Once again, I have set forth on holiday and felt the need to take notes and then inflict my musings on the Internet in the hope of an elusive but lucrative book deal. Since one of my friends has become a Published Author (the capitals are his), I have been seething with resentment and envy and wait to be discovered by some publisher who has been stranded in a dark corner of the internet due to their triple addiction to Opal Fruits, Emmerdale and the Great British Sewing Bee. This may be a forlorn hope, but it gets me through the long dark winter nights.

Anyway, to return to a more fruitful line of thought I’d better explain how this came about. After the completion of A-Z, I was at a loose end as to what to do this year. I spoke with two of my friends – the Published Author and his Long-Suffering Wife (her capitals) – about a trip that I’d been planning which involved driving from Lands End to John O’Groats and visiting various places on the way. This was to take about 10 days. After some discussion we decided that we were only seeing half of the country and so a far more grandiose plan was hatched which required a total of 21 days, to be done over two years. I definitely want to do this, but I had a few concerns financially. I retire next year and while it is clear that I will have to find another job, it is far from certain what my financial situation will be. As a result, I asked them if we could defer it for a couple of years.

That left me without a planned holiday. I have visited very few places in Europe and so I thought that it would be a good idea to approach it in the same way that I approached A-Z. I had a look online and, before sanity could leap forward and stop me, booked my flights and hotels. The plan was simple: three European destinations in 10 days. What could possibly be a problem about that? Well, two things sprang to mind almost immediately: (1) Covid; (2) It’s just plain stupid. Recklessly, I decided to ignore both of these minor concerns. After all, I’d just spent 5 years travelling around England on my own. The only major difference is the language and, despite my lack of fluency in all three relevant languages (four, actually, but more of that later) I would surely be able to cope. After all, I’d managed perfectly well in Wales, Cornwall and Yorkshire!

All the bookings got done in September last year, and I scheduled the holiday to run from late May to early June. That way, I would get paid part of the way through and I could spread the finances. I also have a credit card that I put one of the hotels on just to make sure there weren’t any problems. Armed with that, I then plunged into the things that now have to be thought about when travelling abroad: Covid Pass, Passenger Locator Form, toiletries in 100ml containers, secure wallet. I rounded it all off with a sneaky holster style thing that would allow me to carry my valuables around with me – perfect as long as I would be wearing at least two layers. (As it happened, it never got used – partially because it was always too warm).

Before all that was done, I’d had to navigate my way through the seat booking system on the plane. On all three I went for extra legroom, and on Easyjet opted for Priority Boarding. Then I found that different airlines have different sizes of allowable luggage in the cabin. I ended up paying for a small bag to be put in the hold, but as the holiday approached decided to go with cabin bags only to stop that enthralling wait in the Arrivals lounge as your luggage takes the OAP equivalent of an Alton Towers thrill-ride.

As usual I packed well in advance … about 2 hours before leaving home. I ended up taking the same bags as I took to Jersey. Consider briefly that I went there for three days, and this time I was packing for 9 days. I was going to travel wearing boots and was packing my trainers. Why I didn’t just take my trainers, I don’t know! This gave me my first packing issue. I put them in the suitcase, at which point it was half full and it was clear that my clothing wouldn’t fit. So the trainers got stuffed into my backpack, and everything else carefully folded into the case, and zipped shut. And then re-packed as I’d forgotten my shorts. And then re-packed again after someone texted me to make sure that the Age-Appropriate Hoody was going with me. I had already made a significant reduction in my normal packing by only bringing one book with me: Independent People by Halldor Laxness. Well, we don’t count guide books do we? We do? Oh, well I had four books then. And several on my iPad.

Everything gets packed in good time and I head down to my friends who are giving me a lift to Heathrow. Heathrow now charges £5 for the pleasure of dropping someone off, so the day starts with an argument about me paying the fiver. I end up sneakily leaving it in their kitchen and we head off to the airport.

I wander in and am immediately accosted by a “helpful person” who directs me to the end of an unfeasibly long queue. This is apparently the “fast track” that we go through if we aren’t booking luggage into the hold. As the line inches forward, the staff amuse themselves by making up rules. The man in front of me is wearing a very smart light blue suit, but seems to have no shirt on underneath. One of the staff yells at him to get his attention and tells him to put on a shirt. To my surprise, he shucks of his jacket and rather shame-facedly gets a shirt out of his suitcase and puts it on. I am now concerned that there may be other clothing rules in play that I am not aware of. Luckily, this seems to have just been a ploy by the staff member to get a good look at his bare torso. Of course, the poor guy is now stuck in line with everyone who has seen this happen. Luckily most of us are English, so nothing is said.

Finally, I get to the front of the line (ok, it was only about twenty minutes, but it seemed longer). There I scan in my boarding pass and join a second queue under a sign cheerfully telling us that it will “only” take 29 minutes to get through security. The line heads forward at the same glacially slow place, interrupted only for people in wheelchairs to be whisked past. There are a variety of signs telling us to empty our pockets, take out iPads and electronic devices, remove jackets and take out our bag of toiletries. As a result, by the time I get to the security desk I feel as though I’m completing a juggling challenge on some particularly ridiculous reality show. After all the signs, they haven’t mentioned watches or belts. As a result the line keeps halting as they have to tell people when they get to the scanner. So, they get added to the items that I am juggling. I put them on the conveyor belt and still get stopped – by my boots. They get removed and then I get to stand in the machine with my hands in the air while the staff look on and make disparaging comments.

Eventually, I get through and recover my luggage – half of which is missing. A very polite lady apologetically checks my toiletries and then with one mighty stagger (I’m still juggling everything), I am through to the departure lounge. It’s taken just under an hour since I was dropped off to go approximately 200 yards. However, it’s time to start the holiday so I wander down to the Wetherspoons for my first highly nutritional meal of the holiday – scrambled eggs on toast. I wash it down with a Pepsi Max, as I’m absolutely roasting.

While I’m eating my breakfast and contemplating my 2 hour wait for the plane, I’ll use the time on a sidebar about airports – specifically departure lounges. Are they all kept at a very high temperature or a high humidity? Because at every one I visited on holiday (including the Eurostar departure lounge), I ended up sweating as though I’d just run a mile. (Which, for me, is a LOT!). Weirdly, I didn’t have the same effect in arrivals lounges. It could be psychosomatic and is part of my nerves around flying …. but why did it happen at bloody Eurostar? It’s very odd and definitely meant that I had an uncomfortable time in the queue at Heathrow. The only thing I had to wipe my face was my handkerchief which was absolutely sodden by the time I got to the Wetherspoons. I seemed to have acclimatised while finishing off my breakfast.

Heathrow tricks me into thinking that things are moving forward by announcing the departure gate an hour prior to the airplane leaving. I obediently head down and grab a seat and wait…. and wait. My wait is briefly broken by the entertainment of a woman who felt the need to play all of us some music on her phone. I’m not sure exactly what it was, but I mentally filed it under “God Awful”. While the staff pretend to be doing something very important (i.e. wait for the plane to turn up), they repeatedly tell us that it is a “very busy flight. Your hand luggage may have to go in the hold.” I’d been warned about this by friends who went to Lisbon recently. I take a firmer grip on my case. Much to my surprise, I go straight through and am soon in line to get to my seat. This is, of course, delayed by people who insist on standing in the middle of the aisle while rooting through their luggage for the handkerchief that they must absolutely have right now and has (of course) slipped down to the bottom. Despite this, I’m soon sat in my seat by the emergency exit with my bag under the seat in front of me and my rucksack in the overhead bin. Ahhh – first hurdle over. I think that I’m going to be lucky and not be sharing the row, but I’m soon joined by a pair of American students. They’re not actually travelling together, but both seem quite friendly.

The cabin staff give us time to settle down before telling us that we’re not allowed to store anything under the seat in front. By that time, none of the bins near us have any room in, so I end up stowing my bag halfway down the plane and on the other side of the flimsy curtain that will later be drawn to shield higher class passengers from us hoi-polloi.

It’s about now that I remember that I dislike flying. I used to be fine with it but when I was working for Fujitsu I travelled up to Edinburgh with a colleague who used to be an Aeronautical Engineer. He was a remarkably bad flyer because, as he kindly explained to me, “I know everything that can go wrong.” And that’s when I started to hate flying.

Despite that, we have an uneventful flight. The student beside me makes a desultory attempt at conversation, but is far more interested in the game on his phone. As am I. I do get a little confused when the pilot announces that we’ll be landing in thirty minutes, although they might take a “short cut”! A short cut? Seriously, how the hell does that work? I’m still mulling on that one when we land at Berlin Brandenberg Airport.

I then have to negotiate passport control. I’m very tempted to try the European route as I still have a euro passport, but decide I’d best be sensible and join the longer queue. This moves pretty quickly though and I soon get to try out my German for the first time. He is visibly unimpressed, but luckily not offended and I’m soon through and heading out of the airport.

I’ve decided to head to the guest house so that I can dump my bag and then maybe head back into the centre of Berlin. The journey isn’t exactly straightforward – train to Sudkreuz, Ringbahn to Hallensee and then a bus. I’ve found all this out from Google Maps – something that I will rely on a lot over the coming days. Though it lets me down immediately by guiding me to what looks like the centre of a large office block. It takes me a little while to work out that the station is underground (largely due to the lack of signs) and I eventually head down to the platform. I haven’t deciphered the way the trains are referred to yet and manage to miss my first train before working out where I need to be to catch the next one.

Part of my confusion has been caused by the fact that I’ve walked onto the platform without going through any kind of barrier. This is the same for all the stations that I used while in Berlin. In fact, no one ever asked to see a ticket. I had bought one beforehand – its called the Berlin WelcomeCard and you can download and print it yourself. It gives free travel on busses, trams and trains throughout Berlin and reductions at certain tourist venues. Well worth picking up for peace of mind if nothing else.

Anyway, the train arrives and to my surprise it’s a double decker. First class seems to be upstairs, so I plonk myself in what seems a very luxurious seat downstairs, opposite a young lady who gives me evils over her mask. It takes me a while to work out why – masks are mandatory on public transport in Berlin. Somewhat shamefacedly, I slip mine on and return to concentrating on getting off at the right stop. Which is pretty straightforward as Sudkreuz is the first stop.

