There is the possibility that I might be accused of cheating (again!). I honestly tried, but there isn’t anywhere in England that begins with X. Some bright spark had already pointed out that using “Ex” instead is perfectly acceptable, so I’ve decided to take this anonymous persons advice. Ok, there was one “X” that sprung to mind.

Actually, I was thinking of a slightly different Xanadu.

As we all know, Kublai Khan is an unfinished poem. As the story goes, Coleridge was writing it in an opium-induced haze and 54 lines in he was disturbed by “the visitor from Porlock”. Porlock (as everyone also knows) is in Exmoor and so it gives me a second link to X (though this may be stretching the rules of logic in the same way that CSI: New York stretches scientific credibility). The tenuous link is enough for me, so I’m off to Porlock.

The distance from Wells to Porlock is 56 miles by road – should be a short journey then. However, Google Maps has already confidently told me that it’s a 16 hour journey! Having played around with things a bit, I’ve managed to get that down to a more acceptable 4 1/2 hours. It’s still longer than it will take me to get to Y, which is considerably further. However, as long as I get a good nights sleep, I’ll be fine.

The latest gift of the Crown at Wells is a very bad nights sleep. My back was aching yesterday and the jelly-like bed seems to have made it worse and I was awake every hour (or that’s what it felt like). I can’t wait to get out of here and get my bus – which is a shame, as Wells itself was very nice. The stay at this particular hotel has definitely soured me on it.

The next obstacle to surmount is the shower. I’ve already got confused by the taps in the bathroom, which leads to the question – which side does the hot tap go on? All my sinks have the hot tap on the left – and that seems to be the norm. Not so in the Crown at Wells, where the hot tap is on the right. Despite having made the mistake several times, I make the mistake again when brushing my teeth and end up with a mouthful of tepid water. I then advance on the technological wonder that is the shower. There are nozzles pointing in all directions and about four dials and buttons to be pressed to get them working. I take a wild guess and twist one, getting the main shower unit working. Excellent. Except, of course, the dial controlling the temperature works in the same way as the taps and each time I try to adjust it, I do it the wrong way. As a result, the shower feels more like some kind of bizarre intelligence test that I’m repeatedly failing. My mood is not the best when I head down for breakfast.

Luckily Mr Miserable from last night isn’t on duty and I head in to see what’s on offer. The service is fast and efficient. Given the fact that there are two of them and I’m the only other person in the dining room, it should be! One is a young guy who is clearly keen to get things right, but must have only started recently so he has to be prompted by his older colleague. But they’re both very friendly and it’s a pleasant change from yesterday evening. I manage to find a fry up that is keto-friendly – sausage, bacon, scrambled eggs and mushroom. I’m disappointed when it turns up – there is only 1 of each item and the mushroom is a huge field mushroom. However, once I get tucked in, I find the amount is about right and the breakfast becomes the best part of my stay.

It’s time to get going. Mr Miserable had last night advised me that the bus stopped near the pub “outside the bank”. Naturally, I’d already found 4 banks close by and wanted some clearer directions. Unfortunately, the staff have no idea so I set out to hike to the bus station. I get there with 10 minutes to spare and hang around with people heading off to school and work. The day is wonderfully overcast and it’s definitely nippy, so the age-appropriate hoodie stays on. I’m still stubbornly wearing shorts though, so my knees are getting some odd looks from the younger generation who have clearly never seen such things before.

I join the school kids on the 376 as we head back to Bristol. Some of the little bastards delightful youngsters have already taken the front seats upstairs, so I sit behind then and try not to look like a sexual predator. Luckily, I bear no resemblance to either a Prime Minister or a prince, so I seem to get away with it. Luckily they get out at the next stop and I retake my favourite seat as we head off. I have 1 hour and 30 minutes to get to Bristol Temple Meads in time for my train. (By the way, it turns out that the advice from Mr Miserable was completely wrong and the bus goes nowhere near the Crown at Wells on its outward journey, so it’s a damn good job I didn’t listen to him).

