Today’s journey needs a some different preparation.  So, it’s out with the fedora, the trench-coat, the code book and the pen that fires poison darts.  Tucking a note in my pocket that reads Smiert Spiornam, I’m ready to head off for the holiday destination of the Russian Security Services.

It’s a very sunny day but chilly, so the trench-coat would actually be suitable.  However, in order to keep this in line with my other entries I must remain true to myself and so the Age Appropriate Hoodie is deployed prior to leaving home.  I now have a problem.  Because I missed a train last week, I have to throttle down my almost manic impulse to arrive early at the station.  I am marginally successful and I only get to the station 20 minutes early.  I then go through the process of encouraging the machine to part with the tickets I have already paid for and then I head for the platform, nimbly avoiding the purveyor of bland coffee.

As I sit waiting for it, I reflect that this is the first year that I haven’t traveled in shorts – that’s because it’s been too chilly even for me and not (as has been suggested) because there was a letter of complaint in the Slough Observer.  Everyone waiting for the train seem a bit vague – almost as though they’re still hung over.  I think it’s because yesterday was a Bank Holiday and they haven’t got back into rhythm yet.

Whatever the reason, it’s affecting the people on the train as well.  When it arrives, the large group getting off are pitifully slow at doing so.  One woman stands in the doorway looking around vapidly until the person behind her gently pushes her onto the platform.  She then stands directly in front of the doors blocking everyone’s exit, until the same person prods them again and they stumble forward like a new born lamb blinking in the light of a strange new world.  Well, it is Slough.  The people behind also shamble out with mingled looks of shock, wonder and awe upon their faces.  The reason for this becomes clear as they all totter towards the Windsor platform – they are, of course, tourists.

Once I get inside there is already a queue for seats and I decide not to bother.  I’m only going one stop so I lean against the wall and get into The Threepenny Novel by Bertolt Brecht.  I’m so engrossed in it that as we approach Reading I fail to notice the person queuing to get off the train until he decides to push right up against me and nearly knock the book out of my hands.  Considering I wasn’t actually in the way, I’m at a loss for his need to invade my personal space so I content myself with giving the back of his neck a good glare before disembarking.  I do wish I had those poison darts though.

As I’m changing at Reading, die-hard readers of this Blog will know that there’s a pretty damn good chance that I’m going to be heading for platform 7b.  None of the destination boards are working at Reading Station, which is causing carnage, so I decide to head for 7b anyway and as I’m going down the escalator I call up the Trainline to see which platform they think I should be on.  To my shock, they expect me to somehow find platform 2!  2! 2?  Seriously, how can I possibly be expected to find platform 2 amidst all this chaos?  What on earth will I do?  How far is it?  Does it have a disgusting toilet like 7b?  Oh, it’s the platform right beside 7b.  Because that’s how they roll in Reading.  The platforms go like this:  1, 2, 3, 7b.  I just hope they don’t teach maths the same way.

Slightly unnerved already, I remind myself that I am also traveling to Basingstoke, a place so dull that even Gilbert and Sullivan took the mickey out of it:

Margaret. Yes, I know, dear – it shan’t occur again. (He is seated – she sits on the ground by him.) Shall I tell you one of poor Mad Margaret’s odd thoughts? Well, then, when I am lying awake at night, and the pale moonlight streams through the latticed casement, strange fancies crowd upon my poor mad brain, and I sometimes think that if we could hit upon some word for you to use whenever I am about to relapse – some word that teems with hidden meaning – like “Basingstoke” – it might recall me to my saner self. For, after all, I am only Mad Margaret! Daft Meg! Poor Meg! He! he! he!

Luckily when I get there I won’t be leaving the station.  I install myself and the rucksack on a triple seat and prepare to defend against all comers.  This turns out to be unnecessary as the train itself is extremely sparsely populated by the time we leave Reading.  I watch one man as he walks past me to the end of the carriage and then all the way back again.  He’s possibly looking for the non-existent toilets, or it could be some odd local custom.  For I get the feeling that this is a local train.  For local people.

It does mean that I can enjoy the journey undisturbed and I do, also managing to change trains at Basingstoke without having to engage with any of the local people.  I grab a table on the Salisbury train which is, again, very empty and I arrive at Salisbury without incident.

Last week I had someone ask me why I make so much commentary about the people that I see on my journeys.  My answer was split down into several points, but pretty much went as follows:

1. For amusement – without that these blogs would be pretty short and might have to concentrate on the places I’m visiting;
2. To maintain my opinion that I am better than all of the people around me – a not unreasonable assumption given where I live;
3. Because this is more about the journey than the destination.

Points (1) and (3) are probably the ones to take seriously, and in looking at (3) we can open up a whole philosophical debate.  But not with me – you can talk to the bloke with the personal space issues at Reading Station, while I head to the pub.