This is helped by an announcement as the train pulls away. It is hugely long and seems to come in three acts with at least one intermission. I have absolutely no idea what has been said. Luckily, he then announces in English “Dear passengers, welcome to the train to Rostock.” Wait – is that it? I know he said a darn sight more than that in German. I feel cheated. A bit like watching a subtitled film and when a character yells “Merde! Merde! Merde! Merde! Merde!”, the subtitle just says “Damn!”

Sudkreuz comes up after about twenty minutes and I start the hunt for the Ringbahn. This turns out to be simple – I walk up the stairs to the platform and there the train is. I’ve worked out by now that the Ringbahn is a circular rail route that goes all the way around Berlin and, unlike the Spiral Line in London, is an actual circle. It’s pinned on four stations: Sudkreuz, Ostkreuz, Westkreuz and …. can you guess the fourth one? Yes, of course it’s Gesundbrunnen. Apparently they wanted to change the name to Nordkreuz but people objected.

The problem then is working out which way the train is going. The ever practical Germans have a solution and the front of the train has a symbol on it:

.. which indicates which way around the Ringbahn the train is going. Simple.

The train is much more like the underground trains I’m used to – and by that I mean, shabby. As we head around to Hallensee, I’m surprised by the sheer volume of graffiti adorning walls and bridges on either side of the track. They either don’t clean it off and this is the accumulated graffiti of years, or there are massive gangs of youths roaming the streets with spray cans. I’m not sure which is true, but during my time in Berlin, I find there is a lot of graffiti – on monuments, walls, and the upstairs of busses. Given the fact that all the busses have CCTV and the drivers are very aware of people who aren’t wearing masks, this surprises me a lot. But on this journey it unsettles me a bit – I’m starting to worry about the hotel I’m staying at. This is the most salubrious of the three places I’m staying and the areas that we’re travelling through do not fill me with confidence.

I shouldn’t have worried. The hotel is in Grunewald, which is quite an affluent suburb of Berlin. At least I assume it is, judging from some of the houses that I walk past after I get off the bus.

The place that I’m staying is the Hotel St.-Michaels-Heim. It’s quite impressive as I walk up to it and not quite what I was expecting (in a good way).

It’s an odd setup in that one end of the building is a hotel, while the other end is a hostel. I’m at the hostel end, which is cheaper and which means I’ll be sharing a bathroom. What I didn’t realise was that I’d be sharing a bathroom with the entire floor! The bedrooms are clean, but basic – I had to make my own bed. Oh, the horror! However, it’s quiet and comfortable and the friendly receptionist assures me that the bar is open.

I sort my things out and then head down for a medicinal drink. On the way, I pass the on-site church (not a chapel, it’s a church!) and the frankly rather impressive entrance hall.

The bar is outside on the terrace and there are a large group of people here who are clearly having a very good time. Once the staff realise that I’m not part of the group, they reassure me that the bar is open and I’m soon sat down with a very nice Pilsner lager. I sit there, updating my notes on the day and enjoying a leisurely pint. I can see that several tables are being served pizzas, so I decide to try and get one of these traditional German meals for myself. I then get told that these are not pizzas, these are Flammkuchen. What the hell – I want to try local food while I’m away. So my second pint is accompanied by a ham and mushroom Flammkuchen. Which is a little odd. It’s basically a crisp pizza. Except that the tomato sauce is replaced by a scraping of creme fraiche (or something similar) and the toppings are scattered on top. As a result, they are remarkably mobile and if you’re not careful you end up dropping them – which explains why the local sparrows are remarkably brave and hop around between my feet picking up scraps of food. (Brave, but not stupid – as soon as I grab my phone, they go all shy and bugger off). It’s not exactly haute cuisine (or whatever the German equivalent would be) but it certainly rounds off the day quite well.

It’s early enough for me to head into town for a proper meal, but I’m actually quite knackered. So I head up to my room and browse through the literature they’ve left. That’s when I find out one of the odd rules of the premises: you are not allowed to play card games. Apparently the hotel is owned by a religious order and although they’re happy with people drinking alcohol, card games are banned. While wondering how they would know I would be playing cards, I drift off to the sound of trumpets from a room somewhere below where some form of group is clearly having a practise.

Day One

So, here we are having finally arrived at the last episode of this strange odyssey. I have to apologise to everyone who reads this as I’ve been putting off writing this final chapter. I think because once it’s written down, it’s finally over. I never thought when this all started back in 2017 that I’d get so invested in what is (let’s face it) a fairly silly idea. It’s now nearly 5 years later (thanks, in part to bloody Covid) and my final journey was in June 2021 which is now 9 months ago.

Just to remind you what was going on then, we were coming out of lockdown 3 (2.5?) and everything was opening up again. Masks were still de rigeur and everyone was still nervous about crowds (or, at least, sensible people were). On the week I was travelling, the G7 Summit was taking place in Cornwall. Several people from work were going down to police it and I joked that I would see them there, never thinking that we would be anywhere near each other.

After four years, this was the final journey. Many people had tried to guess the final destination, but no-one got it right – until the night before when Graham Widger said “isn’t there a place called Zennor in Cornwall”. Not for nothing is he known as a git – but well done, despite that. As I get ready to go, the weather is in a celebratory mood – sunny and warm. However, apparently it’s worse in Cornwall – 5 degrees colder and with rain predicted for tomorrow. Facebook cheerfully reminds me that 4 years ago I was in Farnham – the last of my original 8 trips.

I have some trepidation about the journey. It’s a long train ride with three changes: Reading (inevitably), Newton Abbot and St Erth. I’ve been warned that my journey back will start with a Rail Replacement Bus, so I have a sneaking suspicion that the same will be true today. My train leaves at 09:04 and I’m scheduled to get to St Ives at 14:58. I’m not looking forward to spending 6 hours masked. However, elegantly attired in Magnum boots and shorts, I head for the station.

Slough station is as uninspiring as ever and so needs little more comment as I wait for my train. Todays book is The Man Who Ate the World by Jay Rayner. It’s about his search for the perfect dinner and while I enjoy his writing style, I find myself wishing I could afford to eat at just one of the places he is talking about. I will have to satisfy myself with searching for a decent pasty while I’m in Cornwall – keto be damned!! I checked my weight this morning, expecting two weeks of hedonism (or more appropriately hedonism-light) and a belated Christmas celebration to have stacked the weight on. To my surprise, the damage is only 2 pounds.

Being a seasoned traveller, I get into the right zone for my carriage as I have a reserved seat. I then check outside to make sure I’m getting in the right end. Excellent planning – or it would be, if the sign on the outside was correct – and it isn’t. So I walk the entire length of the carriage and take possession of my seat which, as usual, has no reserved sign on it. I am in the company of a couple of young gentlemen who are sprawled out and exhibiting all the signs of recovering from a hard night and an early, sunny morning. One is wearing a West Ham shirt, so he might have his head in his hands for more existential reasons than a brain-bursting hangover. At least they both have their masks on.

The journey to Reading is uneventful except for the trolley service – both retro and more efficient than the LNER app. I check to see where my connecting train and, would you believe it, it’s Platform 7B. I’ve missed it like an old friend. Or, possibly, more like a slightly annoying wart. Even on this warm day, 7B still maintains its’ traditional chill. I briefly consider popping into the waiting room to see if the urine smell has gone, but wisely decide to take a seat on a bench instead. I have 10 minutes to wait.

This time the sign is right and I board the right carriage at the right end. The carriage is packed with the three of us and so we are spread out as much as possible. As we head towards the south west, I try and work out why I’m changing at Newton Abbot. This train goes to Plymouth, as does the one I’m going to catch. In fact, that train starts at Exeter and we’ll be there in plenty of time to make the change. I could buck the system and change at a different station, but the worrying part of my brain is convinced that will mean I have flouted some obscure by-law and they’ll make me walk home. They then announce that half of this train is going to Newquay, which is only 30 miles from St Ives. Surely going there would have been faster? Rather than try and untie the Gordian knot of train timetables I decide to just go with the flow.

This service also has a retro trolley. This time I succumb to its’ lure and my coffee is accidentally joined by a chocolate brownie (which is not as disappointing as I expected and is crumbly with a big hit of chocolate). I hope this is a good sign of things to come. Of course, my excuse for having this is that while eating & drinking I can take my mask off. Not that there’s anyone within about 10 seats of me.

Jay Rayner wrote this book in 2008, and the section I’m reading makes a comment about bloggers. It’s actually a quote from Mario Batali. I hope they don’t mind me quoting it (let’s face it, they’ll probably never find out but if they do and they object, I’ll do an edit).

Many of the anonymous authors who vent on blogs rant their snarky vituperatives from behind the smoky curtain of the Web. This allows them a peculiar and nasty vocabulary that seems to be taken as truth by virtue of the fact that it has been printed somewhere. Unfortunately, this also allows untruths, lies and malicious and personally driven dreck to be quoted as fact.

This is something that has been commented on a lot recently and seems more relevant than ever in our current society.

My reading is interrupted by me occasionally looking outside at a beautifully green landscape with searingly blue skies. Skies which get cloudier and darker, the further the journey goes. As the train approaches Taunton an announcement is garbled over the tannoy. It’s a long announcement and he clearly knows it’s too long, so he gets faster as it goes on – which, naturally, makes it even more difficult to decipher. All I can catch is that we can change at Taunton to get a bus to Minehead. I don’t recall ever hearing that on this journey before, and it’s a nice reminded of my trip to Porlock two weeks ago.

By the time the train approaches Exeter, the sun has disappeared and the clouds look decidedly grey, tinged with black. This, unlike the raven, does not bode well. My concerns about the Cornish weather are coming true. I really hope not as I want to finish this madness off with a truly painful 10 mile hike rather than a more sensible but dull bus ride.

No journey would be complete without at least one comment on the toilet. It is one of these clever modern ones, with buttons everywhere and everything automated. With my previous experience still in my mind, I use it with no issues and return to my seat. I later hear a woman sat near me complain about there being no water in the bathroom and I mentally scoff at her – I had no problems – and I head off to use it again. It’s previously pristine condition has charged – there is water (or some unnameable fluid) all over the floor and ripped up tissues are everywhere. It’s as though it’s been infested by a particularly excitable flock of Morris Dancers. I wash my hands and the water stops before I’ve got the soap off. Previously, it started again but this time it doesn’t so I end up wiping my hands clean with tissues. Mine go into the bin rather than adding to the debris. I mentally apologise to the woman for scoffing at her. Unsurprisingly, this doesn’t seem to matter to her.

