Day One

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Day Two

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

 

First of all, an apology to both of my readership for the delay in posting this.  I’ve just completed O & P and done the planning for Q-V so I’m extremely lax in posting.  The reason is that this was the only visit that I’ve done so far that was a disappointment.

Anyway, the day dawned at the excellent Ashdale Guest House in Matlock Bath.  The euphoria of now being more than halfway through is supported by a substantial breakfast and I reflect how great it is to be in a part of the world where “black pudding” isn’t a swear word.  My stay at the Ashdale has been marvellous and it’s with energy and enthusiasm that I head out.  My odd Super Off Peak ticket won’t be valid for some time, so I head out to collect some Geocaches around Matlock Bath.  For those of you not knowing what they are, here’s a photo of one.

That doesn’t really help, does it?  Basically, it’s a good excuse for a wander around Lover’s Walk and a chance to explore some more of Matlock Bath – which I find very attractive indeed.

I work my way down to the train station and try to work out exactly what a Super Off Peak ticket entails.  While I do, I run through the reasons for going to Nottingham.  Let’s face it, there’s only one:

Though I freely admit, I sometimes mix it up with this one:

Now I know there is more to Nottingham than Sherwood Forest, but it’s about as valid a reason for going somewhere as I’ve had so far, so off I go.  Or I will, once I’ve sorted out which trains I am allowed to use.

Aha. Finally I’ve worked it out.  The ticket is valid on trains heading into London after 11:35.  It’s valid out of London between 10:05 and 15:34.  Wait a second, my journey is technically towards London, so which rule applies?  And when I’m going home tomorrow, my train won’t leave London until 16:00, so does that mean my ticket is valid?  I have no idea.  I now realise why they have decided to simplify the ticketing system – because this is not straight forward.

While I wait, I tuck into my next book: Breakfast at Tiffany’s by Truman Capote.  Which is incredibly short.  So short, that I finish it before arriving at Nottingham and so switch to The Wolves of Willoughby Chase by Joan Aiken.  Quite a contrast in styles.

The train from Matlock Bath is a single carriage train.  When I get on, I’m faced with a bicycle that has fallen across the aisle from where it’s been stored.  A highly embarrassed middle-aged man in lycra rushes up to put it back and explains that it fell over as he has too much in his panniers.  He then proceeds to put it back in exactly the same place.  The rest of the journey is punctuated with crashes and repeated apologies as the bike repeatedly falls over.  I think of suggesting that he store it differently, but actually this is just too entertaining.

I think that the conductor will probably come and help but after 25 minutes she hasn’t got halfway down the carriage.  For her, this is a social occasion and checking peoples’ tickets comes very low on her agenda.  And there are quite a few.  The leg room on this train is minute and I have to sit across two seats – luckily it doesn’t get busy enough for someone to insist on sitting by me.  At Belper two more cyclists get on and use their own bikes to block the other one in place – to the relief of the crestfallen owner of the original bike.  Of course, the problem comes two stops later when he wants to get out and I end up watching their Jenga-like antics as they try to extricate his bike.

All that (and my two books) keeps me well entertained until I arrive at Nottingham.  The sunny morning at Matlock Bath has disappeared and the sky is overcast with a chilly wind.  This is not an auspicious start.  I decide to grab something to eat before I start exploring and head out of the station.

My initial impression of Nottingham is that it is a dung hole.  I walk through an area that is clearly in the throes of rejuvenation (either that or it recently collapsed) and the most interesting thing I can find to look at is a tram.

I continue walking around and as I do, I can see an impressive looking church standing out amongst the surrounding buildings, so I head towards it.

As I get closer, I realise this is no longer a church:

While I’m sure Nottingham is not the only place to have a church re-purposed into a bland, anodyne chain pub this adds to my initial impression, and so my second impression of Nottingham is that it is, in fact, a dung hole.

I find my way to the centre of town and settle myself into a Burger King while I plan what to do next.  From here, I can see several buildings of interest, but somehow I just can’t find the enthusiasm for exploring.  It could be that I’m suffering a bit of fatigue from the last 2 weeks, or it could be that Nottingham is truly uninspiring.

I head out and grab some pictures in the central square.

As I wander around, i find some other things of interest:

After wandering around for about an hour, I realise why I’m not getting into this – for the first time in my travels, I don’t feel safe.  There is no specific threat or concern, I just don’t feel comfortable walking around.  I decide to head off early to the Ibis Hotel – which, as usual, is massively uninspiring.  I grab some food from a corner shop and have an evening in my room, hoping for a better day tomorrow.

Day Two

Not the best night – their much vaunted “commitment to comfort” doesn’t extend to an air conditioning system that works.  Though, I admit the bad was comfortable.

Showers are predicted for today — and once again, the prediction is wrong: it is, in fact, pissing it down.  I have a lack-lustre breakfast, including a scrambled egg that is utterly tasteless and would probably bounce if dropped on the floor (I resist the temptation to test this hypothesis).  For the first time, the jeans go on rather than shorts and the age-appropriate hoodie is on as I leave the hotel.

I’m wet within 100 yards and soaked within 15 minutes.  I find myself running from door to door to try and stay even slightly dry and so I head up past the Exchange and towards the Castle.

The Castle unfortunately doesn’t open until 10 — and I’ve already decided I’m going to be heading for the station by then.  Outside the castle, the rain pours down on a statue of Robin Hood.

Doesn’t look much like Errol Flynn to me.

I’m cold, wet, miserable and still feel vaguely unsafe.  As I make my way to the train station, I go over a canal and snap a photo.

A helpful passer-by says “It’s much nicer when it’s sunny.”  I choke back a litany of pithy responses as I the weather finally defeats me and I take shelter in the train station with 3 hours to wait for a train I am allowed to catch.

I sit in the cold, empty hall and nurse a Cappucino from Costa Coffee.  I am on my last book – The Book of Evidence by John Banville.  I’m not sure it will last me, so I grab a Puzzler Collection to keep me going – it’s quite scary that I remember the first time I did a Puzzler…it was in 1972!

After an hour I work out which platform I need to be on, so I head down there to find a waiting room that is somewhat warmer.  I’m in here alone, except for someone who is sprawled in his seat and snoring loudly.

I wouldn’t be that concerned if this was later in the day, but it’s 10 in the morning.  So I struggle with a moral dilemma – do I check he’s okay or not?  In the end I decide to do the right thing, so I go across and gently shake him.  He comes around with a surprised grunt and I apologise and say that I wanted to make sure he didn’t miss his train.  He looks around, stands up and walks out without saying a word.  That really is the cherry on the top of this bloody awful day.  I return to my book.

The journey back is long and uncomfortable – primarily as I’m in wet clothing and it’s extremely chilly.  By the time I get home, I’m sick of this stupid idea and wonder whether I started it in the first place.

 

So, rather a downbeat end to my travels earlier this year.  I’ve now done O and P and will hopefully get them written up in the next couple of weeks.  As I write this, we’re in the run up to Christmas so I hope you all have a good Christmas and a Happy New Year.  I hope you enjoy the blog and will enjoy it next year when I’ll be doing Q through to V.

For the second time I’m off for a three day trip – this time just after having got back from Ludlow.  However much my bed is telling me to stay, my duty to my readers is clear and I get up early to pack the rucksack (no bloody wheeled suitcase this time) and head out to the station.  Of course, some of my attention to duty may be due to the fact that the train tickets and accommodation have already been booked and paid for, but I prefer to consider my less selfish motivations.  The day starts grey and overcast, but as I leave the house the sun comes out which I decide to take as a good sign.

The trip to the station is as uneventful as a walk through Slough ever gets and I then spend a fun few minutes playing with the ticket machine and getting it to vomit forth an array of tickets covering the next 3 days.  A I pick it up, I boggle at the price of the ticket – and also wonder what a Super Off Peak Ticket is.  There’s nothing around to explain it, and the staff are busy staring off into the middle-distance and I don’t particularly want to disturb them when they’re chewing the cud.  So I decided to try and find out later on — I’m sure it won’t be important.

I sit down on the platform and crack on with my book – The Dictionary of Medieval Heroes – which I am currently plowing through at a fair speed.  My concentration is disturbed by a Chinese man who is perched extremely uncomfortably on the edge of a seat, eating a Cornetto and singing to himself.  I’ll put him down as my first odd person of the day (not counting myself, obviously) and I hope that this bodes well.

The journey to London is also uneventful as the train behaves, I get a seat with no trouble and the serenading man realizes what he was doing and spends the journey in silence.  I hide a smirk as I get off the train and see someone rush past me.  I smile because he is dressed in blue blazer, shirt and tie.  Why is that funny?  Because he has matched that with skinny jeans and blue trainers.  It looks as though he must work behind a counter somewhere and he’s hoping that no-one will ever see his bottom half.  Given that he, like 95% of the population, does not have the physique for skinny jeans I can only hope this to be the case.

The Spiral Line treats me with it usual gentility apart from a massive scrum at St Pancras INTERNATIONAL where it would appear no-one can work out the intricacies of the automated ticket barriers.  I am worried that they have been replaced by something which requires an advanced degree, superior hand to eye co-ordination or a code that only the wisest can de-crypt.  Instead, I put my ticket in the slot as usual and walk straight through.  None the wiser, I head off leaving the scrum behind me and into the halls of my favourite train station.  Now, while I might be typing that with sarcasm apparently many people say it without it and mean it as St Pancras INTERNATIONAL has been voted the 2nd favourite station in the country.

I can only assume that the INTERNATIONAL travelers voted for it, as once again I have to work my way past them and their associated high-brow shops and head for a dimly lit platform tucked away in the corner.  Given that the trains from here go to Corby, Sheffield and Nottingham, I briefly wonder whether they deserve to be tucked away in a corner.  As I wait for my train, I spot some art that catches my eye.

Of course, they’re not on my platform so I head off to my train.  This is a Sheffield train and made up of 7 carriages – 3 of which are First Class and therefore empty.  3 out of 7 carriages?  Really?  I’m not trying to demean people from Sheffield, many of whom I’m sure are fine people, but given the cost of my Super Off Peak tickets I would imagine that the only people who can afford First Class are MPs or people with similarly huge expense accounts.

I trudge past the carriages and find a table to sit it in a carriage which, bizarrely, has signs up stating that none of the seats are reserved.  Seeing as this is being said by the friendly little displays above every seat I dump my rucksack, sprawl across the seat and get back into my book.  I’m peripherally aware of a couple who sit at the table across the aisle from me, and become more aware when someone arrives and tells them they are in the wrong seats.  They then have to admit that, in fact, I am in their seat and they just didn’t want to bother me.  I do the right thing and move to an another apparently unreserved seat – and then 5 minutes later have to move again.  I end up moving three times and I only stay where I am then because the rather polite man who should have been in my seat refuses to take it after the nice couple from earlier explain how often I have moved seats.  There is then an animated discussion about the point of the displays on each seat when clearly no-one has bothered to update them.

There is some brief entertainment when someone who is having trouble getting their luggage tucked behind their seat snaps at another passenger who tries to push past them.  To be fair, the first man was being particularly pathetic but I did think the second person could have waited a bit longer.  Then again, maybe he was aware of the bizarre approach to seat booking on the train and wanted to make sure he claimed his seat before some surly bloke from Slough tainted it by sitting in it.

