As I head out for U, it’s a bright sunny day and it’s already warm.  So the Age Appropriate Hoodie gets put into the backpack rather than wearing it.  I know that today will involve some walking – somewhere around 14 miles – so boots are on rather than trainers.  Clearly a walk in this weather needs some planning and forethought, so I’m going to pick up sunscreen, food and drink on the way to the train station.

Or that’s the plan.

As my regular reader(s) will know, things rarely go to plan and today is no different.  I have a small chore to complete before I get to the station and that ends up causing me no end of difficulties.  About a week prior to U, I got a text message from my bank (the revered Royal Bank of Scotland) giving me the details of three transactions that they felt might be fraudulent.  One of them was clearly odd, and so I told them and they called me to resolve the issue.  Their plan for resolution is simple – cancel my bank card and send another one to me.  Now that causes me a bit of a problem as I don’t have any credit cards and no other way of paying for things.  Not to worry, the bright and chirpy woman tells me, the card will only take three working days to arrive and in the interim I can get money from any branch of RBS.  Ah, small problem there : the RBS in Slough has closed.  That’s OK, she tells me brightly and chirpily, you can use Nat West instead.  She then confirms that the new card will be sent to my home address – at which point I have to admit that I haven’t told my bank that I’ve moved house.  Again, this will be no problem and she brightly and chirpily informs me that the card will be sent to the local branch of Nat West and I will be emailed and texted the day before arrival so that I can go and pick it up.

It is now a week later, and the only email I’ve received from RBS is one telling me that the delivery time is 5-7 days.  That’s OK, because it should still arrive in time….but it doesn’t.  So I head into Nat West and stand outside with the other ne’er-do-wells waiting for the doors to open.  Despite being 10 minutes early I’m third in the queue when the doors open.  Nat West has an exciting new approach to dealing with customers so the teller windows are all vacant and instead 2 women are stood behind little desks where they greet us with all the anticipation and excitement that the Christians greeted the lions in the arena.  There are also a lot of other staff walking around, avoiding eye contact and not serving anyone.

The person ahead of me seems to be paying in yesterday’s take – all of which is in small denomination coins and it takes an age for me to get served.  I explain my problem to the clerk and she clarifies a few things for me:

1. RBS cannot send new cards to a Nat West, they can only be sent to a home address or to a branch of RBS;
2. Because of (1), the new card has been sent to my old address and will need to be cancelled;
3. She can give me some money, but I’ll have to speak to her colleague about the address change.

Mentally cursing the bright and chirpy (and clearly useless) woman who spoke to me on the phone, I get the money and she cancels my second card and orders me a new one  — which will take a week to arrive.  I then have to queue to speak to her colleague.  While I’m waiting there is a small scene when someone comes in and refuses to queue as “I was waiting for a bloody hour yesterday.” I feel a great deal of sympathy as I’ve been here for half an hour already.  I eventually get served and am asked exactly the same questions before she rather grudgingly changes the address.  She also confirms my new card will be heading there.

It’s now too late to stock up and so I head for the train station – I’ll have to grab something at Swindon.  On the way down I walk past a large office building where three people are trying to clean up the trail of motor oil that has been trailed across the length of pristine, clean concrete in front of their main entrance.  It’s only when I get close that I realise it’s not motor oil – it’s dried blood.  Have I mentioned how much I love living in Slough?

And then I face my next problem – all of my tickets have been pre-booked using my bank card.  Which I now don’t have.  Luckily there is no queue and I speak to a bright and chirpy cashier, who (unlike the woman from RBS) knows what she is doing.  She takes a look at my Trainline App on my phone and prints off the tickets for both U and V.  I’m temporarily distracted as the man at the next window takes his tickets, looks around and says “So where do I catch my bus?”  The assistant then explains that he has just bought a train ticket and that travelling to London by bus would take considerably longer.  I want to know what happens. but my train is due so I rush off and recklessly take the stairs without using the banister, despite the automated message telling me off.  I get to the platform just as the train arrives, dive on and grab myself a table.