The second change is done and the train thunders along the coast towards Plymouth. This bit of coast is very familiar as I used to take the train to and from London when I first moved up there. I remember one journey when there was a storm and waves were breaking against the train as we traversed this section – spectacular, a little scary and, due to a leaky carriage, somewhat moist.

Jay Rayner is finished by this time and I have moved on to Living by Henry Green.

As we approach Plymouth, the sky is an unrelieved grey. We arrive and the train sits at the platform for over a quarter of an hour – because otherwise, the journey might be too short! Joy of joys, as we wait a woman drags a small and screaming child into the carriage. Luckily, they’re in the next carriage but his shrieks echo down the train until the doors mercifully shut. So far, there are no indications of refreshments on this train and I’m starting to feel both hungry and thirsty. Where is the retro trolley service when you need it?

As we head across the Tamar into Cornwall, it starts to rain. We cross one of my favourite bridges (the Brunel Rail Bridge) which gives an excellent view of the much less inspiring road bridge.

As we enter Cornwall, the looming clouds finally stop looming, and it starts to rain. The clouds in places are so low that it looks more like mist. All views are severely truncated but it’s still a beautifully rural bit of countryside.

At Bodmin Parkway, I get an excellent view of the opposite platform and some excellent examples of idiocy. One has a mask dropped around his neck, the other has one hanging out of his top pocket. So clearly neither are medically exempt. So their reason for not wearing them? Not a clue. Just to make it worse, they’re stood either side of a sign telling everyone to wear masks while in the station. *sigh*

At St Erth, my suspicions are found to be true and I need to use Bus Replacement Service for the last stage of the trip. The reason is now clear – the G7 conference in Carbis Bay which happens to be right beside St Ives where I will be staying. As I approach the double decker bus, there are 6 staff hanging around outside and I am invited to sit anywhere – or to drive if I wish! I decline the kind offer and take the front seat upstairs. I’m the only passenger as the bus heads to St Ives.

On the approach to St Ives, I get some excellent views across the town – and of the warship moored in the bay. St Ives is based around a harbour and the remarkably busy car park is on top of a hill to the east of the town.

My overnight stay is (naturally) on a hill to the west of the town. But it’s too early to go there, so I head down the insanely steep path into town.

St Ives is a typical Cornish town and looks like many other I’ve been to.

As I head down to the harbour it steadily gets busier, until I come out onto the quay, which is crowded with tourists. Given the fact that its quite cold and the weather isn’t brilliant, I’m surprised to see so many people here. Everywhere is full, so I head off to the streets behind the front, where I find some extremely steep lanes and a complete lack of places to eat!

Eventually, I give up and return to the front and end up in a place called The Searoom, where I have a nutritionally balanced meal of mussels, chips and cider.

It’s not exactly cheap, but it is very tasty and I’d recommend a visit to anyone coming this way.

https://www.stivesliquor.co/searoom

Suitably sustained, I head up some very steep roads to find my overnight accommodation at The Nook. I get inside to find 7 men sat around chatting. They all have that air of being police so I suspect they’re here for the G7. I naturally don’t ask. I also don’t ask why none of them are wearing masks. I do ask where the owners are. They have no idea. In the end, I give up and phone them and they give me a pass code for the key safe which contains my room key. I terminated the call and then checked my thesaurus for the definition of impersonal. Yes, there it is halfway down: The Nook. Now the advantage of this place over the last pace I stayed is that they are providing breakfast. I head up to my room to find a lovely note telling me that they have decided not to provide breakfasts at the moment. I check around to see where my rebate is for this decision, but instead they’ve left me a tote bag, some apple juice and some crackers.

I settle down to plan tomorrow and to work out where I can get breakfast in the morning. There isn’t anywhere nearby to get anything, but I eventually find a Spar about a mile away and I stock up for a light snack, breakfast and something for the journey tomorrow. I am now ready for tomorrows hike – though I am concerned about the sections described as a “scramble”.

Day Two

The day dawns grey and overcast. Much like my mood after I am woken my the boding ravens on the garage roof outside. Or are they crows? I decide in the end that they are Cornish Choughs. Judge for yourself.

Whatever they are, they’re bloody loud. That’s the view from my room btw – lovely, eh?

As I’m awake, it’s breakfast then boots on and head out. Well, that is, after the traditional fight with the shower. This one is slow to start and then extremely reluctant to turn off. Eventually the timeless struggle of man versus machine is won by man leaving and heading for the South West Coast Path.

The age-appropriate hoody goes on because weather.com is filling me with doubt. It states that there will be scattered showers with the biggest coming through around 09:00. Which should be just as I’m somewhere with absolutely no shelter. I could wait until after then, but the weather doesn’t seem to get much better. So I gird up my loins (and everything else) and head out.

Now, some may recall that I had a previous encounter with the South West Coast Path when I was in Porlock. There it was clearly marked with signs, even when it wasn’t really needed. I am expecting the same here. Of course my expectations are immediately shattered as I get onto a completely unmarked path. This must be the right one – if I go any further towards the coast, I’ll be in the sea. It starts off as a tarmacked path with plenty of early morning joggers. If it’s like this all the way, this will be a doddle.

I head off and very quickly find myself alone on the path with no sounds except for the wind and the cries of birds. I’m still unsure this is the right path, but then I find this.

So at least I know I’m in the right place. Suitably braced, I head off with cries of pheasants coming out of the undergrowth. Or are they piskies? I become more convinced of the latter as the morning goes on. Bouyed up with confidence, I proceed with the tarmac underfoot, until …

From here on, the path is best described as elusive. It gets crossed by sheep paths and can be extremely difficult to work out which way to go. You would have thought it was simple – too far to the right, is clearly bad – but at several points I found myself peering over into the abyss.

After taking one of these tracks and then toiling back to what I assume what was the actual path, I encountered the man I think of as the Last Jogger. He came from the direction I was walking in and stopped looking at the track I’d just toiled up. “Is that the way, then?” He asked. I advised him to keep going and he disappeared off. He was the last person I would see for nearly 3 hours.

I head on, the weather fortunately holding off although I can see rainclouds in the distance. I’m trying to work out where I am in my South West Coast Path book, but one headland looks much like another.

The path winds in and out, often descending into little valleys made by streams and then with the joyful thought of an ascent on the other side.

It is still delightfully un-signposted and then I eventually find one that the piskies have failed to remove.

I’m definitely starting to feel piskie-led and my feelings on it are made less sanguine when they seem to be leaving messages for me.

This little piskie “conceit” is now actually starting to scare the crap out of me. I toil on, the path sometimes going up streams (literally) and after three hours, I finally see someone coming in the other direction. We pause to talk and they tell me that there’s a “bit of a scramble” ahead. I’ve already been through a couple of sections described that way and they weren’t a problem, so I laugh and say I’ll be careful. My laughter is clearly heard by the piskies, who are probably pissing themselves as they watch me navigate the “scramble”.

I’m sorry, but that is NOT a path!

As I get to the last headland I can see that the path has two routes ahead, both of which have people on them. Good lord, it’s rush hour on the South West Coast Path. Distracted by them, I miss my footing and feel a sharp wrench go up one hamstring and twist my ankle. Luckily, I’m wearing boots, so no damage is done and after a bit of massage, the hamstring clears. Cursing the piskies I head on up the bluff.

By the time I get to the top, the low cloud is more like mist. I’m absolutely knackered – this relatively short walk has drained me. As I slowly amble across the bluff a voice from behind warns me and I step aside for a jogger. Who is wearing a weighted vest. Git.

On the other side of the bluff, I part company with the coast path and head into Zennor. I walk through pleasant farmland to the tiny village of Zennor.

I head to The Tinners Arms, (https://tinnersarms.com) where I order coffee and Aspalls Orchards and wait for them to begin serving lunch. I’m bitterly cold and most of my clothing is damp. I probably shouldn’t have the cider, but when in Cornwall…

About 40 minutes later, the couple that told me about the scramble comes in – hold on, how the hell did they get here so fast? Maybe I was walking that slowly. Another few people arrive and they all get served before me. I’ve clearly been forgotten. I’m actually happy to just sit there and warm up and I read a bit more of Living (which I’m now getting into and starting to enjoy).

Eventually my order is taken and I go for Leek and Potato Soup, followed by Deep Fried Squid and Chips. The food is really good (the chips are particularly excellent), but I’m full and I leave most of my main course.

My decision now is how to get back. I could retrace my steps (NO!) or I could walk a direct path through farmland. Alternatively, I could get a taxi. This seems the most sensible alternative as my age-appropriate hoody and baseball cap are both soaked and walking in them would be pretty miserable. When I get outside, the tables are full – clearly it’s not as cold as I think it is. That makes the taxi an even better idea.

The taxi driver is completely silent. Maybe he’s from some kind of Cistercian Order of Taxi Drivers. I’m happy as it means I don’t have to make polite conversation. It takes 15 minutes to get back to The Nook – a journey that took me 4 hours. It makes it all seem a little pointless. I spend the rest of the day camped out in my room at The Book. Which, by the way, hadn’t been cleaned.

Day Three

My journey back starts in grey, overcast weather. My train from St Erth leaves at 10:30, but as I have to use the Bus Replacement Service, I have no idea how long the journey will take. As a result, I head out at 09:00 … just in case. This should be an easier journey as the train goes straight through to Reading. The tote bad from The Nook comes in handy to carry my boots and my feet have the relief of lighter shoes.

Once I head out, it’s clear that my knees and calves are very unhappy with me about yesterdays little jaunt. I plan a cunning route to the car park that avoids the worst of the hills, but I’m limping a little so it’s not my fastest walk ever. It does, however, give me a great view over the bay.

At the car park, there is a steady stream of buses turning up and lots of very helpful staff who tell me where to wait. They are also helping people getting off the buses – tourists get directed down the hill, protesters get directed to the top of the car park. All very civilised.

As my bus arrives, the staff help a little old man on and completely ignore the little old lady who is stood beside me. I offer to help her and so I find myself wheeling her wheely suitcase on for her – oh, the piskies are laughing at that one! I’m the last one on, but still get the front seat on the top deck.

I get to St Erth with plenty of time (no surprise there). The staff on duty here are excellent. Once they work out I’ve got an hour to wait, they explain that I can get an earlier train if I pay a bit more – but I don’t want to do that. I sit down on the now rainy platform and 15 minutes later, one comes back to me. He’s checked and I can definitely take the earlier train if I want to. I check my ticket and it’s for a specified train, so wouldn’t work – but I’m very impressed at their customer service.