The train gets going, the journey starts and things do not improve.  For some reason there are two ticket inspectors who both insist on seeing everyone’s tickets.  Seeing as they’re both in the carriage at the same time, I have to wonder which one of them is on some odd work experience scheme.  About 45 minutes into the journey the intercom plays a piercingly loud double chime for no readily apparent reason.  It then repeats this 5 times, successfully waking up absolutely everyone including several young children who start crying.  This is not the best train journey I have ever taken.

It is an absolute pleasure to get out at Derby where I have to take a connecting train to Matlock.  I look for somewhere to sit and find out that in Derby people are so hard that they just have metal bars to sit on rather than seats.  After perching on there for a while reading, I use the facilities.  My brief stint in there is disturbed by an odd toilet cleaner who seems to think that you clean a toilet by going up to each one and just slamming the toilet seat down incredibly loudly.  Of course, they might not have been an employee – they could have been an example of local “colour”.  Whatever the reason, I’m relieved when the tiny 2 carriage train to Matlock arrive and we head off on the last stage of todays journey.

I relax although I feel a bit lack-lustre.  Maybe it’s the journey, maybe it’s just travel fatigue or maybe it’s just general irritation.  While it’s sunny, it’s actually quite chilly and I’m not overly convinced that this is going to be a good trip.  I’ve also noticed that the person doing the announcements has some strange speech impediment and doesn’t seem to be able to pronounce “Bath” correctly.  (I have noticed a similar impediment afflicting  many people who live north of London).  Despite my concerns, we arrive at the quaint little station at Matlock Bath without further incident.

Given the weather and my disappointment so far, I decide to head for my sole reason for coming here – the Heights of Abraham.  These are reach by that most common of Derbyshire transportation methods: a cable car.

These tiny cable cars give a short but spectacular journey up to the Height of Abraham.  Some might challenge “tiny” as they can apparently take 6 people in each one.  That may be so – should they all be munchkins!  I certainly wouldn’t want to be in there with more than 2 or 3 people.  However, I’ve got one all to myself so I can enjoy the view.

The weather is perfect for this and the views are spectacular.  I head to the cafe at the top and grab some lunch on the terrace.

After lunch, I start to explore the area.  This area has been used for centuries as a holiday destination and the tourist area at the top has a lot of artwork – including a statue to commemorate when this area featured during the Torch Relay for the 2012 Olympics.

There is also a viewing tower that I decided I have to climb to get the best views.

I then find that my experiences in Ludlow Castle are haunting me as I find yet another incredibly narrow spiral staircase.

But the view from the top is well worth it.  I have a good look around up here and then head down to the Masson Cavern to go on the guided tour.  This cavern has been used as a tourist spot for centuries although things have progressed somewhat since Victorian times when people were lowered into the caves in a basket.  We get to walk in and have a very instructive tour.

It’s odd being in a cave on such a sunny day, but when the tour finishes and we head outside the contrast makes the view even better.

There is a small museum here talking about the archaeology of the area and I potter around for a while, looking at some of the displays.

I went to Wookey Hole earlier this year and was disappointed as (apart from the caves themselves) everything around it was incredibly tacky and aimed at young children.  The experience here is far better – educational, impressive and well worth while.

But now I’ve seen it all, so it’s time to head down.  I could go back down by cable car, but as it’s a glorious day now I decided to walk down.  I’m writing this 5 months later and my knees still haven’t quite got round to forgiving me.  But, it’s a very attractive walk down into the small town of Matlock Bath – this picture from the bottom gives an idea of the gradient.

Matlock Bath itself is weird.  It is basically one street that runs alongside the river.  It feels just like being at the waterfront at Brighton or Southend: amusement arcades and more fish and chip shops than I have even seen.  There are also a load of motorbikes as Matlock Bath is a meeting point for bikers.  So, as I walk down the road to my guest house, I get to admire some of the bikes – and, naturally, sneer a little at the Harleys.

I’m staying at the Ashdale Guest House (http://www.ashdaleguesthouse.co.uk/)and I’m immediately impressed.  The owners are friendly and the room is large.  I resist the temptation to just crash out, but shower and change and then head out to find somewhere to eat.  I ignore the fish and chip shops and end up at The Fishpond where I order an excellent burger (with black pudding and Stilton) as well as a very welcome pint of beer.

I have a quick check on my finances – they’re looking a bit tight and I hope that the overnights have already been taken out of my account or I might be in a bit of trouble.  But that’s something to worry about tomorrow.  I head back to the Ashdale and I settle down to sleep with the sound of motorbikes going up and down the main road.  What a great day.

 

 

 

And so after 2 days of rest, the time has come to continue my peripatetic adventuring.  Pausing briefly to leave my thesaurus behind, I get ready for 2 days away and wonder to myself if my legs are up to this.  They’re still aching after last weeks tramping around and my knee is definitely feeling a bit wobbly.  As I pack the rucksack for a night away I wonder, not for the first time, if I’m not getting too old for this.  The sight of the age-appropriate hoody is enough to banish such doubts and I’m off on the normal trek to Slough station.

Today is heading to Ludlow.  “Why Ludlow?” I hear you cry (proving once again that the voices I hear are not always my own).  Well, when I was young (yes, all those years ago) I used to enjoy reading a set of books by Malcolm Saville called the Lone Pine Adventures (https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Lone_Pine_(books)).  They were written in the years after the second World War and come under the heading of what would currently be called *wince* Young Adult Books.  Whatever, they were I enjoyed them and several of them took place in Shropshire in the area near Clun and Ludlow.  I couldn’t go to Clun as C is now way behind us, so I’m heading for Ludlow.  (The Lone Pine books will feature later on in the alphabet as well).

So, suitably armed with nothing but a dated set of Young Adult books for reference, I head off to Ludlow.  The journey today will be long and includes a foray into the wilds of Wales, so I check my rabies shots are up to date and that I have packed the anti-lion cream.  (OK, I didn’t pack the anti-lion cream because I made that up.  But I did pack the Wolverine Ointment, because you never know.)

I manage to arrive at Slough station 30 minutes prior to my train and end up staring at a picture of the Sussex countryside — which does not help improve the vista of Slough station.  I am, naturally, going to take today in a relaxed and sensible way, so I decide to get my first coffee of the day and wait placidly for my train.  Naturally, I almost immediately change my mind and my coffee and I are soon speeding towards Reading on an earlier train.

This gives me a chance to try and finish off Memory of Fire by Holly Lisle.  Still enjoying it, but not finished when I get to Reading.  Sat there waiting for my connecting train, I am momentarily distracted by this man on the platform opposite.

Now some may criticize me for finding his stylistic choices unusual, but lederhosen?  In Reading?  I mean my shorts may look like a fashion mistake, but lederhosen?

The train from Reading to Newport arrives on time and we head off.  It is a quiet train – really quiet.  So quiet that I fall asleep twice, dropping my book on the floor both times.  It’s so quiet, that no-one seems to notice and I am suitably refreshed when I get off the train at Newport.

Now, before I left I had checked on the route and the journey between Newport and Cwmbran was described in an extremely vague manner.  Suspiciously vague.  The reasons for this become clear when I am directed out of the station to wait at a bus stop for a dreaded bus replacement service.  My nerves about this (after all, I am an Englishman alone in Wales) are ameliorated by the extremely impatient man who is having a very entertaining rant about the trains, the bus system, a passing taxi and anyone else who gets in his way.  He decides to get a taxi and storms off leaving me to wonder where the bloody bus is — I’ve just missed my connection at Cwmbran.

After half an hour it turns up and I manage to nab the coveted front seat on the top deck so I get a great view as we leisurely drive up to Cwmbran.  There, we stop at the grandly named Cwmbran Passenger Interchange.  Otherwise known as the train station to the rest of us.  I find myself wishing that the sign was translated into Welsh as I suspect trying to say it would generate enough phlegm to drown a chihuahua.  With that thought in mind I leave the bus and negotiate the legion of staff who are loudly and aggressively demanding to see tickets — though they all ignore me.  Ok, there isn’t a legion, but considering this is a tiny station there are 6 people stood here all doing the same job.  The good news is we don’t have to wait long for the train and the final leg of my journey is underway.

First impressions of Ludlow are not particularly good as the train station is directly opposite a delightfully ugly Tesco.  But even from here, I can see hills surrounding the town, so I press on hoping that Ludlow will not disappoint.  Very quickly I get away from the bland supermarket structure and the road ahead looks as though this little town could be of interest.

As I head up the hill, I spot some really interesting architecture and get close to the centre of Ludlow.

The centre of town has got a real mixture of architectural styles and some very narrow cramped streets, but it works.  There is a real charm about it, despite the fact that there are a huge number of coffee shops and cafes – but somehow it works.  There are also some real throwbacks here — I haven’t seen an Ironmongers for years, but there’s one in Ludlow!

I head through the centre of town until I come to the entrance to the castle.  I resist the temptation to head inside, as I’ve decided to explore there tomorrow.  Today, I’m heading down to the river Terne and as I head downhill I find some more attractive buildings to looks at.

It really is incredibly pretty here.  At the bottom of the hill, I come across an old Mill beside a small park which is quite busy with people enjoying the good weather.  From there I can get access to the river itself and I spend some time pottering around.

After a bit of exploring, I head across the bridge and follow the signs for the Bread Walk.

I wonder why it’s called the Bread Walk and manage to find a handy information sign that tells me that workers used to walk this way and they were paid with bread.  I then turn around and get a superb view up the hill towards the castle.

The walk along here is remarkably relaxing – there are very few people making the walk as the day is quite hot and there is little noise apart from the sound of the river.

Across the river, I get glimpses of Ludlow through the trees and even that has a charm which does not spoil my mood.

Eventually I come to the next bridge, and head back into Ludlow.  As I head back into the centre of town, I see a road-sign which makes me pause.

I head up the hill wondering why the sign is necessary and then I find out why.

This is not a pedestrian path…it’s the road.

I head upwards, shaking my head at the sheer volume of blue plaques on the houses here.  I swear, I saw one that said “Nothing of importance of interest happened in this house.”

They’re thinking of putting the same plaque on this blog.

Anyway, the time has come to head for overnight lodgings at the Ludlow Mascall Centre.  This is one of those place which I would best describe as a B — no breakfast here.  The Ludlow Mascall Centre is part of a community centre and there are only a few rooms here.  I get the key and head up to one of the bizarrest rooms I have ever stayed in.  The bathroom is exactly the same size as the bedroom and the bed is absolutely minute.

I open the wardrobe to find that the rail in it has been set an odd height which wastes a huge amount of room.

As I ponder this conundrum, I realise that I am in a disabled friendly room which explains the height of the rail and the size of the bathroom – but not the ridiculously tiny bed!

I have a quick rest up before heading out for dinner.  I find an Italian restaurant which is very pleasant – or it would be were it not for the children that are being allowed to run riot in the garden.  Despite that, I have a pleasant meal and I head back to the Ludlow Mascall Centre.  As I do, I spot a church down an alleyway and have a quick explore.

After a very satisfying day I head back to my room.  My knee is twinging in a worrying way and the room is stuffy and hot.  I do not anticipate a good nights sleep.

Day Two

And my anticipation was correct.  I have a very disturbed night in the stuffy room, made worse by the fact that the cold water runs warm after half a cup.  By the time morning comes I’ve managed to grab a few hours sleep, but I don’t feel fully rested.