I split my time between looking at the scenery (mostly dominated by low cloud) and reading 1984 by George Orwell (which is done with thoughts of Ren and Stimpy singing “Happy, Happy, Joy, Joy”). It looks as though it’s going to be miserable weather all day — or does it? In the space of half a mile, there is a mild change:

• 

• 

The journey back is smooth, with the sun staying stubbornly out and very quickly warming the bus up. I confidently stride up to the barrier at Bristol Temple Meads, and my e-ticket doesn’t work. I try several times and then go and speak to the guard, who politely points out that I’ve booked it for the wrong day. Cursing quietly to myself, I scuttle back to the ticket machine. To do so, I have to go against the one-way system, so I get quite a few glares. Given that the alternative would be a jump over the barrier, I decide to ignore them. I get my ticket to Taunton and head back where the guard advises me to get a refund. Once I get to the platform I check this – because they levy a charge on the tickets, they will refund me a grand total of £0.00. Bastards! However, it’s all my fault and I wait for the Plymouth train.

On arrival, the scrum for seats begins. This is the first train that I’ve been on that looks even vaguely normal in terms of the number of passengers. Even so, it’s still only half full and I manage to snag a seat on a table with a booked seat opposite me. A group of three come on and try to impress me with their need to sit together, but I’m having none of it. To be fair, if they’d spoken to me I’d probably have moved (or, at least, that’s what I tell myself) but they try to win the argument by standing around huffing and making loud comments about how nice it would be to sit together. They find some seats and then get stressed about sitting beside each other as they think they’re breaching Covid rules – so why did they want to sit together? I consider getting involved, but then they might ask for my table, so I return to Orwell. They’re given a clue by a couple of younger folk who get on and happily sit beside each other. (It’s actually one ‘young person’ with what seems to be her mother. Either that or they’re both ‘young people’ and one of them has travelled a very hard road.) They then have problems with deciding whether or not they’re allowed to use a luggage rack. Again, I consider helping as I’m lording it over four seats and a table. I continue to channel Mr Miserable and I refrain from assisting.

The train bustles on and is due to reach Taunton with 15 minutes before my bus is due. I’m distracted from Orwell by the sight of one of the young people using their phone to check their makeup. And here was me thinking they were for making calls. The weather outside is now blazing sunshine – I seem to have fallen on my feet with the weather.

Taunton is reached with no issues and it’s a short walk under the insalubrious railway bridge to the bus stop. At the end of the road, I can see the crappy hotel I stayed in 2 years ago for Q. And 2 years has done nothing to make this area look any less crappy. The queue slowly builds up, with me being the only person not in the Blue Rinse Brigade. The bus arrives and I chivalrously let everyone on before me. To be fair, two of them were here first. The other five weren’t and I give all but one my best glare as they totter onto the bus. The one who gets a smile instead is a lady who came up 5 minutes ago and asked me if the Minehead bus had gone. She had the good grace to chuckle at my reply of “God, I hope not” so I let her get on before me, even though she tries to let me go first.

I sort of regret it as I get one of the seats with no leg room which means I spend the next hour with one leg in the aisle and the other stuck out to my right as though I was about to straddle a large horse, or I’d been cycling far too long.

The day is gorgeous now, although still chilly when out of the sun. The age-appropriate hoodie got stowed at Bristol Temple Meads, but with the windows open it’s decidedly chill inside the bus. The scenery on the way is fantastic – if you like rural scenery. We pass the scene of my Quantock hill walk and plough on to Minehead. On the way I check the timetables and find that the Porlock bus runs only every 2 hours. This journey is becoming quite a slog! But as we approach Minehead, I get distracted by the bizarrest place that we drive past.

This is visible from the road and is totally out of place. As we head on, I can see that it’s a National Trust property and I would love to look around it some time in the future. For now, the bus heads into the delights of Minehead.

I have a one hour wait at Minehead, so I succumb to the lure of Costa Coffee and a cheese and ham toastie. (I feel the keto diet slipping a little more, but don’t care. I’m on holiday, dammit!) I head out for a wander round. I know virtually nothing about Minehead – except that there is a Butlitz here, so I’m not expecting very much.

I wander down what the Avenue where the shops are all looking a but run down and sad. I have been feeling a bit guilty that Porlock might not actually be in Exmoor, but then I see this.

See – Exmoor. Feeling validated, I then start to worry about Local Products made by Local People.

I decide not to challenge Tubbs and head on, to where I find an attractive little park. The weather has remained sunny and is now heating up and loads of people are taking advantage of it. I wander through and end up on the seafront.