I take out today’s book: All Quiet on the Western Front by Erich Maria Remarque.  Good though it is, it’s not enough to distract me from the three women on the table opposite who are having a machine-gun speed conversation that in 5 minutes goes from the dangers of the internet, to sambuca hangovers, to holidays.  Everything is punctuated with gasps of “OMG” and “nooooo”.  They are probably very nice people – though my opinion of their intelligence goes down further when we approach Maidenhead and they keep commenting what a huge distance it is from London.  OMG.  Nooooo!  There is blessed silence when they disembark at Twyford and I can retreat into the relative calm of the Great War.

At Reading I change and to my shock I have to catch a train from platform 9!  Surely there must be some mistake?  As with my train at Slough, the train arrives as I step onto the platform so I get in and grab another table.  This one is reserved – but as it was reserved from Paddington I figure I’ll take my chances.  I’m in the Quiet Carriage, so will be able to read in peace.  Or I would, if it wasn’t for the woman with the loud screeching toddler.   She clearly thinks that this won’t disturb anyone — nor does it when she starts a loud conversation on her phone.  One of my fellow passengers politely points out that she’s not meant to use her phone in the Quiet Carriage, and her response makes it clear that she is a mother and she’ll use her phone wherever she fucking likes.  (Her stress, not mine).  I decided to bravely not get involved and go back to the war.  It’s safer there.

Swindon is a necessary evil (much like Reading Station, football and Boris Johnson.  No wait, I’m not sure he’s necessary, just somehow inevitable.  Football isn’t necessary either, so all in all this was a pretty bad set of examples.  Except for Reading station.)  Anyway, Swindon is as lovely as it was when I passed through it on the way to Avebury.  Like them, I head for the bus station delayed only slightly by an Evil Wheely Woman who proves that not all women can multi-task as she has to stop walking to answer her phone.  Which, naturally, she does somewhere that other people cannot get past her.

Anyway, my plan is now to get supplies at the bus station – except that the bus I want is already here.  So I queue up and watch the person in front of me get hell from the driver for paying with a £20 note.  So, I smile winningly as I present my £20 note and buy a return trip to Watchfield in the hope that this will mollify him somewhat.  He doesn’t shout at me – probably because I’m twice the size of the previous customer – and I head upstairs to grab the front seat.  The weather is still glorious and I really wish I had some sun cream with me.  Hopefully I’ll be able to buy something at Watchfield before I start walking.

Two old ladies take the seat opposite me and seem to take the same joy in travelling on the front seat of the bus that I do.  They keep up a constant dialogue about the villages we’re passing through, punctuated with the occasional burst of laughter.  That must be what being happy feels like.  I note that down, then head off the bus at Watchfield – where, once again, there are no shops.

I’m just going to have to hope that I pass somewhere on the way, so I head off.  (Note to my younger readers – do not do this yourself.  No sensible walker should ever head off without food, drink, sunscreen, suitable clothing, anti-lion cream and a passport.  The fact that I have none of these things is irrelevant.  Do as I say, not as I do.)

Initially, I’m walking in the shade of trees and a high fence that forms the boundary of the Academy of Defence.  I spend quite some time imagining what kind of Harry Potter-esque activities go on in there.  But not too much as the walking is easy and I make good time before turning off into a B road with no pavement where the local traffic seems to like to pound along as though there were on a motorway.  I have to keep my wits about me and I spend a lot of time standing on verges and in hedges as the traffic goes past.

The road is fairly flat and gets narrower and, thankfully, less busy.  The country side is all farmland and after walking for a couple of miles I get my first glimpse of my destination.

And yes, it’s that hill in the distance.

It is incredibly peaceful and once I’m away from Watchfield, there is very little traffic.  The farmland seems to go on for ever.

.. and ever

I get quite excited as I go under a railway and see a sign by the road on the other side.  Surely, it can’t be anything other than a farm shop, can it?  If it is, I can get something to drink there, because I am quite dehydrated by now.  It turns out, that it can be something other than a farm shop and, in fact, advertises the Dog Studio (a canine hydrotherapy and dog grooming centre).  Muttering darkly about “canine hydrotherapy” (presumably that means they bathe them), I head on.  I’m now wondering about the Famous Five books (and their ilk), where all the protagonists do is knock on the doors of cottages and farms and they get given water, cake, biscuits and an adventure.  I suspect I’d get a different response, so I plod on.