I pack my things and head into the town centre, pausing to grab a couple of geocaches on the way.  I then select Costa Coffee as my breakfast venue of choice and sit outside enjoying a cappuccino and a bacon roll.  Outside is an odd choice as I’m right beside the road, but it was necessary due to the screaming toddler that was being ignored by its’ parents inside.  The small area outside is quite crowded as a result.  I sit there finishing the book I started in the middle of the night – Embers by Sandor Morai.  This is the tale of 2 friends who meet for the first time in 40 years — it seems everything I read at the moment is about my school reunion!! The book is basically a monologue, but is enthralling.  As I read, I become aware of the sound of a flute coming from an upper window.  The music is beautiful and mildly surreal – especially as they swap from classical to pop.  It is one of those moments where it sounds as though your life has a soundtrack and it weirdly adds to my feelings of relaxation.

I finish the book and take out the next one: Dictionary of Medieval Heroes.  That should slow me down a bit.  As I am about to leave, I see a car draw up opposite and the driver gets out and opens up the back to reveal one of the best trained dogs I have seen for ages placidly sitting inside.

I head down the hill and across the river to pick up a few more geocaches and then head back up the hill to the castle.  Ludlow castle is truly spectacular,  It was begun in 1086 and is incredibly peaceful.  As I wander around it is really quiet in here.

I follow the guidebook and wander from tower to tower, until behind a door I spot a spiral staircase.  There is nothing here to say I can’t wander up it so I do — and then discover that Ludlow Castle was built by a tribe of incredibly thin people with tiny feet.

With my huge feet and a backpack on (to say little of my own natural girth), the staircases are tricky to negotiate, but the views you get are well worth it.

I gingerly head back down and into the main keep, where I spend an entertaining hour exploring several more tiny, vertiginous staircases — and the flocks of pigeons that dwell in some of them.  Finally I climb the keep itself.

.. and the views from the top are truly spectacular.

As I head down I see some visitors heading out who couldn’t be bothered to make the climb — foolish people!  I grab some water and look back and think that this is so much more satisfying than the sideshow that the Fort in St Helier had become.  Suitably satisfied, I shoulder my pack and head back to the train station.  Ludlow is a beautiful little town and one I would be happy to return to.

My journey back is long and involved and marred by by the following incidents:

• a strange man sitting by me at Ludlow Train Station and muttering something under his breath before wandering off and balefully glaring at me from an adjacent seat;
• my train being cancelled;
• at Cwmbran Passenger Interchange a man who decides to wait until getting off the train to go to the toilet and then insisting that the bus wait for him;
• the same man then loudly discussing his journey to Barnstaple with the driver, when we all just want him to SIT THE FUCK DOWN!;
• a wifi socket on the train that had a death grip of steel and which I needed to get under the table to remove;
• damage to overhead lines between Maidenhead and Slough.

And despite all that, I’m still in a good mood when I get home.  Which is lucky as I have to get ready for a 3 day trip tomorrow.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

K is also for knackered as I’m bushed after the last three days and a very long journey home.  As my alarm goes off, I seriously consider postponing K.  But I am devoted to my loyal readers (both of you) and so I lever myself out of bed.  Actually, that’s only one consideration.  If I don’t go today, I’ll have to go tomorrow or Sunday – and as there’s a small wedding going on in Windsor this weekend I suspect the railway station will be slightly crowded.  I’m also meeting two of my friends today, so I’d be changing the arrangements for all three of us.  So, suitably attired and with a very heavy pack on my back I head off for Slough station.

Before I get there, I thought I’d better mention why I chose Kensington – after all, it’s not exactly a long way from home.  Firstly, I wanted an easy one after Jersey – especially as I have a busy next week with L – N.  Secondly. I haven’t been to the Natural History and Science Museums for a very long time – and I used to love them.  That’s why my friends are coming with me as well – they also have fond memories of both and wanted to see what they were like now.  (To make things easier I will give my friends names – John and Janice.  These are clearly not their own names, but subtle pseudonyms chosen to obfuscate their identity.)

I should also mention why my pack is so damned heavy today.  Tonight I am going to John and Janice’s house for our weekly (when we can all get together) gaming night.  Before you start to worry about us and sign us up for Gamblers Anonymous, I will explain that this is for table-top role-playing gaming.  The game that we are playing is called Deadlands – if you are interested, here is a link to a site about it.  https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Deadlands.  All you really need to know is that the rule-books are many, heavy and several of them are in my backpack.

So, I stagger off to Slough station.  Getting there I realise that it is less than 12 hours since I was last here.  The major change is that now it is packed with commuters – none of whom have the slightest interest in anyone else as they focus on getting to their train.  As a result, I begin to get irritated as I get bumped, barged, pushed and blocked by a variety of people most of whom seem to have a mobile phone welded to their ear.  When the train finally arrives, it is already crowded and I end up standing.  I do see a seat – but the woman in the seat beside has cleverly used my own tactics of a coat, bag and sullen attitude to keep it clear.  Tipping my baseball cap to her fine use of my own methods, I remain standing and try to read my book.  Today’s book is The Memory of Fire by Holly Lisle.  (A fantasy novel.  Pleasant but generic.)

My attempt to read my book are disturbed by the two young women directly in front of me who are loudly gossiping about people they know and what happened last night.  One is clearly surprised and let’s out a long, drawn out “Whaaaaaaat?”  I’m staggered.  I thought only cliched TV teenagers did that.  At that moment, the train stops at Langley and they leave along with a large number of people of similar age.  I realise they are probably going to Langley College – so the whole brain-dead moron routine makes a lot more sense.  The good news is I can now grab a seat, though I am uncomfortable with my heavy pack on my lap and having to read around it.  But I manage.

Rather than heading for Paddington, I change at Ealing Broadway which allows a gentle stroll across the platform and onto the tube.  The District Line (unlike the Spiral line) remains as it has since I used to travel regularly on it 30 years ago and I soon find myself heading upstairs at South Kensington.  I am (as ever) early, so I head outside and stand in the sun with a cup of coffee and a muffin.  It’s very pleasant – especially as I have that smug feeling of watching other people who are clearly on their way to work.  I finish my breakfast in a leisurely fashion and head back into the station.  John and Janice arrive at almost the same time and we head down the pedestrian tunnel to the museums.

I can remember walking down the street and seeing the buildings come into view and am disappointed that we won’t be doing that.  However, the tunnel ends in good time to get an excellent view as we approach the Natural History Museum.

I recall this building being blackened with grime, so it’s good to see that it has been cleaned.  The entrance is still as impressive as I remember it.

Inside is the cool gloom that I remember and the echoing sounds of other people.  This is somewhat marred by the most cursory security check ever (am I invisible?) and a barrier that forces you to walk right past the person asking you to give a voluntary donation.  My innate stubbornness kicks in at this point and I demur.  (It’s so rarely one gets the chance to demur.  I must look for more.)  To be fair, I will donate later on – just not when I’m being pressured to do so.

The first hall you come into (The Hintze Hall) is as impressive as ever, with the skeleton of a whale hanging from the ceiling.

Around the sides are the skeletons of the things I really remember — and always wanted to see when I was here as a child – the dinosaurs.

Initially, I’m elated — this is just how I remember it.  But as I think about it, I reckon the Museum is missing a trick.  I remember this huge space having the larger dinosaur skeletons in it — a truly impressive place in which to display them.  While the whale is amazing, it isn’t anything compared to the dinosaur skeletons.  Oh well, maybe they will be displaying them somewhere just as good.

Sadly not.  We head for the dinosaur galleries — as do most other people who come in here.  The galleries are set out in an educational way, with plenty of facts and background that is well balanced and instructive.  But is there something of value in the animatronic T-Rex?

Apart from the way it scares small children (always a bonus), I would have preferred just a skeleton.  Due to the way the gallery is laid out, the larger skeletons are either above the main concourse, or alongside walls, so you can’t get a true feeling of the scale of the creatures.  But when they do have the room, the display really works.

We head out of the dinosaur galleries suitably satisfied and head into the rest of the museum.  And then we discover the problem faced by the Natural History Museum.  As we walk past a seated row of 8 people all engrossed in their mobile phones, we realise that apart from the dinosaurs, everything in the Museum can be found on the Internet — and in a better format.  What’s the point of looking at a stuffed tiger when you can watch one on Youtube or Netflix?  Technology has moved on to the point where the Museum is almost redundant.  That feeling stays with me as we continue our tour.

There are some areas where the Museum has worked hard to engage the visitor.  The Earth Galleries have a truly spectacular entrance and then have lots of displays that you can interact with – in much the way that the Science Museum used to.

But here it’s clear that the money that they are asking for is definitely needed.  Lots of the displays show signs of wear and tear.  Several are blurred and faded and need replacing.  It’s actually a little sad.

As we have our lunchtime coffee and cake we discuss this and how the Museum’s priorities have changed.  It’s noticeable that there are now multiple gift shops and cafe’s – undoubtedly for convenience, but I have the sneaking suspicion that it’s also a way to get more money out of visitors.  (Yeah but do they have any bookmarks?  None that I could find.)  Somewhat disappointed, we head for the Science Museum.

Like the Natural History Museum, there is a lack-lustre security check.  This one does actually look in my pack — but seeing it’s full puts him off and he takes my word for it that I’m not carrying anything I shouldn’t.  The pressure to pay is even more intense here, with a much smaller passage to get past the people asking for a donation.  I demur again.

I remember bits and pieces about the Science Museum — mostly the amount of interactive exhibits, but also the impressive Foucault’s Pendulum set up just inside the entrance.  So I look for it.  And it’s gone.  Seriously?  This pendulum demonstrates the movement of the Earth.  It’s truly amazing.  And it’s gone.

Heading in, the first galleries all seem to be about transportation and feels more like going around a motor museum than a science museum.  While there is a developmental flow as you move through history and see the various modes develop, there’s no real interaction.  It feels very superficial.  Given the amount they could include, that is possibly the only way to deal with it but I would have liked something a bit more structured.  Don’t get me wrong, it was interesting.  It just started to get me thinking more about my aching knees and back than it did the science.

As we progressed through the museum, we found several galleries and displays which included the interactive exhibits that I was looking for.  These are now more computer based than physical, but still engage and entertain — some more than others.  But all three of us are starting to flag, so we head out without seeing everything – but planning to return.  There is one vital stop – the gift shop.  After a good deal of hunting I manage to find a bookmark and gripping my prize triumphantly, we head out into the sunny streets.

In the end, they are still the best way to get a free day out in London!  Next week, I have three places to visit and I’m going to spend the weekend resting and preparing.

 

 

And I’m off again!  Two days after the Fake J and I’m heading out to the Real J.  Let’s just clarify that for those people who complained that I was calling Plymouth “fake”.  This blog is the one I intended for J, Plymouth was just shoe-horned in as I was going there anyway.  Besides, how could you complain about being re-introduced to the delights of the National Express song?

Apparently some people can complain about that as it is a bit of an ear-worm.  I can attest to that as I am alternating between National Express and Prorsum Semper Honeste as I get myself ready to go.  To be fair, it’s not the worst ear-worm I’ve ever suffered from.  This is:

 

Anyway, I shall move on confident that you’ll now be stuck with that for days.  So I wrote up the last blog entry and got some great feedback from it which, naturally, encourages me to keep going.  Will you never learn?

Packing this time is a bit different.  I’m going by plane so decide to pack a small suitcase rather than relying on the backpack.  I then pack a smaller backpack inside the suitcase for use while I’m away.  Because that doesn’t seem weird at all, no Sir, it doesn’t.  Because a flight is involved, there is a deal more planning as I have to get a train, another train, check in and then get the flight.  I have planned everything to get me to the airport right at the start of check in to minimize waiting around.