So, with precious little material to write about so far, I arrive at the rather pleasant railway station at Salisbury.  And the normal question asserts itself  – which way do I go now?  Luckily, after I take two steps, I can see the spire of Salisbury Cathedral towering over the rest of the buildings, and so I head in that direction.

My route soon takes me onto an attractive little park by one of the tributaries of the Avon that is surprisingly tranquil for somewhere so close to the centre of a town.

The park itself is remarkably clean and peaceful with benches everywhere and it feels like the middle of the countryside.  There are no rough sleepers anywhere and none of the normal detritus that I would associate with them.  About halfway through it does occur to me that the poisoning last year took place in a park — maybe that’s why I am virtually the only person using this lovely little place.

But after the Poison Park (allegedly), it’s back onto the streets and immediately you can see the history around you.

(I refer of course, to the building and not the gentleman on the bicycle.  Who really does look like a man on a mission and rather as though he should have a whippet with him.)

I head through the streets and get to the area around the Cathedral.  As is traditional, I manage to find some odd statuary, which doesn’t totally match the area it’s been sited in.

However, it’s all good.  As I’ve been getting closer to the Cathedral the number of people has increased massively and when I get onto the green itself, there are a large number of tourist groups around.  One American child makes me cringe as its’ mother leads it away from the Cathedral and the child yells “Oh my Gawd, it’s just like a Harry Potter film.”  No, small child, it isn’t, because if it was I would be siccing a Dementor on you.  Luckily the cathedral is impressive enough to distract me.

It is quite an imposing edifice.  While it’s not as big as Winchester Cathedral (at least I don’t think it is), the approach to it gives you a much better idea of the sheer scale of the building.  Then, as you go in, you get to see the impressive cloisters.

One of the things I like about Cathedrals is the sense of awe they inspire.  It’s not from the cheek of asking for a £7.50 “voluntary donation” but due to the architecture that does something to cause me to feel genuinely moved.

The Cathedral itself is a study in contradictions – medieval architecture with electronic doors and a very modern font.  The font is amazing.

Water constantly pours from the four corners of the font, yet the surface of the water remains so flat that you can get a perfect reflection of the stained glass window in it.

The font manages to do what the architecture does, and adds to that sense of awe and general impression of the building.

The Cathedral, though, is like many buildings of this type around the country and is asking for donations for ongoing repairs and maintenance.  Unfortunately for my childish sense of humour, Salisbury is currently asking for money to repair their organ.  I mean, good grief, a 55 year old man walking around the cathedral giggling about a series of organ jokes that are going through his mind.  Does it need polishing?  Do they need assistance maintaining their magnificent erection?  The list goes on.  Here are some pictures of architecture to distract you.

Hold on, isn’t that the magnificent organ?

STOP IT!!

So I head out to the Cloisters again where I can go and look at the Magna Carta – which is all very interesting and highly educational.  Probably why some stupid American decides to stand in the middle of the area and say “Well, now what do we do?” in what he clearly thinks is a subtle tone.  He then didn’t care that he was the centre of attention of about thirty people all of whom were doing an excellent job of looking down their nose at him.  I join in, and then head out, wondering indeed what the hell I’m going to do now.

Luckily there is lots to see around Salisbury, so after a harrowing slow-speed chase with a mobility scooter across the green, I head off to see what I can spot and take poor pictures of with my iPhone.

I’ve noticed a lot of people talk about their camera and the lens, exposure time and the like.  So, for those of you that are interested, I’m using an iPhone with normally a slightly smudged lens and the exposure time is as short as possible (especially if there are unsightly youths hanging around.)

I find myself a suitable place for lunch and settle down in the Bell and Crown with a pint of cider and ham, egg and chips.  The pub is (like the cathedral) a study in contrasts as it has low ceilings, big black beams and a roaring fire in the centre of the room (in a fireplace I hasten to clarify), but is playing Frank Sinatra.  But it’s a very nice lunch and I’m opposite something that tells me how they selected the site for the Cathedral.

I wonder whether they can sort Brexit out in much the same way.  If the current potential Conservative leaders would like to start running … 🙂

I then head out to explore the town.  This is a lovely town with tiny, cramped little roads and a slew of old buildings.  It’s great to wander around, but I get the feeling it would be hell to drive around.

Everything here has character, with shops crammed into tiny old buildings and some advertising which is, for once, absolutely honest.

There are a lot of bloody tourists though (and, yes, I get the irony as I am one of them).  I have a very enjoyable wander around the town and find some suitably odd little place.  My favourite is Endless Street which strikes me as suitably Lovecraftian.

But I have an appointment this evening, so I have to head back to the station and I retrace my steps past Poison Park and onto the train station.  My trip back is uneventful with connections made almost perfectly at each stage.  As Reading the whistle is blown the moment I step onto the platform – perfection!

So, S is done and very satisfying it was too.  Salisbury gets added to list of places that I would like to visit again, and I look forward to T.