Where the tide is, apparently, out. I turn to the right, and there across the bay it lurks: the horror that is…

(At least, that’s what I assume it is.) Not wanting to get any closer, I head back up through the crowded streets. It’s really busy here. This is the first place that I’ve been with crowds wandering around since Covid and it is a little off-putting. What is clear is that there are two types of people in Minehead: octogenarians and people with Northern accents. The former are bundled up against the cold (or lack of it), the latter are (like myself) displaying pasty white knees and are probably going to get badly burned before the day is done.

I head back to the bus stop, where a somewhat strangely dressed man (yes, I know, pots and kettles) asks me where I’m going and then gives a long and involved explanation of how the bus goes round a loop in Minehead and it’s important to get it at the right stop. Which this is. When I say “strangely dressed”, he’s completely muffled up in a heavy coat and wearing a tattered woollen hat and wellington boots. Everything he wears is the colour that I associate with the homeless. He seems harmless though, so I wait for the bus and observe with amusement as he confuses several other people in the same way he has me.

The bus arrives and my advisor tries to let me get on first, but I’m having none of it. He gets on and starts an animated conversation with the driver and some bloke whose job seems to be to stand by the bus driver and distract her. I go to pay and am surprised when I have to use cash. CASH!! CASH?!?! What is this, the Dark Ages?!?! Luckily, I actually have some. My advisor sits near the front and the animated conversation continues. It turns out he’s called Andrew and everyone seems to know him. Maybe this is me in ten years time! No – people seem to like him.

My final leg of the day finishes at Porlock. Porlock is a small village that straddles the A39. The main road is ridiculously narrow with incomplete pavements and there is a huge amount of traffic which makes walking up the road a bit of a thrill.

But exploring a bit is well worth it as while dodging the traffic, I find a cheese shop, a book shop and the obligatory Lorna Doone Hotel. (Can I anyone tell me why I think that should be said in a Scottish accent?).

On a bend in the road (oh yes, just to add to the fun there are several blind bends as you head along the road), I find this interesting little church.

The most interesting thing is the name: this is the church of Saint Dubricius! No, I hadn’t heard of him either. But according to Wikipedia:

Dubricius or Dubric (Welsh: Dyfrig; Norman-French: Devereux; c. 465 – c. 550) was a 6th-century British ecclesiastic venerated as a saint. He was the evangelist of Ergyng (Welsh: Erging) (later Archenfield) and much of southeast Wales.

So, there you go. I’m none the wiser. I continue up the hill and find a lovely looking building that looks right down the hill I’ve been walking up.

To my delight, this is where I’m staying tonight! But it’s way too early to book in, so I decide to take a walk into the surrounding countryside. The village hall is just down the road and has a tourist centre. In there, I get the obligatory bookmark and a copy of this:

Local Walks? For Local People?!?!

Ignoring my inner concerns, I find a 3 1/2 mile circular walk that goes to Bossington and I head out. The initial stages are through a residential area, but within 15 minutes I’m outside Porlock and into the countryside.

The book I’ve bought is pretty good and the paths are clear and take me down to where they intersect with the South West Coast Path. This is clearly signposted in both directions, which re-assures me as I’m planning to walk part of it in Z. But for now I head on towards the shoreline. The guidebook says that this section can be treacherous and muddy. Confident due to the blazing sunshine, I head onwards.

Doesn’t look too bad does it? But what looks like dry earth was actually slick mud. It also turns out that the trainers I’m wearing have absolutely no grip on them. I persevere and after two near falls, I find myself clinging to the barbed wire fence when a woman walks up accompanied by her spaniel. She cheerfully informs me that it gets much worse further on and then nearly falls over herself. Discretion is clearly the better part of valour here, so I head back to the junction with the South West Coast Path. Sat just by it is a man who hasn’t moved since I walked past 10 minutes ago and who has clearly been watching my inelegant progress. Without any emotion he asks me where I’m going and he gives me some directions. I head off and when I look back, he’s disappeared. Suspecting he might be a pisky, I wonder if he’s given me bad advice, but head on anyway.

The alternative path takes me across some fields and then up to some abandoned kilns and the massive shingle bank on the shore.

As I look across the channel I can hear the faint wails of the damned from the land in the distance – this is the closest I’ll get to Wales this trip, thank goodness.

