The road I know so well

This bloody, bloody road: eighty-one miles of hateful tarmac, largely dual-carriageway with a couple of single lane exceptions. The only thing worse than travelling east to Exeter from the Truro turn-off is having to return in the opposite direction; although even then, it’s a relief to see the windmills waving on the horizon and know you’ll soon be off this landscaped python. To cope with the A30 and remain reasonably sane, it’s essential to mentally break the journey down: Bodmin, Launceston, Okehampton, Exeter. Look for the signs and mileage to the next town. It’s more manageable.

Getting off the Carland’s Cross exit and on to the A30 is a task in itself. I’m pushed round the roundabout by a frenzy of folk behind all anxious to get out and inadvertently find myself in the outside lane. On the inside, traffic escaping from Redruth is thundering past and I must manoeuvre between them in order to let the big boys have their way. Once a steady pace has been established, I wave farewell to the geometric clay mountains on my right and commence the uphill and down dale journey. Passing the sign for the aptly named Helland and its more inviting neighbour, Blissland, I head for Bodmin where the moor beckons. Rocky outcrops and terrible Tors flash bleakly past as we reach the desolate lakes of Temple fisheries. Over there, the Templars built a chapel and refuge for the desperate souls who were on their way to the Holy Land. Couldn’t they go to Plymouth and get a boat?

Launceston, 28 miles. How do you pronounce that? Lownceston? Lounston? Alice Oswald is reading Dart. Jan Coo, Jan Coo and we all slow down as the stretch of single lane carriageway commences just where cars are pulling out of the petrol station. Out in the rain the grey sheep munch the scrub and little stone walls appear, breaking the monotonous moor into recognisable fields.

Launceston, 3 miles; Okehampton, 35. I used to think Okehampton was almost a suburb of Exeter in my desire to make the journey shorter. Now I know the truth of things but I’m zooming down the hill where, in a dip, I drive across the Tamar, cheer loudly, and exchange Alice for an old copy of the Beatles’ White Album.

Exeter, 32 miles. Oh bla di, oh bla da……I’m in the swing of it now as I sing my way under the bridge with the permanently parked lorry that advertises organic farm produce. I used to stop at the services for a pee and a coffee but these days I’m too busy trying to break records. I’m worried about that tinny rattle to my rear and turn up the music. Hey, Bungalow Bill. Almost at the exit for the M5 and some fool has coned miles of road off teasing us into a slow crawl just when we thought we’d made it.

A sign for Honiton which means that shortly there’ll be another for Dorchester. Only another hour and a half to home.

Life goes on

I’m writing about allotments. Earlier this afternoon, I spent an enjoyable hour with John Fancy, chairman of the Upton Allotment Association. In his sixties, he’s lived here most of his life apart from three years spent in Hamworthy when he first got married. Hamworthy is less than two miles from Upton. He refers to this time as when he went travelling. I’m weeding my notes, which is the closest I’ll get to horticulture. On the television, Egypt is burning. The president of Tunisia has fled; Jordan is threatened; Yemen is holding a rage day; Israel is anxious. The Middle East is erupting and I’m considering asparagus.

Earlier, I wrote about inheritance whilst the sausages were defrosting. I recalled missing a Girl Guides meeting due to a cold one November Friday evening. Unexpectedly, I was able to watch the Harry Worth show; but not until the evening’s entertainment had been precipitated by the news of John Kennedy’s assassination. It’s compulsory for people of my age to recount one’s whereabouts. I can’t even remember what I had for lunch yesterday but I can recall ridiculous detail of that Friday in 1963. I was reprimanded the following morning for an inappropriate attitude. I was 11. Bugger the BBC for showing a comedy programme.

I got up late on Sunday, August 31st, 1997. My small son, left to his own devices, complained that there were no children’s’ programmes on TV. Switch over then, I said through a mouthful of toast. I have came the reply. It’s just a lot of people talking .The phone rang. A friend wanted to know how I was experiencing Diana’s death. Badly.

My daughter was travelling back from Crete in September 2001. The 11th to be precise. The taxi company had already failed to send the booked car to take her and her friends to the airport for departure. They phoned to say it was unlikely they’d pick her up at the airport. A tirade of abuse followed on my part. We suggest you put your television on they said. Good point.

I’m waiting for the sausages to cook. My best friend’s daughter is bunkered down in Townsville waiting for a cyclone of previously unknown force to destroy her town. I remembered to telephone this time. Hairdresser tomorrow.