So I get impatient and head off an hour early.  It’s sunny and warm, the baseball cap and shorts are on, the age-appropriate hoodie has been packed and I’m off to Jersey.  Why Jersey?  Well, I only really know two things about Jersey.  Number One: Bergerac

Number Two: Gerald Durrell

https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Gerald_Durrell

Ok, to be fair I know more than that about Jersey because I know about the cows and the fact they were occupied during World War II and they have a knitted garment with long sleeves named after them.  (The last one could, of course, just be rumour but I couldn’t think of a third thing).  But when I think of Jersey, Bergerac and Durrell are the two things that spring to mind.  Why?  Well when I was young I read Gerald Durrell’s books avidly and always wanted to visit Jersey Zoo as he created it.  And Bergerac?  I think everyone of a certain age would agree with me that John Nettles gave us the finest travelogue inspired police show on television for many years.

So, with a desire to visit based on a TV series from the 1980’s and a set of books I read over 30 years ago I head off.  Clearly my vision of the island will in no way differ from reality.

The suitcase causes trouble from the get go.  Although it’s quite light, it’s still a pain to lug it along.  It does, however, have wheels and one of those little handles that allow it to turn into an Andy-tripping machine as I complained about in a previous blog entry.  I give this a go and then find out why everyone with these things walk so slowly.  If you move at any speed other than glacially slow, the stupid suitcase wobbles from side to side until it flips itself over and drags along the pavement like a recalcitrant child being taken to piano lessons.  So I give up and carry it.  I get to the station, grab my tickets and dive onto the train with seconds to spare (and the extra hour that I have due to being stupidly early).  My reason for using the suitcase, by the way, is so that it’ll be a bit more robust in the hold as I think it’s too big for hand luggage.

I settle down with todays book – Brideshead Revisited by Evelyn Waugh.  Another book that seems to be about the difference between generations that makes me think about the reunion I went to over the weekend.  It’s a good read and I am only occasionally disturbed by concerns about what I’ve forgotten to pack.

I arrive at Reading where I will have a 30 minute wait.  There are signs everywhere saying that Channel 5 are filming there – presumably a documentary about the least attractive train station.  I make up my mind to avoid that.  After my disappointment in Plymouth, I decide to test a pasty from the Lands End Pasty Company.  Not bad – 7/10.  Needs more meat and more seasoning, but definitely better than the Oggy Oggy disaster.  The pastry is marvellously flaky and for the next hour I am brushing them off my shirt, shorts, bag and Evelyn Waugh.

The train arrives and the normal scrum forms to get on.  Given the fact there are relatively few of us, I don’t bother to get involved.  It strikes me that I’m actually taking a very relaxed approach to the whole journey today – maybe the weather is affecting me!  The journey to Gatwick is all very civilized and as we pass through Reigate we get the constant companion of the North Downs to my left.  It’s all green fields and hills and under the sun is very pleasant indeed.  Gatwick, by contrast, is manic with people charging in all directions dragging suitcases and children behind them.  I still maintain a certain composure as I wander through to check in.  As I get there, I look at the frame you can use to see if your luggage is small enough to be taken into the cabin and, not really expecting it to work, drop my suitcase inside.  To my surprise it slides neatly down into the frame – it fits!  My elation is somewhat dashed when I realise that it fits almost exactly.  There is no handle on the upmost side of the suitcase and there is just enough room for me to slide a hand down each end of it and I have to push my hands together and grip it and then try to slide it out.  It takes a couple of tries before I get it out at which point I look up to see a middle-aged woman who has been watching me and is politely trying not to laugh.  Glad that I have made at least one person happy, I head to the check in where the very helpful lady takes one look at my height and moves me to an aisle seat.

So now I have 3 hours to waster before my flight goes.  I grab a coffee and carrot cake and sit watching four men who are clearly having a business meeting while they wait for their flight.  Chuckling to myself at my good fortune to be on holiday I wonder how long I should nurse the coffee before heading through for the fun of the security check.  I leave it about 45 minutes and head through.  Now, I last traveled by plane a year ago – and as far as I’m aware nothing has changed since then.  However, it’s now clear that my shampoo and deodorant will have to be dumped as 100 ml is the largest size allowed.  I dump them – but manage to ignore the 150 ml can of Ralgex,  I’m glad I hadn’t bought suntan lotion as they would just be something else to replace.  I head through to the gate where I have to stand on a line and look at a camera.  Which doesn’t like me.  At all.  After about 4 rejections, the security officer suggests I remove my cap and glasses.  I do so and get straight through.

Now the luggage gets scanned and I start to question some of the rules.  The iPad mini has to be put through separately, but my phone can stay in my luggage?  I don’t have to take my watch and Fitbit off – that’s a weird one.  The Ralgex catches me out, so my bag gets shoved to one side and opened – along with about half of the bags.  The customs officer looks at the Ralgex and replaces it, saying that it’s below the limit (which it clearly is not).  I sigh, accede and smile sweetly before heading through to the Departure Lounge.

Inside, they have taken a leaf out of Ikea’s book and you now have to take a long winding march through the Duty Free shops before getting to anywhere with seats.  Ignoring the “bargains” I head through and look for the Boots on the other side.  Boots are clearly aware that everyone will need to replace items, so they have deliberately hidden away all the 100 ml items.  They have also got a lot of offers on 200 ml items that make them cheaper than the 100 ml ones.  Hmm.  I’m not too impressed with their business model though I can see why they do it – gives them a chance to cash in twice.

So I then settle down with Brideshead to wait for the Gate to open.  I amuse myself for  a while listening to the couple sat opposite me.  I can’t work out whether they are speaking a foreign language, or whether it’s English but with a very strong accent.  By the time the gate opens I still haven’t made my mind up.  I head through the gate with everyone else to find myself in yet another queue.  This has another facial recognition machine — but this one doesn’t mind caps or glasses.  Or so I am informed after I have taken mine off and am trying to juggle suitcase, glasses, cap, book, passport and tickets.  Whatever.

Eventually I get onto the plane where thankfully I can stretch one leg out into the aisle.  It’s actually not too bad – until the man in front decides to bounce up and down on his chair, ramming it against my knees.  Luckily he stops and falls asleep.  But the flight is nice and short and remarkably quickly I find myself walking out of Jersey Airport.  I’m not sure whether to get a taxi or a bus, but my decision is made for me as a bus pulls up literally as I walk out of the concourse.  I head on and grab the front seat upstairs.  I’m glad I did – given the size of the roads the taxi wouldn’t have been much faster and I get a great view across the bay towards St Helier.  As a school colleague might put it, it’s quite a cerulean scene.

It’s a beautiful day.  The accents on the bus are fascinating – a mixture of English and French and sometimes its difficult to make out what language is being spoken.  The roads are quite small and it reminds me a lot of the Isle of Wight.  A further similarity is the large number of bicycles and motorbikes being used.  Jersey is clearly well sorted for bikes and motorbikes, including making sure there is enough parking.

I will later be assured that Jersey is renowned for politeness and courtesy – but my initial experience is not a good one.  The bus is full and the back of the top floor has got several schoolchildren in.  One has got quite the mouth on him and I (like everyone else) have noticed this due to his predilection for using some of the coarser of the Anglo-Saxon terms available to him.  I have to admit that it’s getting to the point where I was going to ask him to tone it down, but one of the other passengers does it for us.  Shame he’s had too much to drink himself.  It ends up with him swearing just as much as the kid did, slapping the phone out of the kids hand, the kid yelling that he is going to call the police, the man being thrown off the bus and general mayhem and excitement.  I did consider getting out my warrant card and calming things down — but then decided that I can’t evoke my usual air of authority while my knees are showing.  Also, I’m on holiday.  So sod it.

Despite that, I’m in a good mood as I get off the bus and navigate my way across St Helier to the Hotel Sandranne.  I’m glad I’m not driving as St Helier has a large and complex one way system which would guarantee confusion.  However, for a pedestrian it’s not a problem – especially as the drivers are all incredibly polite and keep stopping to let people cross the road.  It confuses me initially – we so rarely see politeness in Slough!

I dump my luggage and then head to Royal Square where I have an average dinner sat outside in cafe style.  I could almost be in France – especially as there are several conversations in French going on around me.  It’s very relaxing and pleasant and definitely a good start to my visit.

Day Two

So here I am at the Hotel Sandranne – which can at best be described as faded chic, and at worst be described as tacky.  The room is a good size, but the bed linen is all pink except for the duvet cover which is floral with ruffles.  I don’t think I’ve ever seen a ruffled duvet cover before.  The room has a trouser press (definitely old school) and a fridge.  Not a mini-fridge, a proper fridge which sits and hums quietly to itself all night.  My window has a delightful view of the backs of some houses and looks directly onto a flat roof, which does give me some security concerns.  There’s no welcome pack or anything like that and the Wifi password is grudgingly given out by the receptionist when I ask for it.  (Actually she puts it into my phone without telling me what it is).  However, the bed is comfortable and they do serve a passable full English breakfast.  At breakfast I can see that most of my fellow diners are workmen, two of whom seemed to spend all night sat on the front porch smoking.  I mention this as you don’t often see people in armchairs on the front porch of a hotel.  All in all, I feel the best days of the Hotel Sandranne are many years past.

As I head into the bus station I note the odd naming conventions of the roads in Jersey.  Some are English (Charing Cross, Broad Street), some are French (Rouge Bouillon, La Rue des Mielles) and some have 2 names — although unless my linguistic skills are seriously atrophied they are not direct translations:

I am also somewhat confused by the naming of the road that the Hotel Sandranne is in — Rouge Bouillon.  As far as I can work out the road is called Red Soup.  I cannot imagine how it got that name.  Other names are easier to work out and as I get to the bus station I see some of the evidence of the pride that the residents take in their history.

So, today I’m off to the Zoo.  Some may say that travelling to Jersey just to go to a zoo is a bit of a waste – but I really don’t care.  I’ve wanted to visit here for nearly 50 years and I’m really excited that I’m finally going to get there.  The zoo opens at 10:00 and after a chat with the very helpful customer service lady at Liberation Station I sort out which bus I need to catch.  We have a short chat which involves having to explain my shirt to her (Good grief, it’s like talking to a dolphin).  It turns out she is not a fan of the Big Bang Theory but she still gives me some good advice.  I have about 45 minutes to wait so head out to some local geocaches.  I find one that involves a revolving clock – but it doesn’t operate before 10 am so I’ll return to this one later today or tomorrow.

I return to the station where I pass the time by reading The King in Yellow by Robert Chambers.  This is meant to be a book of horror stories but after the first couple, it’s padded out with some very bland material.

The bus arrives and just before 10 am I arrive at Jersey Zoo.  The zoo is quite small – only 32 acres – but is very well designed and so seems much larger than it actually is.  All of the enclosures are large and so I send a lot of time trying to find the animals.   They are also remarkably well trained.  When I do find them, they always manage to turn away from the camera just as I take a photo.  However, I do catch a few of them out.

The fun of the zoo is somewhat dampened by the arrival of some children – but they are actually quite well controlled and taken around in small groups rather than  a coach load at a time.  I have a really enjoyable wander and then head for the Dodo Restaurant where I am quite disappointed that they don’t serve any poultry at all.  I am very sensible and have soup….and because I’ve been sensible, I then have cake as well.  I then head out for part 2, including feeding time for the gorillas and the orangutans.