It is very hot now and I wish I had some sunscreen with me – given the recent weather, I never thought I’d need it. I head on to Bossington which is a National Trust village, and very attractive.

• 

• 

I ignore the temptations of the tearoom at Bossington and head back to Porlock. It’s a lovely walk back and I reward myself with a pint of Thatcher’s Gold at The Castle. Exmoor so far has a big tick. It’s been a very enjoyable visit. I finish with a wander around the lanes of Porlock and find that they have some bizarre naming conventions.

It’s now time to book in and I head for the Rose Bank Guest House (https://www.rosebankguesthouse.co.uk/). They get points immediately as I’m walking up the steps to it when the manager (Chris) walks up and says “Are you Andy?” Alright, they only have three guests, but it makes me feel immediately welcome. Like today, I’m going to have to be up early and so I’ll miss breakfast. Chris is more than helpful and (unlike Mr Miserable) allows me to settle my bill now and then takes me up to my room, which is their only single room. To describe it as bijou would be generous – there’s just enough room for me to lie on the floor for my stretches – but it’s clean and inviting and exactly what I need. There’s also wifi!! Rose Bank is a lovely place to stay and if I’m ever back in the area, I’ll definitely stay here again.

Chris recommends the pub next door for dinner and so my evening is spent at The Ship (aka the Top Ship). Apparently Coleridge used to drink here. The name is odd as rather than being at the top of a hill, it’s at the bottom of one. The hill that goes up from here is (apparently) the steepest road in the country.

The food here is not bad at all. Keto gets thrown out the window and a pint of Cornish Gold accompanies my calamari followed by burger and chips. I feel quite bloated by the time I’m done and I head back to the Rose Bank after a quick look at the legendary hill and a sensible decision not to try and scale it before bed.

I don’t have a brilliant nights sleep – nothing to do with the Rose Bank, but I caught the sun a little yesterday. Also, I’m decidedly uncomfortable internally, which I put down to yesterdays over-indulgence in carbohydrate. My system just isn’t used to it. The tiny en-suite bathroom has a shower, which is as fiendishly complicated as the one at the Crown. I manage to work it and discover that they also have their taps the wrong way round. Or is it me that’s got it wrong? It would be bad to be plummeted into an existential crisis by something so trivial, so I plough on with my packing.

I’m up bright and early for the 08:00 bus. I have to catch it as the next one is at 09:40 and the journey home is going to be long enough anyway. That means I miss breakfast. It’s a shame as I like the Rose Bank a lot and would like to spend more time here. Chris pops out to see me off and tries one final time to convince me to stay for breakfast. Regretfully, I stick to my guns and head for the bus stop.

It’s been raining overnight and more is predicted for today. Hopefully I’ll be spending most of the day in some kind of shelter. Before I leave, I plan to have a quick look over their second hand book sale which is right by the bus stop. Unfortunately it’s on the other side of a locked gate – which is probably just as well! I’m on a new book anyway: Walking In and Around Slough by Stuart Montgomery. Not quite the same as walking around Porlock, but I’ll probably get more use out of it.

I’m stood half reading and half watching the swifts dart in and out of the eaves of the cottage opposite. It occurs to me that I haven’t seen anything like that for years – one of the problems of living in a town, I guess.

I’m a bit worried about the bus. The sign on the stop says that it’s a 16 seater – so presumably that’s a maximum of 8 passengers due to Covid regulations. If this gets used by children going to school, there might not be enough room for me. As a backup, I’ve checked some local taxi numbers.

It turns out I needn’t have worried. The bus is empty. My being here is a relief for the driver who otherwise would have no-one to tell about the problems he’s having with his teeth and his frustrations with the NHS. Which are many and detailed. He holds up most of the conversation for the one hour journey with me nodding and making encouraging noises. I feel very quite Palinesque as I maintain a mask of polite interest.

He’s very handy though and he pulls up between regular stops to allow me to get out beside the bus stop that I’ll need. I’m planning to grab a Costa coffee, but check the timetable and find I only have 10 minutes to wait rather than the 40 I was expecting. Coffee-less I wait, and then find the sodding timetable is wrong and my original expectation was correct.

The bus finally arrives and the people who arrived after me actually let me get on first. The bus journey is miserable as it’s raining solidly now and the bus gets crowded, with (for the first time) people sharing seats with strangers. Social distancing appears to be optional if the weather is bad. Luckily a combination of my glare and the rucksack on the seat beside me keeps me sat alone.