I’ve now moved on to reading Glory Season by David Brin.

By the time my train arrives, two other staff members have come to speak to me and asked if I have a seat booked. When I confirm that I’m in carriage J, I say that I think this means I have to be at the end of the train. They confirm this and point to the other end of the platform. When my train is called I head down to the unsheltered end of that platform where there is nowhere to get out of the now persistent rain. I get an excellent view of Carriage J sweeping majestically past. I get on and walk through largely empty carriages to get to Carriage J.

Where someone is in my seat.

I check my seat number and am about to ask them to move, when I realise I’ve miscounted and am still in Carriage H. I head off, negotiating my way past the retro trolley and slump into my seat. 4 1/2 hours to Reading.

The carriage gets fuller at Camborne, including the requisite delightfully crying child. Luckily it stops fairly quickly – maybe someone left it on the platform. Oh no, there it goes again. At Truro a couple get on and (quite reasonably) have to ask three youths to move as they are reserved seats. As they stand up, I can clearly see the reserved signs and wonder why they sat there in the first place.

The three get off at Bodmin Parkway and are replaced by a couple who have brought their chihuahuas with them. To misquote Joey, “It’s not a dog!” Luckily they are quiet. At the same station, a woman gets on with a child in a pushchair and a slightly older child dragging along behind her. She decides to let them play. This comprises them running up and down the carriage shrieking at the top of their voices.

And yet, strangely, none of this really bothers me. Not the strident way that Chihuahua woman demands “TEA” from the retro trolley. Not the loud man behind me who seems to be on his phone for the entire four hours. Not the brats running up and down.

When I’m queuing on the approach to Reading and my way is blocked because a couple and their 3 toddlers are trying to use just two seats, I barely care. I’d like to think this is finally a sign of maturity, but I think it’s because I’m sad that this project is over.

So there it is. Thank you to everyone who has followed this mildly insane project. It has been the subject of many conversations and enough inspired guesses to give me another 24 trips if I wanted to do it. I have thoroughly enjoyed myself, and I hope you have found this entertaining. It’s definitely been fun to write it. So what happens next? I have an idea that I discussed with John and Janice (you met them back in K is for Kensington) about a Grand Tour. But that’s going to have to wait until I have a better idea of my financial future. I retire next year, so I can’t make any commitments. What am I doing this year? Well I’m doing three countries in 9 days in May/June. And who knows, maybe I’ll add that to the blog too.

Day One

Y does not start off particularly well. I booked all my accommodation 6 months prior to the trip so that I wouldn’t have to worry about it close to the time and so that I can spread the cost a bit. 48 hours before I’m due to en-train, I get a call from my guest house informing me that they have a plumbing problem and they have to cancel my booking. I’m deeply suspicious about this (without any real justification) but have no choice and have to book somewhere else for nearly double the cost – and which doesn’t include breakfast, And that’s how I find myself at the Bates Guest House – but more of that later.

For once, I’ve done some actual pre-planning. A couple of weeks ago I booked my ticket for the Jorvik tour and have it printed out and ready to go. I also had a pop-up on my Facebook for a ghost tour of York – so that got booked as well. Feeling far more prepared than normal, I pop out to empty my bins and on the way back encounter Steve, the caretaker. With about 10 minutes to go before I have to leave, he starts an engaging conversation about (1) drug use up on the 5th floor; and (2) the haunting at his house. Normally I’d happily talk about both, but I have to get going and start dropping hints about needing to leave. Steve bravely ignores these until I stop hinting and go, grabbing my bag, locking up and leaving the damn Jorvik ticket behind. So much for planning.

It’s a long journey today and, bizarrely, I only have a seat reserved for the last leg of my journey. The weather is good for my trip though – amazingly sunny and forecast to stay like this for several days. The delaying tactics from Steve mean I only get to the station a few minutes early. COVID is still making things easy, though, and I snag a table to be shared between my rucksack and I.

Today’s book: the Pathfinder Guide to the Brecon Beacons and Glamorgan. I honestly don’t know why I read these – but that doesn’t stop me. As it isn’t all engrossing, I am half listening to the conversation at the table opposite. Although there are three of them, it is dominated by one person who is doing all the talking. He switches from talking about the dangers of swimming in the Thames to “in 2013 when we were white-water rafting on the Zambezi”. I begin to think that he’s a bit of a git. This is confirmed when he authoritatively tells his bored listeners that in places the Zambezi is 90m deep. This seems unlikely (annoyingly I can’t find anything online to confirm or deny this – but 90m? really?). He then goes on to discuss double inoculations. He had his second one yesterday, but of course had no side effects and has been out on his bicycle this morning. No doubt winning the yellow jersey. Definitely a git.

His monologue continues as he discusses (I use the term loosely) which university the largely silent person opposite him should go to. Apparently, the choice is between a City University or a Rural University. Nothing silly like scholastic standards need to be taken into account. He maintains a constant stream of drivel throughout the journey, finishing off with the rather odd “it’s not the only time Leeds has upset me”. What figure of a man is this that an entire city has decided to annoy him?

The arrival at Paddington is a relief. I wonder how his companions cope and as we leave the train I get a closer look at their dead eyes, indicating that they are either zombies or their mind has retreated into the area of the brain usually reserved for people in films trying to resist a hypnotist or alien parasite.

At Paddington it’s good to see everyone observing social distancing. At least, until they get close to a ticket barrier, in which case it apparently doesn’t count. Trying to keep a 2m distance means that some stupid bugger will just cut in front of you, so I plough through and head off to the Spiral Line. The journey is without issue – except for a repeating message stating “we are currently held at a red light”, which seems to be triggered about 1 second after the train stops. Every time it happens, we get moving before the message has finished. My loquacious friend from the train is in the same carriage and (unsurprisingly) he feels the need to comment. Mind you, I agree with him when he says that he’s bloody glad his car doesn’t do that.

I finally lose him at King’s Cross, and as I head off to the Edinburgh train I throw away the “Help Me!” note furtively passed to me by his companion. At least it’s not the hideous St Pancras International. I have to wait while the train is got ready and as I do there’s an ominous announcement about disruption to services this weekend. And, of course, the disruption is due to start on the day I’m coming back. I start to get nervous about my return journey, especially when they say that there will be no service at all south of Grantham. Hold on, I’ve booked a seat! I’ll have to ask when I get to York. Or, alternatively and far more likely, ignore it until Friday and sort it out on the day.

The train is reserved seating only. So, naturally, I compete with everyone else to get on the train as quickly as possible. I get on to find a sea of reserved markers waving above the seats – but, oddly, not on my seat. Then I look at the markers and find that they just say “Only sit on your reserved seat”. I settle in and am quickly joined by a group of rowdy blokes (judged to be so by their conversation) who loudly take their seats and promise to provide a delightful backdrop to the journey. As York is the first stop, I’m stuck with them. The first announcement on the train is in a broad Newcastle accent which prompts yells of “Speak English!!” from my hilarious fellow travellers. What laughter ensues. I only refrain from laughing as I fear that if I started, my head would fall off and my sides would split. Their vastly under-rated brand of comedy continues through every announcement, made worse when the announcer trips over himself and delivers something which is absolutely meaningless.

I am joined by someone who sits down opposite me. After having settled in, they check their ticket and have to move because they’re in the wrong seat. Mentally sneering at them, I then furtively check to make sure I haven’t made the same mistake. I then continue to judge them. The good thing is, I now have the table to myself again and it looks like that’ll be the case for the whole journey as we’re just about ready to move off. Just then a lady toting a ridiculously sized suitcase staggers down the aisle and spends an entertaining few minutes trying to force it behind the seat opposite me. It’s remarkably like the hippopotamus from Fantasia trying to get into a too-small tutu. She eventually succeeds, leaving it stuck out into the aisle and sits down. She then realises that she should be on the table opposite and has to speak to the man sat there – who is also in completely the wrong seat. I seem to be adrift on a sea of morons today.

Eventually we move off and I try to navigate the problem of getting a coffee. LNER is trialling a new refreshment delivery system (their description, not mine). All you have to do it point your phone camera at the QR code by your seat and it will open up a menu. Allegedly. I try it. It does bugger all. It also says you can order via their website. Turns out you can browse the menu – you just can’t order anything.

After several tries, I get the QR code to work – it turns out you have to present the phone casually, so the QR code doesn’t realise you’re going for it. It’s an odd version of camera-shyness. It takes a cripplingly long time to load. I then try and order something from the piffling selection available. Finally settling on coffee and a bacon roll (which is mostly Keto), I proceed to the check out option. At which time, it requires me to sign up to LNER. I go through the process (typing in a password is always fun on a moving train), and then find it won’t let me log on. I decide to wait until York as clearly this bloody thing isn’t working.

Except that everyone else seems to be getting it to work just fine.

I carry on trying as the woman who is sat opposite me decides to have an insanely loud conversation on her phone – ignoring the fact that this is a quiet carriage. Apparently she nearly missed the train (what a loss that would have been). By the time she finally shuts the fuck up, I’ve managed to navigate the arcane and abstruse ordering system and my breakfast is on its’ way. She then starts another bloody call. Does the quiet carriage mean nothing? Oh, damn, we’re not in a quiet carriage – apparently this is a quieter carriage. Now what the hell does that mean?

While I’m still grumbling about her (but, naturally, not actually asking her to shut up) my bacon roll and coffee arrives. The coffee actually isn’t bad. The bacon roll has all the flavour and texture that I would expect from a microwaved bacon roll – including being lethally hot. It all fills a hole and fulfils its’ main purpose: giving me an excuse to take my mask off. I then forget to put it back on, and once I realise, I guiltily check to see if anyone had noticed. No-one challenges me about it (not even Fog-Horn Woman opposite) and we get to York station without incident.

I head straight off to The Beckett Guest House (http://thebeckettguesthouse.york-hotels.net/en/) to dump my rucksack. I’ve received instructions on how to get in and where my keys will be, so I tramp off towards it. I’m not that impressed by the area – and for some reason the theme music to Coronation Street keeps running through my mind.

Inside, the place is apparently empty. The staircase has no natural light and they have papered it with something that Norman Bates’ mum would have been proud of. I wouldn’t be surprised to see stuffed animals everywhere as I head up to my room.