The feeding times are excellent as the keepers accompany them with some very informative talks about the animals and the way they are looked after.  It’s good to hear them talk as they both clearly care deeply for the animals they look after and talk about the work they do with them.  Really impressive.  This is definitely a zoo for people who don’t like zoos as the trust does a lot of good work around conservation.

On the way out I manage to resist buying a ton of books (I already have most of them, but it’s a book shop!) and I head back to St Helier happy in the knowledge that I’ve managed to tick something off my bucket list.  Back at St Helier I have a good wander around, firstly down by the sea front and then around the town.  The docks give some great views over the bay and to Elizabeth Castle.

However, low tide does seems to have caused some parking problems for some people.

In town, there is quite an array of artwork to look at.  Some is clearly to do with the liberation.

Some celebrates the produce of Jersey.

And some is just a bit random.

While I was photographing this I asked a police officer what it was about.  He had no idea.  Though he said that it might be because the residents of Jersey are referred to as crapauds as Jersey is the only Channel Island that has any toads on it.  Sounds as good a reason as any, but doesn’t explain why the toad is on top of a column inscribed with the names of crimes.  This road also has a lot of insets on the pavement:

I can only assume these are somehow related.

What it does mean is that a walk around the centre of St Helier is surprising and interesting.  I finish off the day with dinner at the Adelphi (http://www.randalls-jersey.co.uk/pub-guide/st-helier/adelphi-lounge/).  This was recommended to me by the lady at the Hotel Sandranne and is a very good meal.

I head back to my hotel and review the general hilarity and mayhem going on in the WhatsApp group that was created on Sunday.  It’s been a good day and I head to bed.

Day Three

My last day dawns and its farewell to the Hotel Sandranne – which overall gets a 4/10.  It’s still sunny today but chillier so I’m doing a bit of dodging between pools of sunlight to stay warm.  However, as it goes on it gets warmer and the age-appropriate hoodie gets left in the pack.  My flight is at 17:40, so I need to be at the airport by 15:40.  Because it’s me that means I’m planning to leave St Helier at about 14:00.  My first task is to dump my suitcase and get rid of any of the local currency that I’ve managed to accrue.

As I walk around, I notice that there are no high rise apartments in St Helier – nothing over about 6 stories.  So although there has been some development around the docks it doesn’t make a huge impact.  (I later do see some high rise blocks but they are far from the centre of town).  I leave my suitcase in Left Luggage and start off with some geocaches.  The first one takes me on quite a hike out of the centre of the town and into the St Saviour area.  From here there are some great views back over the town and I also find the grave of someone famous.

Leaving Jersey Lillie behind, I head back into the centre of town and then head up to Fort Regent.

Fort Regent looms over St Helier in the same way that Dover Castle does and as I climb up the steps towards it I’m expecting a similar experience.  Imagine my surprise when I get to the top and find that my options are a car park or the front entrance of an Active Gym.  I head inside and speak to the receptionist who confirms that this is the entrance to Fort Regent and I wander inside with a deal of trepidation.  Basically, the entire Fort has been converted into a leisure complex with a central area that is used for an arena (Sarah Millican is performing here in September, folks!)

The central area has been covered and in the whole is billed as follows:

A dedicated children’s play area with PlayZone, arts &crafts, quad bikes, excellent café and free films every Sunday at 9:00 make this a fabulous family venue. Our fully equipment gym caters for all needs or why not have a quick game of table tennis or pool or join one the sports workshops and try something new. Visiting acts and local productions provide entertainment year round plus The View Bar offers amazing views over St Heller whilst you relax with a glass of wine or too.

I am in two minds about this.  One side of me says that it’s great that use is being made of a heritage site and that it is adding value to the lives of many people who would otherwise never use it.  It’s a very efficient way of using something that otherwise would be left to slowly ruin over time.  The other side just keeps yelling the words “Bloody philistines!” in my ear and after a while gets quite annoying.  Despite that, as time goes on my view tends towards the latter as I walk around a site that has existed for centuries and is now being set aside for pilates classes.  There are information panels that tell you about the history of the fort, but they are carefully put up so as not to offend the people who are here to improve their bodies.  In fact they are so carefully placed that some are difficult to find — and if a major event is on, you can’t get to one of them.  But I persevere and find an external walk that allows me to walk around the ramparts.

There are some marvelous views across the bay and out into the Atlantic Ocean.

I am massively disappointed and I head back into town.  My feet are aching which doesn’t help my mood.  As a result, when I see this sign I feel the need to mock.

Oh really?  The best in the world, eh?  Well, we’ll see about that.

Bugger me, they might be right.  Superb pasty, right balance of meat and veg, good seasoning, great pastry.  I can’t fault it.  Buoyed up by that I get my exploring feet back on and see what I can find.  That includes the revolving clock that I missed out on yesterday.

The clock has three scenes on it representing Finance, Tourism and Agriculture and it rotates on the hour.  As it rotates, the clock chimes and plays tunes and is, frankly, the tackiest thing I have seen in quite some time.  If you visit St Helier make sure you see it.  It is to fine clock making what the Eurovision Song Contest is to classical music.

In my wanderings, I find some more art and a maze which is half hedge, half fountain.

It’s excessively entertaining watching someone try to get their child through the maze.  Suitable cheered by the site of other people getting wet, I head back to Liberation Station and board my bus back to the airport.

Today’s book is The Enormous Room by E E Cummings.  It’s the story of what happened when he was accused of treason when working as a volunteer ambulance driver in Paris during World War I.  It’s remarkably good, surprisingly funny and (even more surprising) he uses capital letters!

I get to the airport in good time and then have my usual wrangle with security.  This time the Ralgex is rejected and I point out (in vain) that it was allowed through on the way out.  This time security required watched and Fitbit to be removed.  The security guard is very apologetic –  I can’t really blame him though.

I manage to get an aisle seat on the plane again and we have an uneventful flight which gets us in 20 minutes early.  That’s just as well as it means I catch an earlier connecting train which gets me home an hour earlier.  But it still means that its 21:30 when I walk through the door.  I’m knackered and I wish I wasn’t doing K tomorrow.

And so, nearly a year after starting and 10 months since “I is for…” the journey continues with a trip that originally I wasn’t going to include on the blog.  For those of you unfamiliar with the term “Janners”, the definition is as follows:

janner. Proper noun. (UK, dated, slang) An English person born within ten miles of the sea. (UK, slang) Someone from Plymouth, (UK, slang) The accent and colloquialisms of such people used by the people of Plymouth.

I qualify as I attended Devonport High School for Boys between 1977 & 1980, and this weekend saw a reunion take place down in Plymouth.  Despite living in Plymouth on and off for 2 decades I haven’t actually been back there for 10 years – and only made occasional visits in the decade before that.  There are a variety of reasons for this, which I’m not going to go into in such august and delicate company.

Anyway, I wasn’t going to include the trip as J (the “real” J is planned for tomorrow) but on the first evening in Plymouth I really wanted to write down some things that had happened – and so, dear reader, you get inflicted with an extra blog entry of drivel!  To whet your appetite further, I can tell you that J (the second J) – N will be done over the next 2 weeks and will involve (hopefully) flights, cable-cars, swash-buckling, dinosaurs and undoubtedly some very annoying fellow travelers.  I know you can’t wait, so let’s get on.

Day One

So with some misgivings, a sense of excitement, an age-appropriate hoodie and enough books for 3 days, I head out into the early morning sunlight of Slough.  Misgivings? Many.  I’m off to spend some time with people that I haven’t seen for 37 years and none of them are from the group I used to spend time with.  So I’m not sure how things are going to go.  Apart from that, it’s a warm day even at 06:15 and the shorts are on ready for a good weekend.  I do, of course, forget the baseball cap and as a result I’m writing this with a decidedly red head.  Even the book is appropriate – Fathers and Sons by Ivan Turgenev.  It’s about the difference in attitude between generations and will gel nicely with conversations that I have over the next 2 days.

All starts well with a hike to the bus stop.  I sit down, store the rucksack and reflect on the rather odd journey I’m taking today.  When planning this trip I found that the train ticket was wildly expensive (£50 more than the cost of the flight I’ll be taking tomorrow!).  Car hire was similar and so I fell back on coach travel.  However, to properly start that I have to get a bus to Heathrow.  So, 45 minutes after leaving home, I find myself heading in the wrong direction and become possibly the only person to travel to an airport in order to catch a coach.

For once the people on the bus with me aren’t annoying enough to entertain, so I alternate Turgenev with checking where I am and as a result realise that the bus could do the journey in about 15 minutes, but instead stops absolutely bloody everywhere.  I also discover that my luggage is, apparently, fair game for anyone else to move around for their own convenience.  An American couple join the bus and want to put their suitcases in the storage area, so just move my rucksack and shove it onto a shelf.  I, naturally, say nothing and sustain myself by glowering at them and then return to Turgenev.  Little did I know this would be the start of a trend.

So we arrive at the glittering emporium that is the Coach Station at Heathrow.  I join the small sea of people that are waiting for coaches and, like them, start to stare at the Departures Board which seems to enjoy showing little but “Wait in lounge”.  I wonder whether it’s like a kettle and watching it stops it from changing.  Despite my attempts to will it to change, it doesn’t so I settle down to wait for the coach.  In some ways this is very familiar – I did the journey from Plymouth to London by coach a lot in my teens and twenties and very little has changed about it.

And for some reason, this tune keeps running through my mind:

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=bc6qFpbAgwM

 

..and that’s why sometimes I laugh softly to myself as I wait for the coach.

When the National Express coach finally arrives I’m a little disappointed that they don’t have trolley service on them any more – though it would have probably started me giggling, so it’s just as well they don’t.  However, the embarkation plan works.  As the time approaches, I lurk close to the doors and as soon as the coach is announced I’m off to ensure I get first in line.  And of course, I’m behind the people who already knew which bay the coach would be coming into and thwarted my cunning plan.  The next plan is to try and get the seats with some reasonable leg room, so having handed my rucksack to the driver I head inside.  Right at the back, conveniently directly opposite the coffin-like toilet I find the seats with the decent leg room and grab one, only to find that it might have leg room, but it certainly doesn’t have arse room.  This is going to be an uncomfortable journey – and unfortunately someone decides to sit beside me so a cramped seating position now becomes a decidedly painful one.  That’s OK though – it’s only a 5 hour journey.  One note here – while clearly I am wider than the normal passenger the pain is not solely my fault as after a couple of hours my traveling companion turns to me and says “These seats are a bit bloody tight aren’t they?”  He is considerably thinner than me, so I am somewhat comforted.  Comforted mentally but not physically – after half an hour I’m wondering what the best way to avoid DVT it.  I resist the temptation to look up symptoms as my mobile phone although I am regularly checking it as other people heading for the reunion are updating our Facebook group.  I’m momentarily distracted by the man in the seat in front of me who is very proud of the fact that he paid £2.40 for his ticket – so much so that he tells the people with him 4 times in 5 minutes.  I have the horrible feeling that he’s going to keep going for the next 5 hours.  Luckily his batteries run down and he keeps mercifully quiet.

As we head down the motorway, I dip in and out of Turgenev in the same way people dip in and out of a jar of Nutella.  No, sorry, that just doesn’t work.  We all know what happens with Nutella.  The first slice of toast gets covered with a thick layer of brown deliciousness, flecked with the occasional sliver of yellow from the butter underneath.  The second comes about five minutes later and this time the Nutella is roughly knifed on in peaks.  For the third we barely wait for the bread to be fully toasted before covering it in Nutella and for the fourth we use our fingers to smear Nutella onto barely warm bread before gobbling it down, leaving ourselves with chocolate-smeared hands, face and (bizarrely) elbows like some avant-garde performance artist demonstrating his piece called “Secret Shame”.