By now, I really need a coffee and something to eat. I get onto the platform at Taunton with 10 minutes to spare – to find that the coffee shop on the platform is closed. The train due goes direct to Reading, but I have two tickets to cover the journey which assume I change at Bristol. I have a sneaking suspicion that my ticket won’t be valid on this train, so I ask a surprisingly helpful guard. He confirms my fears – I will have to wait for a later train. It’s only 11 minutes, but it stops more often and so will add an hour to my already lengthy journey.

It does give me the time to head over the to main station building and get a coffee and a sausage roll. The barista gets brownie points by complimenting me on my watch and I head back to the platform. The sausage roll is bland and packed with carb guilt. I can’t tell what the coffee tastes like as it’s scaldingly hot and I feel my taste buds pack their bags and head off on their own holiday.

I wander onto the train and steal a seat that’s been booked from Exeter to Derby, rationalising that if it was being used someone would already be sat there. I would normally change at Bristol Temple Meads, but the Trainline reckons my fastest route is to stay on this train until I get to Bristol Parkway. Sounds good to me – although I have a niggling concern that both my tickets specify Bristol Temple Meads.

The announcements on this train are decidedly odd. We get a long, rambling one about putting large items on their side in luggage racks to prevent them “dancing around” the carriage. He then goes on to remind us to keep masks on unless we are one of the “very small number” of people who have a genuine medical requirement not to wear them. By the way he stresses “very small number”, he clearly has some deep-seated feelings about this. I decide to make sure I have a cup of coffee on the go for the entire journey so I have a valid excuse for removing my mask.

When we get to Bristol Temple Meads, I bottle it and get off. I head to another platform and manage to find a departures board for Slough. I then leg it back to the train I just got off, as it’s the best route to take. Naturally, I get onto a different carriage and hope no-one will notice. Next time, I’ll trust the Trainline!

The trains today have all been quite busy – just like normal travelling. But I still have two to get before I get home. This has definitely become a bit of a mission.

I grab my connection and settle into one of about 24 seats that are all marked as reserved from Swansea to Paddington and have no-one sat in them. Diagonally opposite me, a man with a hoodie (hood up) and body warmer looks at me furtively and then returns to his previous hunched posture, looking like Scrooge warming himself in front of a candle. He cannot be comfortable and for some reason, his posture reminds me of a drug dealer. I then realise that he’s furtively using his phone. He’s also furtively not wearing a mask. He has a can of Coke in front of him as a “mask defence”, which he then ruins by falling asleep.

The Drug Dealer and I both get off at Reading. I sally forth to platform 10a, while he shuffles off to wherever his clients are. (I feel a bit guilty here – the poor guy is probably a deacon). As I head for the escalator I pass a rather large lady who is wearing a worryingly tight black tracksuit that has white writing on it. As I approach I’m disappointed that the writing doesn’t say “What were you thinking?” (To be fair, I’ve been shopping at “What Were You Thinking? for years).

As I wait for my final train of the day, a man just down from me entertains himself (and me) by practising his dance moves. Patrick Swayze, he ain’t. But he seems happy. Maybe he just met the Drug Dealer.

I then pass another man happily singing loudly, safe behind his mask. The Drug Dealer has been busy.

Though, I have to admit that several places have been treated to my version of Maybe This Time, safe in the knowledge that if people can’t see my lips moving, no-one will know it’s me. Yeah, right.

On the final leg, I snag a table again. Mentally yelling “HAH, SUCKERS!” I settle down for the last stage of the odyssey. The announcer puts an odd emphasis on “Slough” which makes two of my fellow passengers laugh as if they could not understand why anyone would get off at Slough. The answer is simple – because we have to! They seem to be part of a group of 9 East Asian women that are travelling together. The sniggering and giggling gets old really quickly. Luckily they’re all glued to their phones, so they stay relatively quiet. Except for their desperate need to show their friends the gem they’ve dredged up from the internet. No, on reflection, they’re just fucking irritating.

Luckily I don’t have to share the train with them for long and after a short walk home, I collapse in front of the TV. Only 2 to go, and these upcoming journeys are the longest I’ve taken so far. So far this year has been pretty good and I have high hopes for them.