Soon after the Dog Studio, I get my first sight of the White Horse – my ultimate destination.

Difficult to see isn’t it?  It’s at the top left of that large dent in the hillside.  It’s quite difficult to spot for one main reason – it’s still a bloody long way away!  I head on, noting the way the road seems to tack across the landscape just to give me a greater distance to walk.

After what seems like an age, I enter the village of Woolstone which is at the bottom of the hill that the White Horse is on.  I’m hoping there is a shop here, but instead I find Shangri-la:

This is also the White Horse and it’s open!!  I head inside where I fortify myself with a pint of Thatchers Gold and convince the landlady to sell me two bottles of water.  There is also a large and friendly Victoria Sandwich on the bar and I go to buy a slice — but they can’t sell me any as it hasn’t been long enough out of the freezer.  I like them despite their attempts to taunt me with cake and they confirm that it’s a 30 minute walk to the White Horse – although it’s only a mile, it’s all uphill.  I’m going to need that cider.

With the landlord faithfully promising to sell me some cake when I get back, I head up the hill, which starts gently and then becomes a 1 in 6.  Remembering the lessons of Q, I take it slow and steady.  The road goes through a band of trees surrounding the village and out into farmland before crossing another road and giving access to some National Trust land with a path paralleling the road.  As I pause to stop and look back across a buttercup-strewn field, I’m reminded of a Stephen Fry joke.

(It’s about 30 seconds in).

The view from here is really spectacular and I get a great view back across the Vale of The White Horse.  As I continue up, I see a large bird of prey as it flies around on the thermals and then perches on a fence post – sorry, no photo (my iPhone isn’t that good!).  I have no idea what kind of bird it is – it’s large and brown with a distinctive light brown (almost orange) bar across its wings and back.  I file it away for later – I have a friend who is bound to know what it is.  I then head up for the final ascent of the hill.

From the top, the view to the north is fantastic.

..as long as you’re expecting English countryside.  If you were expecting the towers of Minas Tirith or Kings Landing, you’re going to be disappointed.

The White Horse itself is virtually invisible from here – which doesn’t stop an American family ignoring all the signs and walking up it.  I sigh, glower at them and head up to Uffington Castle – an earthwork – which is right at the top of the hill.  The Castle itself is a little disappointing, but does give excellent views to the South as well as the North.

It is a fantastic day to be here – excellent weather and nothing to spoil the view.  So I enjoy it, before turning around and retracing my steps.  I head back down to the pub where I receive my reward.

Yes, it was still slightly frozen in the middle.  No, I did not give a shit.

Armed with a bottle of water and reinforced with cake and cider, I begin the long slog back to Watchfield.  And it seems very long indeed.  My feet, shoulders and legs are all aching and this seems like an extremely bad idea.  I finish the bottle of water halfway back and I stagger onwards.

About halfway back, I pass by a field full of crows.  Apart from the shudder I get (courtesy of Mr Hitchcock), I then spot two of the birds of prey I saw earlier attempting to close in.  The crows aren’t having it and a group of them flies up to chase them off – all very impressive and an excellent excuse for a rest.  I’m reminded again to ask my friend what kind of bird it is.  (I did do this and she completely let me down by replying “It’s probably some kind of hawk.”  I could have guessed that myself.)

I realise that if I don’t get going, I’ll just take root here.  So I plod on, my target being these windmills that I last saw in the distance from the White Horse.

(I thought black and white looked artier).

I stagger to the bus stop and am not there for more than 5 minutes when the bus arrives – so I’m very glad I stopped watching the birds when I did.  I can’t face the stairs, so collapse on a seat downstairs.  I almost immediately fall very heavily asleep and only wake up as the bus pulls into the station at Swindon.  I can barely move as both knees have locked up, so I hobble across to the train station.  For the first time today, there is a delay and I have nearly an hour to wait.  That does give me the chance to get to the station shop though and I sit on the platform snacking and going through three litres of water.