What makes it worse is that there’s a shared bathroom – taking a shower is going to be a really nerve-wracking experience! I dump my stuff and get the hell out of the Bates Guest House – time to explore York.

Turns out that I’m about half a mile from the centre of York, so I head in towards the bloody great church that dominates the city. It’s an interesting wander in, with lots of places to look at, including the old City walls.

I fend off a very insistent woman who wants me to take a bus tour outside the York Art Gallery and stubbornly head away into the surrounding streets, where there is still plenty to see.

There are a lot of people around – an uncomfortable amount, really – and one place has a huge queue.

Yup, sod history, sod culture, what we’ll queue up for is a big slice of cake. Betty’s Cafe Tea Rooms is (apparently) an institution and (according to their web site) “no visit to York is complete without a visit“. We’ll see about that. But my main mission isn’t to see the local sites – I’m in search of lunch. I eventually find myself at a little pub called the Corner Pin, which has an impressively odd range of pizzas available.

The staff here are very keen and although they aren’t officially serving food for another half an hour, they take my order for a Solar Goat Pig pizza – and damn good it is when it arrives!

After lunch, time to do what everyone has to do when they visit York, and I head up to the Minster (previously referred to by the alternative appellation of “bloody great church”). It’s is huge and defies my ability to successfully get it into a photo, except by standing at a great, great distance.

Clearly I need to go around it to collect my set of Cathedrals of England (yes, it’s a Minster, no I haven’t been to most of them. Look it was a joke, just go with it.) And I’m not allowed to. It turns out that you have to book in advance. Outside are a couple of guides and a policeman who walks off just after I get there. Across his back is blazoned “York Minster Police”. Wait – seriously? I’m busy trying to book tickets online, so he disappears before I can speak to him. I have a good wander around the Minster’s exterior before taking the long route back to the Bates Guest House.

On the way back, I pass an advert for a new (or a very old) diet fad.

Well, who could resist?

It’s pretty warm, so I stretch out at the Bates GH and grab a breather. At around 18:30, I head back into York to try and find somewhere to eat. As I leave, I can hear voices from behind the door marked Private (“Yes, mother, of course I’ll deal with the man in number 4“) but still haven’t met any of the Bates family. A quick trip to find somewhere to eat takes nearly an hour. Everywhere is packed and I’m still not that keen on going into a crowded restaurant. Eventually, practicality takes over and I end up in the Royal Oak nursing a pint of Orchard Thieves cider. They’re crowded here too – I’m sat in the front bar where I’m the only person eating and I’m being stared at by the regulars who are clearly offended at someone coming into “their” area. I order a cod and chips, which takes nearly an hour to arrive. It’s worth the wait though is it’s approximately half the size of a whale and really tasty. I only manage about half of it.

Dinner is accompanied by “Cakes and Ale” by W Somerset Maugham. Of course, it’s possible that the locals are staring at me because I’m reading a book and they’re not used to associating with dangerous intellectuals.

If you haven’t read any Maugham, I’d recommend you try some. Very witty, and a really good writer. Cakes and Ale includes the following devastating comment about Americans when he’s discussing making small talk:

The Americans, who are the most efficient people on the earth have carried this device to such a height of perfection and have invented so wide a range of pithy and hackneyed phrases that they can carry on an amusing and animated conversation without giving a moment’s reflection to what they are saying and so leave their minds free to consider the more important matters of big business and fornication.

On reflection, the reason the locals are staring at me might be more to do with the fact that lines like this one are making me chuckle out loud.

Their attention gets taken off me when three very serious folk who display all the characteristics of being members of CAMRA enter the bar. The traditional whiskers are absent (due to youth, I suspect) but the elbow patches are there (so rarely seen on a t-shirt), as is the serious way they have to debate which beer to try and whether to have a pint or a half. The locals have nipped outside for a fag, so the CAMRA guys decide to sit in their seats. I hope for fireworks but am disappointed as the drunkest of the locals has gone home and the rest look at CAMRA and sit at the bar instead. CAMRA finish their halves and leave – presumably to exert their dubious charisma on another establishment.

The Whale and Chips having defeated me, I take a wander through the (finally) quiet streets and wend my way back to the Bates Guest House. Tomorrow I have Jorvik, the Minster and a Ghost Walk. So far York has been pretty good – but I barricade my door in case Norman is prowling and settle down for the night.

Day Two

I sleep pretty well despite the snorer next door and the blind constantly banging against the window (I refer to the device to keep the light out rather than a person with a visual impairment). My barricade is undisturbed. Maybe the Bates Guest House isn’t too bad after all. There’s a lot to do today and my weather app has thunderstorms predicted.

The first mission of the day is the hunt for breakfast. I head into town and find that York does not wake up as early as I do. It’s 08:00 and the streets are largely empty – which is nice. I find a café with exactly what I want: a full Yorkshire breakfast including black pudding. But they don’t open until 09:00. I end up at a Cafe Nero with an Americano and a cheese and ham toastie. On the way here I’ve watched the bin men slaloming their way down a narrow street as other people have parked inconveniently – apparently to make the lorries’ drive more challenging. Their job is made even more trickier by several pedestrians who just amble down the middle of the road, or step out in front of the lorry. Luckily the driver can see the funny side.

My decidedly un-Yorkshire breakfast over, I head out for an explore. I check in on Jorvik – I want to make sure I know where I’m going later – and have an extended walk around the tiny city centre streets. Good grief, what a shambles!

Just down from here, I find the bizarrest street name I’ve come across so far.

Luckily, there’s a plaque nearby which explains it.

Well, thank goodness they changed it, or it would make no sense!

I head out to Clifford’s Tower, and find it’s currently being renovated. They provide a photo of what it should like, so at least I know what I’m missing.

I’ve spotted several parts of the City Walls as I wander around, so now I decide to walk around them. They have very sensibly decided to make them one way to encourage social distancing and at each entry point, the entrances are very well marked. The one way system is a good idea as the rampart is around 6ft wide and the inside is usually unfenced with a pretty decent drop in places.

It’s quite a surreal experience walking along it and peering into the upstairs rooms of the houses that cluster quite close to the wall in places. And then, of course, I start meeting the people who don’t understand the concept of “one way”. Well, actually they do – because most mumble some form of apology – usually a variation of “I always walk this way”.

My favourite is when I’m descending some steps to exit the walk and coming up is a mother and a toddler. The toddler grabs her mums hand and says “Isn’t this one way, mummy?” “Mummy” nods distractedly, smiles weakly at me and leads her daughter off in the wrong direction. LISTEN TO YOUR DAUGHTER, WOMAN!!

Having had my fill of Walking with Pillocks, I head off for my appointment with the Vikings at Jorvik. On the way, I stop in at another Cafe Nero (I swear, I never usually use them but there are about a thousand in York). This time is for coffee and carrot cake – and an encounter with a woman who thinks that “2 metres” is the same as “6 inches”. She must be hysterical when parking a car. And probably very difficult to impress in bed.

Jorvik is an interesting experience. Having already checked with the entertainingly dressed staff, I’ve confirmed that the email ticket on my phone is sufficient to get in, I’m pretty relaxed as I wait in the queue.

The main event is a 15 minute ride where you are taken through a Viking village with Sean Bean narrating (or someone who sounds just like him). This must be one of the few productions he doesn’t die in.

At the end is a little museum with artefacts that have been found locally (mainly in Coppergate). The people hanging around in period costume and I have a really good chat about where the Vikings would have got the clay to make their pottery from. Very interesting. Then of course, we come to the prize exhibit:

If you think it looks like a sock, you’re absolutely correct. And it’s a famous sock!

But you know what I noticed: there’s only one! Somewhere, probably behind a Viking washing-machine equivalent, I reckon the other one lurks awaiting discovery.

I admit to being a little disappointed by the Jorvik museum. It’s actually very small and the whole thing takes less than an hour. It’s very well done, very interesting, but needs to be a bit bigger. So get digging, you archaeological types! I want that other sock found! They do provide one necessary thing though – a gift shop, where I purchase the inevitable bookmark.

I’ve got nearly 2 hours before my York Minster tour, so I continue to tramp around York finding an unsubtle clock and very uncomfortable sheep.

My feet are aching and my planar fasciitis is really giving me gyp, so I try to find somewhere to get some lunch. I eventually settle down in the back garden of the Keystones, a pub nestled behind the city wall. I am offered a mango cider but spurn it and plump for a pint of Thatchers Gold. I then decide to try and sort out my phone data with O2 – who are not playing ball. If anyone from the pub actually asked me, I’d probably have ordered some food. But no-one does, so I sit back and enjoy my pint.

I head for York Minster and my scheduled 14:00 tour. As we queue up outside, we get told that there’s a wedding taking place so we won’t be able to access all the Minster. Not a problem as it’s big. Very big, in fact.

Social distancing isn’t a problem in the nave, but we have to wait to get into the Quire as the bridal party is passing. Once the bride is ensconced, we can proceed and the very small wedding party gets gawped at by a load of complete strangers. There’s a sign up saying that we shouldn’t take photos of them – so that’s OK then. I have to admit, that if I’d paid for a wedding in the Minster (and I bet you pay through the nose), I’d want more privacy than that. But they seem happy and as I wander through the Quire, I can hear two people singing an a capella version of “God Only Knows” by the Beach Boys. As a result, my exploration is hampered by a lot of giggling and an attempt to muffle my laughter with my backpack. I’m in this amazing edifice and behind me an alto and a tenor are maiming God Only Knows accompanied by a tinny piano. Clearly there’s more than one crucifixion going on here.

I don’t linger. Something about the Minster doesn’t sit easily with me. Is it impressive? Yes. Is it big? Yes. Is it expensive to upkeep? Yes – £23,000 a day. And I know that because there are signs everywhere begging for money – and I mean everywhere. It seems I can’t turn around without seeing another sign asking for a donation. Exiting via a gift shop is the last straw – though it doesn’t stop me buying a bookmark. I have no issues with places asking for donations – but I’ve already paid £12 for the privilege of walking around. I also find it a little hypocritical that one of the most wealthy organisations in the country feels the need to bang on about their need for money. Getting off my soapbox and packing it away, I head out and see if I can track down the policeman I saw yesterday.