Which explains why I never buy Nutella.

Anyway, I dip in and out of Turgenev in the same way people dip in and out of … fuck it, provide your own simile.  Let’s just say the book isn’t gripping and isn’t helped by the extreme discomfort of the seat.  I am distracted a little early on as I look up and see us sweeping majestically past the hotel at the end of my road.  I check my watch and, yes, it’s just gone 9 o’clock and 3 hours since I left home I have gone nearly 400 yards.  The journey gets lengthened near Reading when, for no reason I can divine, the driver turns off the motorway and heads down to a Park and Ride area where he stops the coach for about 12.7 seconds before heading back again.  The main reason for doing this appears to be the chance for us to sit in a traffic queue before we get back onto the motorway.  The man beside me turns to me and says “That seemed a bit pointless” and I have to agree with him — though the reason becomes clear on my return journey.

Apart from this brief interlude and the increasing pain in my arse and thighs, the journey is relatively uneventful.  We seem to have a set of very low tolerance drivers because we change drivers twice.  I’m sure drivers used to just drive the whole journey and wonder if it’s some health and safety legislation (it isn’t, as I find out on the return journey).  We get a break at Tiverton Parkway and while I normally begrudge the stop as it delays the journey, I’m desperate to stretch my legs.  But before we get off, we get the rules:

• 20 minutes only.  There will be a headcount taken and we will leave people behind if they are late
• Do not bring hot food onto the coach
• We can bring hot drinks on but only if they have lids on

I’m now wondering what the problem with hot food is?  What if the food is warm?  How about food that was hot, but has now cooled down?  Does the lid on the hot drink have to fit?  I am full of questions that I wisely do not ask the driver as he fixes with me with a baleful eye and I head off to buy cold food and a cold drink (because it’s still really warm here, not because I want to avoid testing the boundaries).

I give up on Turgenev and have a chat with the man next to me.  He’s also heading to Plymouth for a reunion – he served there in 1962 and is meeting up with a group of ex-servicemen and women.  We both have a good moan about the price of beer and I help him with the location of his hotel — somewhat marred by the fact that the Coach Station in Plymouth has moved since I went there last so I give him some massively bad advice.

Luckily I spot this error as we approach and I correct myself.  The coach station is now located just off Western Approach and as we approach it is clear that Plymouth is welcoming us in the best way it knows – to absolutely piss down with rain.  The Coach Station exterior has been designed with an eye to form and nothing to do with function.  It looks trendy and interesting but provides absolutely no protection against sun or rain.

The whole area is on a hill so when it rains heavily (like now) a lovely river runs across it — which is where some prat has decided to deposit my rucksack.  As I’m last off the bus, it’s completely soaked – and in about 10 seconds, so am I.  I dart for the lack of shelter provided by the structure (it looks far more effective than it actually is) and get the age-appropriate hoodie out of the pack.  Slip it on, hood up and head out for the guest house.

I head off to Citadel Road and the George Guest House.  It’s wet and bloody cold and I wonder what the hell is going on — I thought it was meant to be warmer down here!  By the time I get there, I’m soaked and it’s a relief to get into the room that I’ll be staying in for 2 days.  I’m right on the Hoe, so I’m looking forward to a good view up to the War Memorial.  Instead I have a lovely view of the backs of some houses with the Guildhall in the distance.  My room is clearly in what used to be the attic, so I can only stand upright in half of it.  This promises to give exciting opportunities for smashing my head open.  But it’s clean and I make myself a coffee before putting on some dry clothes and heading out for the first element of the reunion – a trip around the old school.

I’m due there at 16:00, so naturally I give myself an hour to complete a journey that will take about 20 minutes.  On the way, I take a quick trip down memory lane and stop by one of the places I used to live.

Yup, 45 years on and it’s still a dump.  As I get closer to the school it starts to drizzle, but I want to try and get a photo from across the playing fields.  As I try to find a spot, but am thwarted by the trees that have grown up since I went here, I see another man who seems to be doing much the same.  I suspect that he may be one of the people I’m here to meet – so typically I don’t go and say hello but head on to the school.  I get in there at 15:30 and he joins me a few minutes afterwards – so Stu Evans and I become the first people to get to the reunion.  (Bizarrely, we later realise that he and I live within 10 miles of each other).

Over the next 45 minutes there is a steady stream of people arriving.  It’s weird.  People walk in and I look at them and there is something about their face that is familiar.  A few I can put names to but most have to give their names.  We soon get over the embarrassment of asking and very quickly the Conference Centre is full of the sounds of chatter and laughter.  It starts what is to be quite a strange feeling across the next couple of days – it’s not sad, it’s not maudlin (except for Dave May’s poetry!), it’s not depressing, it’s happy but tinged with a bit of regret.  Part of that regret is undoubtedly for the time that has passed – but it doesn’t feel bad.  Instead it’s exciting to find out what people did and what they are doing now.  I find it quite jarring when I find that 4 people here joined the police after school and have all retired after 30 years in a job that I am still doing — and hell that really makes me feel old!

The journey around the school is fascinating.  Since we were there it has increased in size and taken over buildings that used to be used by another school.  So initially we’re all in unfamiliar territory.  But as we go on we head into areas that are familiar and we all get into conversations about which rooms we used to use for what subjects and realise that after 40 years some things are exactly the same.  The colonnade is exactly how I remember it.

But I’ve got a mission while I’m here.  I was never sporty at school and so haven’t got the memories that a lot of the guys have – or the team photographs that have been shared over Facebook in the last few weeks.  I only did one thing while I was at school that should have been recorded – and I don’t know if it was.  I’ve meant to come back to school to find out multiple times since I left but never have – so now the time has finally come.  Typically, the Honour Board I’m looking for isn’t with the rest of them in the Sixth Form Centre, but there in the School Theatre is the proof that I did go to this school and that I got one thing right:

I know it’s stupid, I know it doesn’t make any difference — but hell it matters to me!  (If you want to know about small things mattering, just ask Tim Hoy about Prefects.  Ask, then prepare to be talking for a long time.  You may need a drink.)

The guy showing us around is justifiably very proud of the school and is very patient with us.  The Sports Hall is amazing as well as the Learning Commons  (you and I would call it a library, but a previous head apparently thought it somewhere people could “graze” for knowledge.  Damn good job I didn’t meet him or there would have been a good deal of mocking!).  By the time we finish we’ve been there for 2 hours, the caretaker is very keen on us going and we head off to our next stop – the Walrus pub.

The Walrus has clearly been selected due to its ambiance rather than the fact that it’s right beside the restaurant.  Wait sorry I meant that the Walrus has clearly been selected due to its proximity to the restaurant rather than its ambiance.  It’s always nice to walk into a pub where the glare of the barman and the regulars makes it perfectly clear that they do not welcome strangers here.  Because its a local pub.  For local people.  The barman was clearly efficiently and effectively trained at the local undertaker school and is one of the few people I have ever met that allow me to use the word “lugubrious”.  He was joined by someone who looked remarkably like Rolf Harris and being children of the 1970’s we left rapidly.

The evening carried on with our dinner at Everest Spice – http://www.everestspiceplymouth.uk/.  A very nice meal and I can thoroughly recommend it.  Unless you’re sharing the room with 24 people on a school reunion which means you will be crammed against a wall and have to suffer a rendition of the School Song.  If you go there, try the Lamb Kathmandu.  It’s excellent.  Unlike the rendition of the school song.

The evening finished at The Bank – a slightly more up-market pub than the Walrus. Not difficult.  Sitting on a kerb drinking Stella would be more up-market than the Walrus.  Plans are made for tomorrow.  We have our formal reunion in the evening, but a group is heading out to the Plume and Feathers and Dave Ware offers me a lift.  So with plans made, I head back to the George.

Day Two

I’m in the only B&B on the planet that doesn’t do breakfast.  I sleep fitfully – nothing to do with the alcohol obviously, and I’m up by 08:00 to start exploring Plymouth.  It’s sunny so the shorts are back on though it’s still chilly enough for me to put the hoodie on from time to time.  As I’m right beside the Hoe, that’s where I head – and it’s as fantastic as I remember.  As I head up to the Hoe, the familiar shape of the War Memorial rises in front of me.

I head past the memorial to the statue of Sir Francis Drake and then across to Smeaton’s Tower.

The Hoe has a ton of memories for me and, as an extra bonus, a couple of geocaches as well – so I tag them while I’m here.  After a good wander around here I decide to head into town and grab some breakfast.  As I’m in the West Country it seems only right to grab a local delicacy so I pick something low calorie and carbohydrate free.

The particular one if provided by the Oggy Oggy Pasty Company who claim to serve “Pasties to Shout About!”  I will happily shout about the pasty I had.  Half of it was empty.  The other half was well filled, but seemed to have no seasoning whatsoever.  The meat was cooked to a temperature similar to the surface of the sun and as a result I still have a burnt tongue.  The main taste was that of the pastry – which was burnt.  2 out of 10.

After my disappointing pasty, I continued my exploration of the centre of Plymouth.

Some things are new like this statue outside St Andrews Church, some are old like this place:

This used to be the Drake Cinema and is the place where I saw Star Wars (the original one!).  Quite sad to see it this way.  But not quite as sad as when it becomes clear that Dave Ware has forgotten his promise from last night and I am left to fend for myself.  Which actually isn’t a huge problem.  I spend several hours wandering around Plymouth, taking in the Barbican, Sutton Harbour and the University campus.  It’s a really interesting day.  The Barbican is in the middle of Pirate Weekend which seems to be an excuse for children to hit each other with plastic swords and for people to play the Pirates of the Caribbean theme at high volume.  But the Barbican itself is still charming with its’ narrow cobbled streets.  Some things have been let go – the Plymouth Mural is now a sad remnant of what it used to be.

Other places were always there, but I had never found them before now.  I walked past the strangely named “Drake’s Place” for years without knowing it was there but it has now been turned into a very attractive park.

And some things are new.  The University campus is completely new and really well put together and there are signs of new builds that are appearing everywhere – and some buildings here are quite striking.

Walking down the streets behind the Hoe, the whole place gives a feeling of shabbiness.  It looks exactly the same as it did when I lived here and doesn’t seem to deserve the sobriquet of “Britain’s Ocean City” that is on all the tourist signs.  But all the guest houses are full, so clearly something is working.  I want to get a photo looking down Armada Way as you used to be able to get a clear shot from the War Memorial right to the other end of the shopping centre – but the trees have now grown up and obscure it.  Annoying to photograph but actually is great for the town as it breaks up the buildings in a very pleasant way.  My feelings about coming back here were mixed but as I explore old stamping grounds I fall in love with Plymouth all over again.

And so on to the final event in a function room of Porters in Looe Street.  Twenty or so people in their 50’s all drinking (well most of us drinking).  What could possibly go wrong?  Luckily nothing does.  It is a really good evening renewing old friendships and hopefully making some new ones.  There is obviously a lot of nostalgia and a huge amount of laughter – and of course a final rendition of the school song (there is a video of it, but I won’t inflict that on you).  We end up at gone midnight eating a greasy burger on the Barbican and then go our separate ways.