On the way back, every train is delayed and at Reading, they change the platform…twice.  On both train I end up crammed into a seat and unable to stretch my legs, so by the time I get back to Slough my knees really hurt.  I stagger home and sink into a hot bath.  Luckily I have a days rest before V.

As usual when setting off on my peregrinations, I check the weather report on the day before and it happily informs me that it is going to be clear until the early afternoon.  And, as I utterly trust the app I use, I check this with the Channel 4 news, who confirm this.  However, like politicians, meteorologists lie – although for very different reasons.  This is borne out when I open the curtains and I see that the weather can only really be described as brillig.  As a result I pack a spare hoody in case the age-appropriate hoody proves insufficient and I lace on the boots rather than the trainers.

The train station is moist and the mood of everyone there matches it.  Except for a group of ebullient American tourists who are undeterred at having accidentally arrived in Slough and are loudly laughing about the rain.  They are also undeterred by the glares they are getting from everyone else in the station who really aren’t awake enough to see the joke.

In my journeys this year, I have noticed that the stations all have regular announcements about care on the stairs.  At Slough it encourages us to “please use the handrail and take care when using the stairs.”  In and of itself, this is inoffensive and a useful reminder for the hard of thinking.  However, in the last 2 weeks I have heard versions of this announcement about a million times.  As a result, I ignore the handrail and walk in a deliberately reckless fashion just to annoy the disembodied voice.

Despite my devil-may-care attitude, I reach the train safely and sit in a packed carriage which is completely silent – except for the obviously very important woman making a series of business calls and someone who types constantly on their laptop.  The three people I’m sharing a table with are all engrossed on their phones.  This luckily allows me to continue with The Threepenny Novel by Bertolt Brecht.  I’m hugely enjoying it, but despite that I keep dropping off and eventually I just give up and go to sleep.

At Paddington, I change to the Bakerloo line for the trip across London to Charing Cross station.  The tube is again extremely quiet – just like my old commuting days.  At Charing Cross there is a convenient pedestrian tunnel to the overland station.  Convenient, that is, as long as you’re planning to trek for a mile and a half.  Clearly I exaggerate, but you can understand my frustration as I am stuck behind someone with a wheely suitcase that somehow manages to block the entire tunnel.

Despite the deliberate attempt by Evil Wheely Woman to slow me down, I get to Charing Cross Station with 5 minutes to spare and grab a seat on the train.  They then announce that at Tunbridge Wells doors will open on the front 10 coaches only.  I look around for some indication of which coach I’m in, but can’t find any.  I’m not too worried as Tunbridge Wells is the last stop, so it won’t exactly be tricky to walk down the train and there’s a very low chance of being trapped on board.  The carriage I’m in is very quiet – there are only 3 of us in here.  Maybe it’s because we’re not in the front 10 coaches?

On arrival at Tunbridge Wells, the weather is still brillig.  (Brillig, by the way, is the term I use when the weather doesn’t seem to be able to decide whether or not it’s going to rain.  And then does.  And then stops.  And then starts again.  It doesn’t happen every time though, it has to be the sort of weather where you would expect to find slithy toves.  I hope that’s helped.)  I have no real plans of where to go, except that I want to have a wander around the Pantiles.

I stand outside the station and almost immediately can see the kind of architecture that I was expecting – grand, impressive and (mostly) converted into shops.

Before I head down to the Pantiles, I spot a flash of green between two buildings and I head over to find myself in Calverley Grounds.

The Calverley Grounds is an attractive little park with some wide lawns, tennis courts and a well laid out ornamental garden in the centre.

It’s a lovely little resource and I’m sure the local residents get a lot of pleasure out of it.  What a shame that the local council has decided to reduce it’s size by 25% to build a car park to service the local theatre.  There’s a sign talking about this near the entrance and as I walk round it seems to me that this council, like the one in Slough, should spend more time developing green amenities like this.

I spot a geocache nearby and grab it but the weather is turning from brillig to downright miserable, so I head for the Pantiles.  I walk down a street that has, as stated earlier, some lovely buildings that have modern shops stuffed into them.