And I can. He’s stood out the front, so I show him my warrant card and have a quick chat with him. I primarily want to know if he’s really York Minster Police – and he is. I thought he might be on secondment from North Yorkshire Police, but apparently YMP is a separate police force. He reckons it is the first police force created by Robert Peel (I checked – he may actually be correct as YMP and the Metropolitan Police service were both started in 1829). He asks me where I work and his eyes widen when I say that I work in Slough. It turns out that he went down to London 12 years ago and he would never want to work “somewhere like that”.

After thanking him, I head back to the Bates Guest House. My left foot is really hurting and I wish there was some way to soak it. I briefly consider standing on a chair and soaking it in the hand basin, but I sense what disaster might happen if I tried that. I dread to think what Norman would do if I broke my leg. On the way back I grab some cheese and salami. I’ll “picnic” this evening rather than eating out. I decide to grab a nap before the ghost walk at 21:15.

At 21:00, I’m stood in The Shambles waiting for our tour guide. I was uncertain where to wait, so it was good to see other people stood around looking uncertain. I lurked near them and then saw they were stood blocking the sign telling us where to wait.

Our tour guide is a cadaverous individual who walks up carrying a set of steps and what looks like a medical bag. He has a wicked sense of humour, is clearly well practised at doing these and is highly entertaining.

This particular ghost walk is run by The Ghost Hunt of York (http://www.ghosthunt.co.uk/) and is hugely enjoyable. The guide takes you to four locations and at each one tells you a scary story. It is as funny as it is scary. I’d heard one of them before, so at least he’s done his research (or read the same book I did). His warning at the start is prophetic: “the worst thing you have to fear is getting mown down by a Deliveroo cyclist”. It is the main risk of the tour and on at least two occasions I have to get out of the way of a manic cyclist intent on his delivery. Overall, it’s good fun and a great end to what became a very long day.

By the time I trudge back to the Bates Guest House, my step counter reckons I’ve walked 11.6 miles and my feet are feeling it. I settle down to update my notes with a cup of coffee, accompanied by the sound of a man standing in the middle of the street and repeatedly yelling “VERA!” at top of his voice. I hope he stops soon.

Day Three

Luckily he did. I’m woken by my phone pinging as it wants to tell me that it’s not charging as there is “fluid in the Ligntning conductor” and that it will need to be disconnected in order to dry out. I check I’m not still asleep, and the message is still there. This doesn’t bode well. It’s a long journey home today. None of my trains are LNER and due to the line closures it’s a 4 1/2 hour journey back to Slough.

Cakes and Ale has been finished and I’m now on “The Enemy Stars” by Poul Anderson.

My plan today is to stay at the Bates Guest House until gone 09:00, then have a leisurely stroll and breakfast before heading for the 11:30 train. That plan lasts until 08:30 when I head out, never having seen Norman or Mrs Bates. (I should point out that the Becketts are probably perfectly nice people who do not in any way resemble the Bates family ……. or do they?)

I head back into town, my progress delayed by someone taking photographs of an emaciated child in a tutu who is doing ballet poses. They are blissfully unaware of the fact that they’re completely blocking the pavement. It does mean that I get the opportunity to snap one last picture of the Minster.

A bit of it, anyway 🙂

I decide to give Betty’s Cafe Tea Room one last try, but there’s already a queue and I can’t be bothered to wait for 15 minutes for them to open. I end up at bloody Cafe Nero again and have a leisurely Americano and a bacon ciabatta (presumably because that’s classier than a bacon roll). The sachet of HP sauce it comes with takes the edge off its’ classy attitude. Also, it’s been overcooked to the point that the ciabatta turns into little shards in my mouth.

After my disappointing breakfast, I take one last stroll by the River Ouse.

Even at a leisurely pace, I get to the station with an hour and a half to spare. I then play Hunt the Toilet, followed by Hunt the Seat. The station has a decided lack of both. I decide to go into a Costa Coffee, but then realise it has no seating. Eventually, I find a seat and settle down to finish The Enemy Stars, though I am distracted by the site of a man carrying his entire worldly belongings in a backpack.

I finish The Enemy Stars and move on to Fateless by Imre Kertesz. This is a story about a teenager in Auschwitz – promises to be a laugh riot. I still have over an hour to wait and spend some time watching 2 British Transport Police officers who are stood in the middle of the concourse. It would appear that their job currently comprises nothing more than telling people to put their masks on. I’m sure there’s much more to it than that.

Maybe.

In a staggering display of synchronicity, my Crosscountry train arrives just as the protagonist in the book is boarding the train to Auschwitz. My train seems slightly better – less people to a carriage if nothing else. The announcer is unnaturally jolly. Apart from everything else he does, he is in charge of the trolley. Which is a static trolley. He then proceeds to list everything on the trolley. If you think this sounds exciting, you need to get out more.

We are all exhorted to sit in our reserved seats and, if not, to make sure that we sit in the window seats. A ticket inspector then comes through the carriage and gets the horde of people who ignored the announcement to move. All except the lady opposite me who is allowed to retain her aisle seat. Maybe she has some kind of morbid allergy to windows.

This train goes to Sheffield and I change there. There is little chance to explore the delights of this earthly paradise as the connection to St Pancras International is waiting. I don’t have a reserved seat on this one, but luck means that I’m the first one on the carriage, so I manage to grab a seat.

The announcer on this train is far less friendly. This time we’re told to make sure we’re on the right train as Revenue Protection Officers are on the train and will issue penalty fares. Do they mean ticket inspectors? This journey feels more and more like the one in Fateless with every stage.

In the seat opposite me, a woman is entertaining her child with something on her phone. No, wait, she’s ignoring her child while playing on her phone. That’s the same thing, surely? It’s OK though, because he’s got his own phone to play with. That’s all a 10 year old needs!

The Revenue Protection Officer comes round before we leave the station. She’s a substantially built woman and it would be very easy to imagine her bullying prisoners. She demonstrates this by ejecting someone from the train as they didn’t have a valid ticket and she berates him until he shuffles off to buy one. Welcome to Birchenau Trains.

The careful mother gets off at Derby and barely remembers to take her child with her. I say “take” – she walks ahead of him with her bag while he struggles along with a bag almost as big as himself. She is still looking at her phone and I haven’t heard her exchange one word with him.

We then get an announcement stating that the train is over-subscribed, so no social distancing is possible. We are told that if we’re not comfortable with this, that is our problem as we have chosen to travel and if we don’t like putting ourselves at risk, we should change at Leicester. I’m gob-smacked by this. So much for companies being socially responsible. This is utter fuckwittery. (Which might not be a word, but really should be.) The company in question is East Midlands Railway Services and they clearly do not give a shit about their customers.

The rest of the journey is in a very crowded carriage. Just up from me are sat a couple of female students. A male student is trying to chat one of them up and I reproduce some of his dialogue for your edification:

“Which one’s English Lit?”

“Oh, it’s like poetry and stuff?”

“You mean like Shakespeare?”

I have to give him credit for having heard of Shakespeare. He then came up with his best line yet:

“What’s then point of that then?”

A sentiment guaranteed to melt the heart of any English Literature student. Though, to be fair, I’ve been asked the same. He then proceeds to boast about the fact that he has seven points on his driving license and justifies it as follows:

“It’s how you learn, isn’t it?”

He is, as originally suspected, a knob and I’m sure he’ll be a parliamentary candidate at the next election.

I have to admire the restraint shown by the two female students. He left the train at Leicester, at which point both of them burst out laughing. I hear one say “I can’t believe he didn’t know what English Lit was” and it appears they think him as much of a fool as I did. Maybe there is still hope for the world!

The weather has been steadily getting worse and the sun in Yorkshire is replaced by pelting rain as we approach St Pancras International. I noticed that my ticket had allowed nearly an hour to get from there to Paddington – which seemed excessive. Sadly not, as I was about to find out. For a start, there was the trek through the Halls of Mammon at St Pancras International – a suitable final visit for what will be my last trip through London as part of this ridiculous odyssey.

Then onto the Spiral Line – where there are no trains running! It would appear that London Underground has a huge staff shortage and (for reasons known only to themselves) they have chose to cancel all of the trains on what used to be the most well used line. As a result, I manage to get to Paddington with about 5 minutes to spare. On the way, everyone’s fears about lack of social distancing on the Tube are met. Clearly no-one gives a fuck.

I get to my train and stagger on to find at one end a family with 6-8 completely uncontrolled children is completely blocking access to the rest of the carriage. With a muttered “fucking kids, that’s all I need”, I head past. When I get to a seat and look back, I realise that it was quite a loud mutter as mum and dad are giving me evils down the carriage. Look, I understand that children can be loud and need to express themselves. But I also think that parents need to understand that they are not the only people in the fucking world and they should at least make an attempt to keep their noxious spawn under control. If I’d acted like that as a kid, my parents would have been mortified. Mind you, they were pretty shitty to me (looking back on it) so maybe I’d best not make that comparison.

The above is pretty much word-for-word what I wrote on the day, which gives you an idea of my mood by the time I got home. Having left York in good spirits, I’m wet, cold and tired when I get home . Maybe it’s the happy-go-lucky antics of Fateless (which, by the way, is a fascinating book) or maybe it’s the thought that there’s only one letter to go and I’m going to miss doing this.

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.

And so it starts again. A year later than planned, it’s time for me to set off on the final four legs of my rather strange odyssey. This last year has been an odd one for everybody and the permission for us to stay overnight in hotels was only confirmed a week prior to me heading out – I was pretty lucky when I booked them back in September. It’s been a rough year for a lot of people – not the least of which has been the entertainment and hospitality industries. It’s been an eventful one for me as well. When lockdown started last year, I was already off work suffering from stress and lockdown threw me into full blown depression. As a result, when I should have been completing W-Z, I was just getting ready to go back to work. Since then I’ve changed jobs and managed to injure my back. Oh, and I also had a flood – given the fact that I live in a second floor flat, the flood was extremely unexpected.

On top of that, I’ve had to get to grips with a new set of minions – sorry, I mean “staff”. My physio has prescribed me orthotics to wear in my shoes as he claims they will help with the back (they do). However, having a solid piece of plastic in my shoes has also caused me a severe pain in my left heel. Apparently, this is planar fasciitis. Those of you out there who are considering getting old, take warning. Oh, and I started a diet back in February. I’ve been following the keto diet. Yes, feel free to roll your eyes, but it seems to be working. One of the things I’m concerned about is how I’m going to be able to stick to it while on holiday.