It’s an odd feeling.  Do we wish we were all 18 again?  I’m sure we do but more than that what I got was a sense of accomplishment, of maturity and of people who had done some amazing things.  Some of the guys have traveled huge distances to get here – Australia, New Zealand, California.  One even had to get permission to leave Liverpool to attend.  On the previous night Paul Woods had asked me if I would change anything about my life.  On the whole, I have to say that I wouldn’t and that’s the sense I get from everyone here.  My only regret is that I didn’t get to see their stories as they developed rather than having such a huge gap in the middle.  We have all promised to keep in contact and meet up again – I hope we do.

Day Three

Blazing sunshine again and it actually feels warm today as well.  I have a lot of mixed feelings this morning which is a mixture of reaction to last night and the looming fear of a painful journey home.  I sit in Costa coffee drinking a remarkably bland cappuccino and posting on the reunion forum.  As I do, I can’t get “Prorsum Semper Honeste” out of my head and at one point I realise I’m humming it quite loudly.

Leaving before people complain, I head towards the Coach Station, pausing to snap a picture of the sundial…which is wrong by an hour.

As Graham Prisk sets up a WhatsApp group for us I make a half-hearted attempt to get the coach driver to fake a breakdown on the M4 and thus shorten my journey by 3 hours.  He doesn’t go for it.  At least this time I’m alone in my double seat, so I have a pleasant journey back buoyed up by memories of a great weekend and by my current book: The Ring of Thoth by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle.  It’s a book of short stories and it gets finished before I get home.

So J is for Janners is done.  The “real” J awaits.

 

 

 

Once upon a time, there was a plan.  And the plan was looked at, checked for internal flaws and scrutinized mightily.  And, Lo, the plan was good.

Which was why I decided to abandon it completely in July and head for my 9th destination.  The original plan was simple.  The first 8 places had been visited and I had some leave booked for September.  In September, I would try and cover I – M and then have a break until May next year.  However, in July I had managed to accidentally take a week off work (yes, it was accidental and involved changing jobs after having booked 2 days leave to make sure I could go to my own leaving drinks).  In the spirit in which my journeys had started, I didn’t want to waste my leave so I checked the weather and booked my train ticket to the Isle Of Wight.

To say that my journey started badly was a bit of an understatement.  Having packed my faithful age appropriate hoody and baseball cap as well as a suitable book or two, I was clearly ready and strode out on the usual walk to the station.  My good mood was immediately foiled by the weather which was miserable with spotty rain and the sort of low, looming cloud that promises more rain to come.  On the way to the station, I stopped at the bank to top up the £80 in my pocket, only to have the machine refuse to give me any money.  I then got to the station to find that my train was delayed and I was going to miss my connection.

I then spent an entertaining 30 minutes on the platform at Slough on the phone arranging to have my overdraft extended.  You see, I’d booked my guest house online and was pretty sure that the £54 had to come out of the money on my pocket.  As a result, I was very keen to get the overdraft sorted.  I have to credit the lady I spoke to.  Despite the repeated interruptions of passing trains, it all got done and I put my phone away in a much better state of mind.  Though, of course, still a bit worried about the state of my finances.

Now I could try and sort out my journey.  My original train was still on its way, but it was so late that when it turned up it was better to ignore it and wait for the fast train in 10 minutes time.  This seemed completely counter-intuitive, but the surprisingly helpful staff suggested it – and were correct.  I was still going to miss my train at Reading.  I sit down on the platform and take out todays book – The Complete Stories of Saki.

Saki’s dry humour can do little to settle me down.  I hate being late.  As a result of which, I am usually at least 30 minutes early.  I decide that at my funeral, instructions will be given to bring the casket in 30 minutes late, just so the handful of people who bother to turn up can understand how I’ve felt for most of my life.

I am further unsettled by the gaggle of Japanese tourists waiting for the connecting train to Windsor.  While I watch them taking selfies (who on earth would want a selfie on Slough station?) I wonder what the collective name for Japanese tourists is.

Despite me willing the train to travel faster than normal, I miss the connection at Reading by 10 minutes and have to spend another 20 minutes at this delightful edifice.  My connection to Southampton is at platform 7b, though after my experience on the journey to Avebury I avoid the delight of the purgatorial waiting room.  Sitting down, I try to check the rest of the details of the journey and am so engrossed in it, that I completely fail to notice my train arriving.

Boarding the stealth train, I find that for some reason they have decided to refrigerate the carriage and somewhere between Basingstoke and Winchester I give up the fight and put the hoody on.  As I stare outside at the relatively warm English countryside I reflect that so far this journey has been a particularly poor one.

At Southampton I have a bus ride to get to Town Quay.  I’m actually at Southampton in time to get the original ferry — I’m just not at the right part of Southampton!  The way the whole journey is done is actually quite efficient.  The ticket I bought takes me from Slough to Cowes and covers 2 trains, 1 bus and 1 ferry.  I’m suitably impressed – though I can’t really concentrate on that as I’m still smarting at missing my original ferry.  The good thing is that the sky is clearing and things are much warmer – though that might just be the reaction from leaving the refrigerated train.

At Town Quay, I’ll be catching a Red Funnel Line ferry.  Although it’s very difficult to catch a glimpse of them, I spot a picture of one and immediately realise that they seem to have a mild misunderstanding as to the meaning of the word funnel.

So I join the queue for the Red Keel Line ferry.  The queue works in the way all queues work.  People stand in line.  Those who arrive early (like myself) are near the front and everyone else queues up behind them.  I have gone to the effort of explaining this as clearly one person was unfamiliar with the concept.  Having heard some excited conversation behind me I looked up to see an old lady dragging a younger man behind her and forcing her way past people.  Several people complained, at which point she fixed them with a withering glare and pointed her wizened finger at a small child stood about 10 places ahead.  She was familiar with a system where you sent someone ahead to save you a place and then you swept past everyone when you could be bothered to turn up.  By the time she got to what she clearly considered Her Place, the man with her and the child were both beetroot red with embarrassment and I was chuckling quietly to myself.  I didn’t really care as she hadn’t tried to pass me.  If she had, I would have been on her like a ninja.  By which I mean, I would have tutted loudly and fixed her with my commuters stare in the hope that she didn’t turn me into a toad.

After the mild amusement in the queue, we eventually get onto the ferry.  I find, to my disappointment, that there is no open-air seating and I grab a seat as close to the front as I can.  The ferry is a catamaran and looking at the seat belts on all the seats, I wonder at how rough the crossing can get.  The ferry is rather excitingly named Red Jet 4 – but I suspect that the crossing will be tame.  As the engines start, the deep sound and reverberation throughout the ferry make it clear that they are quite powerful given the size of the vessel so I might be in for a surprise.

I’m not.   The whole feeling is of an engine desperate to be let free from its constraints.  It’s a shame, but the measured voyage down Southampton Water and into the Solent does give me the chance to have a good look around.  It’s a busy stretch of water with a huge contrast between the tiny romantic sailing vessels darting around and the huge, blocky container vessels that look as though they were designed by a particularly unimaginative Lego architect.  There’s too much salt on the side windows to get any decent photographs and the signs everywhere forbidding us from standing up prevent me from trying to get some out of the front windows.  The reason for the signs become clear as we emerge into the Solent and the catamaran lurches from side to side.  I don’t bother to hide a grin when this happens.  I love boats!

As we get off the boat, we walk up past the queue of people waiting to get on.  In the queue is a police officer heading back to the mainland.  I had heard that they had to travel to and fro rather than being based on the island, but had never really believed it.

For the first time today, timing has worked in my favour.  I had decided to head out to The Needles today and in order to do that I have to get a bus to Newport and another one the rest of the way.  The bus I want is stood waiting and I dart on board.  Things are looking up.

Or are they?  Halfway to Newport we hit a traffic jam.  From the increasing strident muttering on the bus, I gather that this is an unusual occurrence.  I initially think that this will be a short queue, but it goes on…and on….and on.  You can tell it’s bad when we catch up and overtake an earlier bus.  My chances of getting to the Needles seems to be getting slimmer.

Eventually we get to Newport.  To describe Newport as a two-horse town would invite the question “where do you stable the second horse?”  We approach down it’s only dual carriageway – which lasts nearly 200 yards.  Staggered from such a display of modern road building, I get off at the bus station and join the queue for the No 7 which will take me the rest of the way.  The weather by now is much better – warm and sunny though with a strong breeze.  I get on and head upstairs and sit as near the front as I can get.  As we pass an Iceland, I tag myself on Facebook — just for the people who had guessed it as my destination for I.

We head out of Newport a different way and the character is completely different.  The roads are smaller and the houses more cottage like.  As we get out of the town, the character of the island becomes apparent and I start to relax and enjoy myself.  The roads are narrow with farmland either side and the occasional small village.  The roads are also clearly not built with modern vehicles in mind and the bus is way too big for them.  On several occasions, I look at the potential roads the bus will go down and gape with disbelief as it somehow managed to fit itself into the tiniest gap possible.  For a moment I wonder if I have somehow got onto the Night Bus.

As we drive along the shrinking lanes, I can see lots of signs for foot and bike paths and I think it would be far better getting around like that rather than squeezing a bus along what is often a single track road.  As we progress, the Solent opens out to the right and I get some great views across to the mainland.

Arriving at Alum Bay is initially a disappointment.  The bus stops beside an area of shops which is the entrance to a fairground and has all the subtlety and tackiness of Disneyland.  I hope the rest of my visit won’t be like this and head uphill, walking through a coach park so large that it has a small oasis at the halfway point.  By now, I am a bit disheartened and I am convincing myself that the Needles are going to be a disappointment.  Past the coach park I follow the signs for the Needles up a steep road.  I’m happy that I can relatively easily outdistance the family that is heading up as well, and stride out as the road comes out of a little wooded area.  Ahead of me the road goes along the clifftop and the Solent is blue and attractive to my right.  As I head up, I can see down into Alum Bay and the fairground pales into insignificance in comparison to the cliffs.

The wind is still bracing and as I head up the cliff top. I can see a kestrel using the wind to hover in place.  It’s amazing.  It’s not moving at all, just rock solid in position.  Until I raise my phone to take a picture and the damn thing flies off.  Typical.  But even the camera-shy kestrel can’t do anything to dampen my mood.  Walking up this hill has bouyed up my spirits.  The countryside and the views are fantastic and I feel enlivened.  I head on towards the Old Battery and the Needles.

I had worried that the Needles wouldn’t look good from the land, so I was ready for a bit of a disappointment.  I was very wrong.  Even if you don’t go into the Old Battery (a National Trust site) you can still get a great view of the Needles and the surrounding cliffs.  I loved it here.

I have a great time wandering around here and then head up the southern cliff towards Tennyson Down.

It really is remarkably beautiful here.  I love mountains and cliffs and this place really appeals to me.

I head up past the old rocket testing area and onto the Tennyson Down.  It’s remarkably secluded here and as I walk along the top of the Down, I only see two other people.  The sense of seclusion is amazing.

