Evesham.  As I walk to the station, rain-clouds are looming in the same way that youths in Slough loom around McDonalds.

I arrive in plenty of time for the 08:59 direct train to Oxford – which is, naturally, cancelled.  I’ll now have to use a stopping train, so I give myself solace by grabbing a cappuccino and a bacon bap.  I am momentarily confused by the question “Do you want that heated up?”  I bite back the sarcastic comment that leaps to mind but as I have my breakfast I do have to wonder just how many people decide to have a cold bacon bap.  The platform where I’m waiting is uncomfortably moist and I plunge into my book – Rescuing the Spectacled Bear by Stephen Fry.  It’s the first of his books I’ve read for some time and as usual I’m enchanted by his ability to turn a phrase:  “bowels griping like a Silesian fishwife” particularly strikes me as funny, though I then pause to wonder why they have to be Silesian?

The platform is largely empty with more activity outside the station where three of the street sleepers are indulging in an early morning beer.  Even so, when I get up to throw my rubbish away, my seat is taken from some ninja who appears from nowhere and sits huddled in a lime-green & black parka with little more than his nose showing.    I am reminded that I might need something similarly robust for “P”.  My ruminations are interrupted rudely by the arrival of the train – which then sits there for 10 minutes.  Finally, we are off.   I have a table to myself while on the other side of the gangway three people are crammed around a table.  One has a bizarre interest in railways and he starts recording as the train leaves Twyford station.  This gives him an excellent (if blurred) view of a series of hedges and cuttings.  I can think of no reason why he should want to do this, but he carries on recording all the way into Reading station.

My train at Reading will be leaving (as usual) from platform 7b and so I return to the delights of the stuffy waiting room and the delightfully aromatic toilets – ah, the memories of when I was a neophyte traveler. Reading station has changed though, in that they have now employed a surprisingly aggressive woman to walk up and down the platform and bellow at people to keep behind the yellow line.  I amuse myself by watching as she meanders too and fro screaming at people at the top of her voice and I wonder if she’s ever scared anyone under the train.  Luckily it doesn’t happen today and I board without incident (and without being yelled at).  I’m excited when I sit down as this train has an “at seat catering service.”  I wonder what riveting new approach to service this is and when it arrives it is revealed to be….a lady with a trolley.  Ah the powers of marketing.  I finish my book, which is brief but entertaining and would probably be of interest to two friends of mine who are planning to visit Peru next year.  (Which, of course, I completely forgot until I wrote this up).

On the approach to Oxford I wonder what I’m going to be looking at while I’m there and decide to, as usual, wander aimlessly.  I had considered a walking tour when I was there, but all the ones I found online concentrate on two things: Harry Potter and JRR Tolkein.  Apparently, the second best seat of learning in the world has nothing to offer the traveler except in its’ links to the cinema.  So I decide not to book one.  As a result, when I arrive at Oxford station I start to wander in the direction of the Town Centre.

As I head in, I find I quite like this town (much though I really want to dislike it).  It’s relatively calm and every street seems to have a nugget of interesting architecture for me to take poorly framed photos of.  On the way in, I find myself near Oxford Castle, so decide to have a look inside.

I find that tours are at specific times and while I’m considering this, I head into the gift shop where I am assaulted by a ton of Harry Potter rubbish.  Seriously, did nothing else happen here?  Buying nothing but a bookmark, I head onward, grabbing another poorly framed photograph on the way.

As I pass the Town Hall, I spot the memorial to the fallen in WWI.

Unlike other places, Oxford seems to have decided to hide theirs away in a corner.  Shame as I think they’re quite evocative.

Oxford contains the two things I had expected to see: impressive architecture and annoying people on bicycles.  It has both in abundance.  I resist the temptation to clothes-line a particularly annoying cyclist, and concentrate on enjoying the casual way that interesting architecture is around every corner.  It’s a bit weird though as so much has been re-purposed that it’s difficult to tell what buildings are actually for.  At the corner of St Aldate’s four such buildings have been converted into banks and as I walk down the road I only belatedly realise that I have just walked past the Town Hall rather than another branch of Nat West,

But as I head out towards the playing fields, the sun comes out to drive off the rain – that eye-wateringly bright sun that we get in winter (which, as we all know, is coming) and which means I am wandering around squinting at things and making half of my photographs pointless due to the glare. There are still some seriously great sights though.

Just around the corner from this magnificent edifice, I pass a tour group just as the tour guide says “Has anyone here heard of Lord of the Rings?”  I briefly regret not having my bound copy with me so that I can hurl it at his head.  Is this place just about Potter and Elves now?

I wander on muttering dark mutterings to myself and wondering how much it would cost to put out a contract on Peter Jackson.  But I can’t stay angry for long (despite everything my friends say) and the beautiful buildings soon cheer me up – especially when I get to Radcliffe Square.

Shame I can’t go inside.  But instead, I head around the corner to the replica of the Bridge of Sighs – which to my surprise is nowhere near anything even vaguely moist.

I then head around the Bodleian library and find myself in front of Blackwells — which is a huge temptation as it is nearly Christmas and I can always do with more books.  (An opinion not shared by the people who helped me move house).  Instead, I head into the town centre for some food.  Having been introduced to a Patisserie Valerie by a friend, I go for that and find one which is rather bizarrely placed around an escalator in a department store.  I order in a bizarre way which is apposite to this blog as everything begins with C – cappuccino, ciabatta and cheesecake.  Clearly healthy.

The food is pleasant but insanely over-priced.  I would also appreciate them actually serving the coffee hot, rather than at slightly warmer than absolute zero.  I, of course, do not complain.  Instead I concentrate on a couple of things.  Firstly, I use my newly purchased mobile charger to re-charge my phone — definitely a useful purchase.  Secondly, I start my next book:  Howard’s End by E M Forster.

When I leave the store, the rain clouds are looming and I wander through the town centre.  It’s weird – the place is packed and seems far more like a Saturday than a Sunday.  While wondering what to next I arrive again at the corner of St Aldate’s and spot the Carfax Tower.  Given the chance of an aerial view, I have to take it so I head inside and find yet another tiny spiral staircase.

Despite this, I head up to the top and am rewarded with a truly excellent view of the Oxford.

As I eagerly look around, it’s clear that some people come here for a very different reason.

I could stay up here for quite some time enjoying the mild feeling of vertigo as I peer over the edge – but the rain-clouds have stopped looming and decided to advance on the city.  So it’s time to head back down – at which point I find out that the staircase is far more difficult to negotiate on the way down.

Desirous of not getting soaked, I head back to the station and have a return to Slough via the delights of Reading station.  My slow walk home is under threatening clouds, which rather generously hold back until I’ve got in before starting to bucket down.  I look out and hope that this won’t stick around – “P” is a lot more exposed than Oxford was.