Given everything that’s happened, it’s a relief to be heading out to W, though of course I’m doing so in a world that has seen a lot of changes. As a result, the Age Appropriate Hoodie and Baseball Cap have been joined by the Obligatory Face Mask. Over the last year, I’ve seen a lot of strange responses to Covid-19 – and a lot of even more strange ideas from people about where they should wear a face-mask, how they should wear a face mask and what social distancing actually is. So my excitement is tempered with a bit of trepidation about going on holiday. This will be the first time I’ve left the local area for six months and, like many people, I’m not sure how I’m going to react to dealing with people in crowds.

Why Wells? Having already been to Bath, I really had no choice.

So, how could I possibly miss up the chance to go to Wells?

The day is apparently a warm and balmy 13 degrees. Clearly the miasma of Slough is somehow affecting it as it actually feels bloody freezing. The age appropriate hoodie goes on and I head down to the train station. I have an E-ticket for part of my journey today – because there is no direct train service to Wells, I have to go to Bristol and then complete my journey by bus. The E-ticket has come with a reserved seat, so once I get to the station, I try and work out where I need to stand. Apparently I need to be in Zone 1. In vain, I look up and down the platform to work out where Zone 1 is, but there aren’t any signs anywhere that I can see. Shrugging at the usual incompetence of the Slough station set-up, I finally spot the extremely large painted panels on the ground that indicate where the zones are. So, I then have to shrug at my own inability to spot extremely large signs. I give myself the excuse that I’m not wearing my glasses. I would usually blame the people standing on it, but there aren’t any. There are very few people on the platform and I wonder whether this is still people’s reaction to Covid-19. Like many other places, Slough station has taken action to make sure that people don’t sit beside each other. However, I think they’ve got it slightly wrong.

Clearly the decision was made by the same people who said “A cow is loose? Okay, just hit it with your car then.”

Having found out where Zone 1 is, I make the trudge to the end of the platform. As the train approaches, it slows down to the same speed that Boris Johnson approaches credibility. It’s so slow that I’m convinced that it will never actually reach me. Eventually it does so, and I shake the cobwebs off and get on board. I take my reserved seat – which was clearly needed as I am the only person in the carriage. It was interesting, by the way, when booking train tickets this year. They were available much later than normal, and even once released there were limited numbers. Half of the seats in this train have red tickets on them stating that no -one should sit there. I wonder how they’re going to keep going if they can’t sell enough seats to fill the trains?

But that doesn’t bother me too much and I settle down to “Dickens – Public Life and Private Passion” by Peter Ackroyd.

Soon, I am back at the delight that is Reading station. Much quieter than I have seen it before, which does little to disguise the fact that it is a dump. As we pull in, everyone on the platform is masked up and huddled up in thick winter clothing. Except for one man who is wearing a running vest and shorts and no mask. Wondering why, I head off to get my train to Bristol Temple Meads. I then head back to the same platform that I just arrived at and hope that no-one noticed my largely pointless journey up to the concourse. My reserved seat is in the same carriage as my first train, so I assume (possibly rashly) that if I stand in the same place as the last train, I should be in the right place. And, miraculously, I am. I get on to a packed carriage – three of us. this time. This blog will end up a lot shorter if I don’t find some people to make fun of.

The journey to Bristol Temple Meads is largely uneventful and on the way I find myself reading about Dickens making his first train journey on what was then a new and exciting mode of transportation. In a rare moment of philosophical insight, I reflect on how far we’ve come in 200 years. Just then, the train stops at Swindon, and I reflect on the fact that there are still some places that make me yearn for the cheery days of the Victorian workhouse.

At Bristol, I head out to find the bus to Wells. It’s sunny now, but still chilly so that fact that I’m wearing shorts is still a little unusual. A veteran who did three tours in Afghanistan strikes up a conversation with me – solely because I’m wearing my Help for Heroes t-shirt. He heads off, but not before asking me if I have any mental health problems. Clearly I made a good impression. Or maybe it was the shorts.

Finally, my bus arrives and I manage to snag the front upstairs seat on the bus. The delay has given me time to work out my journey for tomorrow. Google Maps is happily telling me that it’s going to take me 21 hours. After some work, I manage to get that down to a more acceptable 6. It’s still going to be a bit of a mission tomorrow. The journey itself is relatively peaceful – at least until someone gets on downstairs with their dog, which proceeds to bark. It’s OK though – it only barks when people get close to it. “Close” seems to include anyone getting on and off the bus. I’m damn glad that it’s downstairs and I try to tune it out and enjoy the countryside on the approach to Wells.

OK it’s a road, but it does at least prove I was awake.

Wells is a tiny city – apparently the smallest city in England. The streets are narrow and cramped and as the bus pulls up, I spot the frontage of the Crown in Wells – where I am staying the night. It’s market day here and stalls are crowded all around the outside of the pub. I rest up by the fountain and look around. For some reason, this all looks vaguely familiar.

I head up the street and see a sign for something called the Bishop’s Palace. My sense of familiarity increases.

It’s not until I post the pictures, that a friend points out that this is where they filmed parts of Hot Fuzz. And I’m staying at the building used as the frontage for the pub. Which may, in part, explain the attitude of the staff – but I’m getting ahead of myself.

I head into the Bishops Palace and get some lunch. I choke down the urge to get a burger and chips and instead order a Ploughmans Lunch as it’s the least carb-filled meal I could find. In order to comply with Covid restrictions, I have to give my name. Apparently “Andy” is a very rare name – or I’m not enunciating properly – and so I go and pick up my lunch when the woman yells for “Addie”. By then, there are no tables available – and I can’t really share a table under current Covid rules – so I sit down on a park bench and have my lunch while fending off a particularly predatory pigeon. It’s very attractive here and I feel myself actually relaxing. Of course, the fact that I’m eating my first carbs for weeks might have something to do with it – BREAD! Where have you been?!?!

I can hear the low murmur of people talking and I realise that this has been the first time for months that I have been anywhere that I’ve been able to hear that. I wonder how many other people here are in the same position? As I finish my lunch, the sun comes out. The rest of the day is warm as long as I’m in direct sun – good job really, or the shorts would have been a very unwise sartorial choice.

After lunch (and it’s a particularly good one), I pay to get into the main body of the Bishops Palace. It’s surrounded by a moat and partially derelict.

It also has artwork that doesn’t really match the palace itself, but is certainly interesting.

• 

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• 

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It’s a really good place to explore and the weather warms up enough for me to stow the age appropriate hoodie. In the Chapel, I find this:

No mention of “baby eating” though – maybe it’s not a requirement anymore.

I then head up to Wells Cathedral which, like many others, is undergoing renovation.

Wells cathedral is spectacular and like the others I’ve visited gives a sense of peace, calm and awe. The central construction of the tower is quite unusual. This is one of the remarkable Scissor Arches:

There are some guides hanging around (they’re not allowed to do tours atm) and I ask one about the arches as they look so modern. He confirms that they were built in the late 1300’s although (as I have astutely observed) they do remind a lot of people of the work of Henry Moore. I nod sagely – I just thought they looked like an owl. I can’t deny how amazing they look and they do look years ahead of their time.

I really like Wells Cathedral and they have some nice touches here. A chapel has been put aside specifically for those people who are struggling in these difficult times and they have someone there to talk to people who need it. There is also a prayer that is placed centrally in the nave.

I have a lot of problems with religion – but not when it’s doing things like this. This is the good side of religion that more people need to see.

On the way out, I head to the obligatory gift shop and buy the obligatory bookmark.

I then head out into Wells to sort out my exit strategy for tomorrow. I have a ticket booked from Bristol Temple Meads at 09:45, so have to catch the 08:10 bus. I head down to find the bus station and on the way back, I get distracted by a Costa Coffee. I settle down to update my notes with a vat of coffee and the extremely odd and loud laugh of the barista echoing around the shop.

Having had a good wander, I head into the Crown in Wells for my overnight stay. To say that the man at reception was helpful would be over-selling it somewhat. His whole attitude was off-hand. He spent our entire conversation staring at a computer screen – so much so, that I was glad his hands were in view as I suspected he was watching porn. I told him I needed to get a bus at 08:10 so would need an early breakfast. He wrenched his gaze away from the computer and just repeated that breakfast was served from 07:30 onwards. Talking with him was odd. He was almost trying to banter, but his whole demeanour made it clear that he didn’t give a damn. I wandered off to find my room and eventually tracked it down. The room itself was comfortable, although a sign on the windows made it clear that I was not allowed to open them. Given the fact that it was hot and stuffy, I ignored that immediately. The room was the first one I’ve stayed in for ages where there was no information package – and no way to find out what the Wifi password was.

The room was comfortable, but was a twin room. As a result, I was charged a “single person supplement”. I can see the point of that when the hotel is full, but having to pay that when the hotel is virtually empty really annoys me. I sat down the bed and jumped up again as it gave way like a partially set jelly. It was so soft and wobbly that I checked to see it wasn’t a water bed. It wasn’t – it was just unpleasantly soft.

The oddly unfriendly manner of the staff extends to the restaurant. I started off ready to have a starter and a main course but after two incredibly uncomfortable conversations decided to just have a main course. I was actually pretty close to walking out. The lady who finally serves me saves the day as she is friendly and brings me a large glass of wine. When I say “large”, this is also a misnomer. I’m glad I didn’t go for a small glass as I hate drinking out of thimbles. Still, as this is the first alcohol I’ve had for four months, it’s probably better that it isn’t too big.

Dinner is accompanied by 1984 by George Orwell.

The restaurant is surprisingly busy and I get the only free table. For once, I’m not the only person dining alone but I’m sat by the entrance to the toilets. As a result, large portions of my meal are accompanied by the sound of the hand dryers blasting away. I go for the slow roasted pork belly, which is very tasty despite the apple sauce being a very odd pink colour and the skin not being crispy enough (I’ve watched enough MasterChef to know what it should be like). It’s a satisfying meal, but I’m not sure it’s worth £25.

My way back to the room is now blocked by a red velvet rope. The receptionist does an excellent job of ignoring me until I negotiate the rope and am halfway up the stairs, where he utters a sepulchral “Good night, Sir.” There’s a small cough at the start which must be his reaction to having to force a pleasantry out of his mouth. The overall impression is of Robert Pattinson attempting to play Lurch., Back in my room, I have a fight with the curtains as I struggle to get them behind the large dressing table that is in the way – presumably placed there in an attempt to stop me from opening the window. I eventually drift off to sleep, bring W to a close.