I’m tempted to walk all the way along the Down to the Tennyson Memorial, but good sense prevails and I head off the Down and back towards Disney.  As I’m heading down through the interminable coach park, I can see a bus parked up and have a terrible fear that it’s the bus I want.  I start rushing down towards it and get there before it leaves — and then find it’s not my bus anyway.  Mine is nowhere to be seen, so I head into one of Disneys souvenir shops to get myself a bookmark.  Typically, as I’m stood in the queue my bus arrives.  Now, as there is only one person in front of me this should not be a problem.  However I had not reckoned with the glacially slow performance of Sommer.  She seemed at one point to be deliberately taking as much time as humanly possible, and when she finally finished with the person in front of me I virtually threw my money at her.  Despite her, I managed to get to the bus on time and headed upstairs again only to find that a mother and her two delightful children had already taken the front seats.  I felt quite sorry for the mother as she was trying to be upbeat while her children were clearly not enjoying themselves.  Their main complaints were that they had been made to walk and look at “a load of rocks that will still be there in 1000 years”.  Little shits.

My journey back to Cowes is relatively uneventful.  The moaning children settle down and are engrossed on their phones throughout the journey.  After I change buses at Newport, I am mildly amused by two teenagers who are sat beside me discussing their workout routines and the fact that they are both getting “hench”.  It’s difficult not to laugh when they get off and have the same level of musculature as Jack Skellington.

It’s been a long day, and I have a pleasant surprise when I get to The Caledon Guest House.  One thing I should have mentioned already, is that their customer service is great.  I booked through a generic site, and was quite surprised when the GH emailed me the next day to make sure I had their phone number and to confirm my time of arrival.  I had told them that it was varying dependant on what I did.  During the day, they had texted me to confirm what time I would see them.  So by the time I got there, I felt welcomed already.  They aren’t cheap – I was paying £54 for a room without an en-suite bathroom (although I did get a free upgrade to an en-suite).  The coffee machine in the rooms was amazing!  Seriously.  The room overlooked a road, but was so comfortable that I didn’t care.  It was a great and relaxing end to the day.

Except, of course, I had to go out to get some dinner.  Given the parlous state of my finances, I wanted to find somewhere cheap – and that’s when I found out that the concept does not exist in Cowes.  After settling for a beer and a burger and chips I expected to pay a lot less than £18!  I headed back to the GH a bit worried about money again.  I now had £60 in my pocket, £54 of which was for the GH!.

The next day I got up and found that the Caledon does an excellent breakfast — a good job, as I wasn’t going to be able to afford lunch!  I then tried to pay my bill, and found out that they had already taken the money out of my account when I booked the room.  So, with more money in my pocket than I expected, I headed out to explore Cowes.

I started off by heading for Northwood House which sits in the centre of a very attractive little park.  The weather, which had turned sunny yesterday, has stayed the same and it warms up very quickly.

I then head down and walk out of Cowes along Egypt Esplanade.  I have no idea what the connection to Egypt is, but it’s a very enjoyable walk with some great views across the Solent.

After a couple of miles, I turn around and head back into Cowes.  The town reminds me of a lot of the working towns in Devon and Cornwall.  The streets are narrow and twisting and parallel the shore and you only get glimpses of the sea between them once you get back into the town itself.  This gets a bit frustrating and I’m glad that I’ve had such good views of it already today.

Before I leave, I head down to the excitingly named “Floating Bridge”.  I am filled with expectation and excitement.  What will it be?  Is it a pontoon bridge?  Is it suspended from a giant dirigible?  No, it’s a car ferry.  With a mental noie to send a letter to the Torpoint Ferry about a new marketing opportunity, I head back for my Red Keel Line trip home.  I have really enjoyed my fleeting visit here and I will definitely return.  Next time, I shall seriously consider bringing my bike and seeing if I can circumnavigate the island.

The journey back is uneventful – except for another person who feels that the queueing system is beneath them.  It must be something in the water!

So, that’s it for the moment.  My next journeys will not be until May next year, so I hope you can control your excitement until then.

..and also for Friday and the Final Day (for the moment).

I got up very early as the Election was yesterday and I wanted to see what state the country was in before I headed out.  Turns out it was far more interesting than anyone had imagined.  I thoroughly enjoyed watching the early morning coverage with a variety of MPs and political commentators saying that this was exactly what they expected to happen – despite the fact they had been predicting an electoral disaster for Labour only days before.  I was confused that some found it odd that the UKIP voters seemed to have gone over to Labour.  Seeing as most of them came from Labour 2 years ago, isn’t it logical they would head back to the same place?

It was extremely funny watching a Conservative politician state that Theresa May needs to “consider her position” and then deny that she had said it or meant that Mrs May was in any way weakened.  Great what people will say when sleep-deprived at 04:30.  I’m still unsure what’s going to happen and what will happen with Brexit.  But well done Mr Corbyn.  (Of course, I now know that Mrs May has shown that some people will do absolutely anything to stay in power including spending £1.6 billion of public money to do so.  That tiny sound you can hear in the background is the remains of her credibility exiting stage left.)

But on to more light-hearted things and we return to me, sat on Slough station, early as ever and with the first cappuccino of the day.  I have no idea how much I’ve spent on coffee in the last two weeks, but I have been receiving letters from a small plantation in Colombia where I am apparently helping to divert children from gang culture.  Having assisted in the moral uplift of a Central American country I settle down with my coffee and my book because I am, surprise, surprise, early.

Todays book is still Night and Day by Virginia Woolf.  Apparently this is a comedy.  It’s a comedy in the same way Deadpool was a laugh out loud comedic extravaganza.  (Yes, I know lots of people liked it.  No, I am not one of them.)

I reflect on the last 2 weeks, the aching legs, the coffee highs, the chafing in somewhat intimate areas (solved by buying a pair of briefs from the delightfully named Runderwear), the frustrations of travelling and the drivel I am now foisting on the Internet.  So far only a couple of people have been told about the blog – and so far no-one has been rude about it.  So time to open it up to a wider audience.  I’ll update it with D-H over the next couple of weeks (which has turned into a couple of months) and I plan to complete I-M in September.  (That plan changed – I’ll explain more in I is for…)  I’ve already decided where I, J and K are – L and M are a little more elusive.

It’s very noticeable that there are a lot fewer people around today and people are noticeably subdued.  I can’t work out whether this is because they were up late watching the election or it’s just the usual Friday ennui.  This was clear even when I was walking to the station and 4 police cars belted past me all on blue lights – and each with a single police officer in.  Clearly the result of a new single-crewing policy which is excessively dumbarse and will result in someone getting killed.

Looking ahead, I have a complex journey today with changes at some odd sounding stations.  The first train is to Reading (the people there are very odd) and then I head to North Camp and Ash Vale.  For some reason the latter sound more like somewhere in Mordor.  So I nervously finger the ring in my pocket, wrap up my lembas (actually flapjack) and head off on my lonely journey.

When the train gets into North Camp, I am greeted by appropriate weather.  Or what would be appropriate if I were in India in monsoon season.  I nip into the shelter on the platform to be joined by 3 other people who, like me, are rummaging in bags to get out suitable attire.  Eschewing traditional weatherproof clothing, I slip on the age-appropriate hoodie in the knowledge that I have 25 minutes to walk the mile between the two stations.  I am confident this will be enough as the clouds are broken by a patch of bright blue which is getting both closer and larger and already is big enough to make a pair of sailors trousers.

One of my fellow passengers is not happy.  She, like me, booked her ticket through the Trainline.  She, unlike me, didn’t bother to look at the breakdown and did not realise there was a bit of a walk involved.  She is grumbling a lot and is not calmed when I inform her that the Trainline actually points out there is a walk between the two stations.  She is also not too savvy and ignoring the explanation about the sailors trousers, she heads off into the torrential rain.

I, more wise and considerably more smug, wait 5 minutes.  Then my natural impatience takes over and despite the fact that the rain hasn’t completely stopped I head off as well to traverse the Emyn Muil.  The way is clear and straight – and completely unsullied by the grumpy woman.  I am concerned that there are some deep puddles and half expect to hear a cry of “I’m melting! I’m melting!” from somewhere ahead.  I hear nothing so I head off and soon reach Ash Vale, and she turns up about about 5 minutes later.  I have no idea where she went, but clearly she managed to find a much longer route than the one I took.  She treats me with a withering stare and I feel the paint on the wall behind me peeling off.  I, of course, am immune as in my pocket is the One Ring, so I just smile & go back to Virginia Woolf.

The weather is timing things perfectly.  As the train to Farnham arrives, the sun comes out completely drenching the area in light.  Then as the train arrives at Farnham it buggers off and I just get drenched instead.  Farnham Station is on the unoriginally named Station Hill and as I shelter in the station, I watch two small rivers running down the road.  Luckily, it is just a heavy shower – but it’s not alone and as a result I spend much of my visit sheltering from the elements.

Farnham does not impress on a first viewing.  Nowhere looks good in torrential rain, and the scenic crossing of a dual carriageway to get into the town itself does not help.  But as I head into Farnham, I find myself liking the town.  There is very little of the modern glass and steel buildings that are seen virtually everywhere else.  Just walking down the main street there are some interesting buildings.

The approach to the castle is up Castle Hill  (one thing Farnham clearly suffers from is a lack of imagination in the naming of thoroughfares).  This is really attractive – and would be even better if it weren’t for the cars parked on both sides of the road and the constant stream of traffic.  There are some buildings with a lot of character – notably the Almshouses and the Nelson Arms.

Farnham Castle Keep and the associated Bishops Palace loom over the town, but as I walk up towards it I can only get occasional glimpses.  That’s because the roads are quite narrow and I only get the occasional look at the castle between them – and even then it’s not the Keep itself that is seen – it’s the Bishops Palace.  The final climb is a great reveal, and I come out by the Palace itself.

The Palace has been built right beside the Keep which is considerably older and dates from Norman times.

The Keep is free to get into – the Bishops Palace has guided tours — which I have missed.  So I head into the Keep and climb the stairs towards the main entrance.

Inside, the Keep has been filled in with earth so it’s difficult to appreciate how tall it is.  There is an excavation in the middle of it which allows you to see right down to the bottom – and a pseudo -suspended staircase which guarantees jitters for anyone who is scared of heights (or depths).

The view from the ramparts is spectacular and it is easy to see how this Keep dominated the landscape around it.

It also gives a great view of the black storm clouds coming in for the next assault on the area.  I head back down before the next one hits.  I had planned to run down some Geocaches while I was here, but the weather is far too changeable and I have already run foul of numerous deep and exciting puddles.  On the way back, I head off the main road and find a number of really attractive houses and cottages.  All through Farnham are little examples of interesting architecture and statuary – this town may deserve a longer visit.

As I head back to the station and navigate my way across the exciting dual carriageway, I notice something I had missed previously: the start point of the North Downs Way.

Something to think about once A to Z is finished.

As I head back on the train, I am disturbed from Night and Day by the sound of two girls talking loudly further down the carriage.  Every sentence starts of ends with “Ok, yah” and I smile as I recollect hearing that everywhere in the 1980s.  It’s great to hear that some accents have not disappeared, even if it makes some things difficult to say.  My favourite line was “Oh, OK, no, I couldn’t do that…ok, yah?”

The journey back is an easy one, made more entertaining by a blind womans guide dog trying to convince everyone in the carriage that she was refusing to give him food.  A nice encounter for my journey home, which ended up with people talking and laughing — a highly unusual occurrence.

So, if you’re still with me, that’s the first 8 done and only 18 to go!  Thank you for your kind attention and your polite comments (and for refraining from giving me your nasty comments of there were any.)

In keeping with the artificial nature of this blog, I thought I would also put some stats together.  So, in the first 8 days I:

• used 34 trains;
• took 2 buses;
• completed 9 tubes journeys;
• walked 119.8 miles.

And with that final thought, adieu.  I is for… beckons and will be with you soon