And then I come across the opposite.  As I’m heading down the street, I see ahead of me the modern facade of what is clearly a shopping arcade.  As I get closer I see that I’m wrong.

It would appear that modern church designers have decided to ignore the requirement for the elevation of the soul and instead have focused the most basic human instinct – the desire to shop.  One of things I always find after visiting cathedrals is that I feel inspired and uplifted.  I suspect I wouldn’t find the same in this tawdry effort.  I guess we’re lucky it wasn’t modeled on a McDonalds.

Grumbling about both the weather and the building, I head off down the road.  Just as I get close to the Pantiles, my personal kryptonite strikes – a second hand bookshop.  Half an hour later, my pack is considerably heavier and my wallet is £30 lighter.  My only excuse for the feeble spending is that I have to be able to fit them in the rucksack.  Now, if they made churches look like second hand bookshops, I’d spend a lot more time in them.  With that thought, I head into the Pantiles.

Which is basically a shopping centre.  Granted, it’s an attractive one especially when I become mildly arty and take a black and white photo.

It’s actually very pleasant and quite peaceful – though I suspect it gets highly crowded when the weather is less brillig.  I also suspect everything costs a fortune here.  That doesn’t stop me heading into a pub called “The Ragged Trousers” for some lunch.  I order a pint of the local brew and get quite excited when I’m offered the choice of a jug or a straight glass.  As someone who much prefers jugs, I opt for that only to be told that they’ve run out.  The barman nods over to a table where one person has a jug and there is the implication that they only have the one.  For my younger readers, who might not know what I’m talking about, here is a picture of a jug.

Hiding my disappointment I settle down to a lamb burger to go with my beer.  It’s not bad – but they are definitely trying too hard here.  The much vaunted “artisan” burger is just a burger.  The place isn’t bad – but I I just can’t get over being taunted with the promise of drinking from a jug.  (Look, if you want to know, it’s because they fit into my hands just about perfectly.  And, yes, I thought very hard about that last sentence as the first two drafts came out as though I was molesting someone.)

After lunch, the sun has started to fight its’ way out between the clouds and the danger of slithy toves has been reduced.  I have a good wander round, though I do wonder about the Tunbridge Wells interest in extreme surfing.

There also seems to be a high degree of interest in cosmetic surgery here – I pass three places offering it.  After a good explore, I head back to the train station.  When I avail myself of the facilities nearby, it seems that Tunbridge Wells has a dark underbelly that it’s hiding from the world.

Maybe that’s why they need so many cosmetic surgeries.  Seriously, I took the picture because this is massively under-reported and it’s good to see a local council getting behind some messages to the public about it.

Putting my soapbox away, I head back to the station where I have a largely unremarkable journey home.  That is, until I get to Paddington.  There I board my train, grab a seat that doesn’t have a reserved ticket on it and settle down with Brecht.  A few minutes later, a rail employee comes down the carriage, taking out old tickets and putting in new ones.  As he passes my seat he fumbles around behind me and without speaking, moves on.  When I check, he’s put a reserved ticket on my seat.  Why didn’t the prat say something?  I grumble as I move over.

We head off and we get the most ridiculous announcement I have ever heard.  For some stations, you must be in carriages H, I or J or First class.  For Slough, you must not be in A or B.  B is the quiet carriage.  Some people have reservations in A-E but may not be able to alight at their desired stations.  If alighting at Reading, you must have cerise luggage and walk with a limp.  Ok, I made the last one up, but by the time the announcement was finished, everyone was completely confused.  Including the woman who thought that “Quiet Carriage” meant “let your child run up and down the aisle screaming at the top of his voice while you put your earphones on and do nothing to restrain him”.  For a while he was kept under control by the woman in the seat behind me and I assumed she was traveling with them – no, turned out she was a total stranger who just took some responsibility.  But she gave up as well so he carried on running up and down – and sometimes crawling up and down.  So it was inevitable that when time came to leave the carriage, I would tread on him.  Which I did (accidentally) – and his mother didn’t even notice.

Leaving the worst parent in the world behind me, I head home and get ready for U – I’m going to need the walking boots for this one.