Somewhere out there, are two or three people who have been following this blog and are asking themselves “what happened to W-Z?”. And also “is he ever going to complete the alphabet?”

Even if those questions aren’t being asked (and they should be!), I’ve decided to answer them.

W-Z were planned for May-June this year. Unfortunately, a little virus got in the way and screwed all my plans up – as it did for the plans of a lot of people around the world. Now, while economies might be crumbling, while celebrities might be pining away from the lack of limelight and while “young persons” are getting obsessed with Tiktok, it’s clearly more important that I’ve been unable to finish my travels!!

In one way, it’s saved me having to think of what I’m going to do next – although I do have 2 plans. One is a 10 day extravaganza, the other a highly ambitious long term plan. Both will undoubtedly garner the same huge audiences that A-Z has got 🙂

I was going to fill this out by going off on a rant about social distancing (or, rather, people’s inability to do it), people’s lack of responsibility and the general attitude that seems to be a current malaise. But let’s keep it light and airy, and instead end with an otter.

I hope you’re all safe and well and I’ll be trying to complete W-Z next year.

There is the possibility that I was reaching a little with this one – but the other V’s that I found were very pedestrian – I thought a trip to Victoria Station would be pretty dull.  So instead, I sneakily turned to Latin and found the Via Devana.  This is the name that the Romans gave to the road that led from Colchester (Camulodunum) to Chester (Deva).  https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Via_Devana.  As I have resorted to Latin to get myself out of this particular hole, I will try and make sure to look at Roman things while I’m there.

The day is eye-wateringly sunny, so I get to the train station with the Age Appropriate Hoody packed in my backpack and my baseball cap ready for use later on.  It’s only been 2 days since “U” and my legs have recovered thanks to a very long hot bath.  Somehow, I managed to get away without getting sunburned – no idea how!  After my last trip, I am aware of the need for preparation so I have both sun cream and water with me.  I (as usual) arrive well in time – in fact, I’m in time for the train prior to the one I have planned to use.  With a dazzling display of self control, I stay on the platform so that I can stick to my original plan.  This is helped by todays’ book: Long Lost by Harlan Coben.

The platform is packed with people though very few are talking – clearly I’m travelling with commuters.  The only thing to break the silence is a woman further down the platform who must have bought her penetrating laugh from Cackles’R’Us.  She must do well at Hallowe’en.  I wonder what she finds so funny – surely Bake Off: The Professionals wasn’t that amusing last night?  Maybe she (like me) caught up on Game of Thrones and she finds the sight of things burning amusing.  Alternatively, she could be related to George R Martin and she (like him) is thinking of the money pouring in.  I mean, who is he kidding?  All the hype about the last season, including a 6 month delay and extended episodes and what we get is … disappointing.  The pace is either glacially slow or frantic with plot lines that are tied up without any real care.  It’s almost as though he’s already thinking of the spin off series.  I feel sorry for Tyrion who has been reduced to the status of a watcher, just numbly watching everything and looking haunted.  Though, I admit, it did look good.  I keenly await the launch of a range of Kings Landing Marshmallows (Toasted by Dragons).

The train is as crowded as the platform was.  My backpack goes on the luggage rack and I sit in front of it.  Every time we stop (and we stop everywhere), I get paranoid about someone stealing it and keep twisting around to make sure it’s still there.  There are people standing in the aisle and just beside me is a man who has very little regard for personal space.  He is enjoying his nutritious breakfast of a packet of crisps, though as people keep jogging his elbow, several are on the floor.  His lack of masticatory precision also means that his T-shirt is liberally sprinkled with the debris of the ones that make it into his mouth.  He also seems to be fascinated by me and every time I look up, he’s staring at me.  Luckily, this isn’t very often as I’m devouring Long Lost in much the same way that Pac-Man devoured those little snack pellets.

At Paddington, I head to the Spiral Line as I’m going to Liverpool Street station.  During this trip I’ve managed to pick up a different main-line station each time I’ve gone through London and it’s beginning to feel like I’m playing some macro version of Monopoly.  The Spiral Line, of course, has trains every couple of minutes – except today when the wait is 7 minutes.  I consider heading south on it and then using the Central Line but due to the Spiral Line’s peculiar set up this doesn’t involve just walking across the platform – instead, I have to go back up the stairs, through a barrier and into a completely different part of the station.  Yes, clearly this was designed perfectly.  Just as I think this there is an announcement stating that there are no delays on the Underground.  The packed platform of people would seem to make that another example of fake news.

When it does arrive, there are no seats on the train.  Then it stops in the tunnel prior to the next station as there is a train at the platform.  HOW?  It’s been at least 10 minutes since the last train, so what the hell is going on?  When we eventually get there, we are further delayed as there is a change of driver – presumably, the first one was fatigued with all the waiting.  And then, to top it all, some fucking busker starts down the carriage with his accordion.  I ignore him as I have been informed that telling people to “Fuck off” can offend.  He does trip over my rucksack, so score one for me.

We finally arrive at Liverpool Street and I head to the overground station.  There is no Fortnum and Masons here as this is not an International station.  There is also no sign of Tom Cruise running around, although I do check.  I head for something to eat and go for the appropriately named “Eat”.  What you get here is over-priced food and glacially slow service.  Despite their lack of speed, the woman behind me gets a very testy “next, PLEASE” when the cashier has to ask her for a second time.  Apparently her hesitation of 1.8 picoseconds constitutes some kind of offence.  I’m asked if I want a bag.  I refuse, then change my mind.  This is not allowed and I am looked at in the same way you look at someone who has just trodden on shit and walked across your cream carpet.  I do not get given a bag.  The staff here need some kind of award for being not just unhelpful and unpleasant, but actively hostile.

Juggling my food, I leave.  I find that my platform has been announced, so I get straight on and snag a table.  I then find that whoever designs these trains has decided to skimp on size – I haven’t been this uncomfortable since I was on that National Express coach (All the way back in J – remember?)  But I only have to last one stop, though I’m tempted to stay on and go to Diss.  Just because.

I use the loo which is refreshingly low tech and hurry back to make a paranoid check on my bag.  All is in order, so I settle down for my largely flavourless lunch.  There are lots of announcements being made – and I haven’t got a clue what any of them are about.  I hope they’re not important as they are approximately the same volume as the music you can here when someone is sat beside you and is listening to Linkin Park on their headphones.

The journey is very quiet — helped by the sotto voce announcements.  The only blemish on this is the man having a loud business call halfway down the carriage.  Apparently he is “very excited about suspension seats”.  And he has exactly the kind of voice that makes me believe he is.

Finally, I arrive at Colchester station and begin the walk into town.  The sun is still shining brightly and I head for the centre which is dominated by an odd looking tower.

It’s quite a busy road, but as I go along there’s a wide variety of buildings including some really attractive ones.

Even if this wasn’t a straight road, there are reassuring signs to help me find my way.

No, I have no idea why they have used elephants.

The centre of town is liberally peppered with some nice buildings and a large number of students who are all in remarkably good spirits.  Presumably because they’re wandering around rather than actually doing any work.

Unlike them, I spend some time looking at the architecture..

.. and the rather bizarre artwork which (juxtaposed with the above) doesn’t really work.

But once I get to the centre, I spot signs for the Castle Museum and head that way.  This does exactly what it says – it’s a castle converted into a museum — and it’s been done really well.

Inside, they have retained some of the original walls and put a very modern display inside.  This really could fail to work, but here it succeeds brilliantly.

They have kept some areas like the prison cells pristine, so that you can see exactly what they were like.

They have an interactive trail for children where you pay £1 to hire a tablet that does various things as you go round, adding texture and depth to the displays.  (Yes, I did hire one and yes, I got a funny look).  In several places, it allows you to see how the area would have looked when the castle was in use.

There are lots of places where they encourage people to touch objects, see how they felt and it is very well balanced between entertainment and education.  as a result, there are several school parties here of remarkably polite children.  I have a great time wandering around here.

And look – something Roman!  There’s actually an awful lot here about the Romans, so by the time I leave I feel utterly justified.  Honest.

Outside, the castle is placed in the middle of a park and it’s really nice to see so many people relaxing around this building.  My enthusiasm is somewhat dampened as I realise 2 benches have street drinkers on them and I overhear two girls who look at the castle, causing one to turn to her friend and utter the immortal words “It’s like … history.”  Yes, indeed it is.

But the park is lovely, well maintained and with some excellent statuary.

Hold on, if it’s made of wood is it statuary?  Topiary?  Let’s just go for sculpture.  Having wandered around the park, I then head off to try and find the tower that I saw when I first arrived.  And find it I do.

It looks just like a jumbo water tower.  Luckily there’s an information panel close by to tell me what it actually is.

Oh.

I am thoroughly enjoying my time here, but if I don’t head back soon I run the risk of having to travel through London at rush hour.  So I head back to the station, but still manage to find some interesting places on the way back.

At the station, I grab a coffee, a sandwich and a pasty for dinner tonight.  I almost immediately regret the coffee – turns out Pumpkin coffee is bland everywhere.  As I’m waiting, a lady sits on the seat beside me and starts having an animated conversation on her phone.  “Of course we’ll come and pick you up from Marseilles.  It’s no problem.”  I sigh to myself – some people live in a completely different world from us mere mortals.  There is a long discussion of where she will leave her car while she collects “this amazing crab.”  Apparently it’s Indonesian.  I’m sure she will declare it when she imports it.  She hopes it won’t rain – I fervently hope for a monsoon in Marseille.

The train arrives and is once again equipped with painfully narrow seats and sotto voce announcements. Harlan Coben keeps me occupied all the way back to Liverpool Street.  I begrudge the time away from him and head down to the dubious quality of the Spiral Line.  At Paddington, there is a run for the train and I grab my last table for this particular set of journeys.

Long Lost gets finished before I get back to Slough, but I don’t start the next one.  It’s occurred to me that I only have 4 destinations left.  What on earth am I going to do then?

So, dear readers (I am reliably informed that there are a quartet of you now), that’s it for this year.  I hope my travels have entertained you somewhat and that you will follow me next year as I plumb the depths of W, X, Y and Z.  Once that’s done, this particular Artificial Construct will be over and I’m wondering what to do next.  If you have any suggestions, let me know.  Au revoir until 2020!

 

 

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.

 

 

 

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.