Some other world

We leave Havenpoole early in the evening, heading off into the darkness of South Wessex. Being all too familiar with what is now the A35, we have no need of light nor signage, although the passing beams allow the sad sight of the remains of one of many deer; the detritus of those speeding vehicles whose owners are unaware of woodlands close at hand. Here, buzzards will soar with their juveniles on daytime tracking sorties, but for now the night consumes all until we reach the glow of Casterbridge.


Onwards, passing the garrison, we turn onto the gloomy route to Ivell and search for the road to Chalk Newton. Down, down into the valley of the Frome, we could be anywhere at any time as all sense of direction and orientation is lost. Or abandoned. The ancient engraved stump of what was once the village cross marks both our arrival and the meeting point of past Christmas revellers. The scent of old wood smoke clings to the damp November air and little is visible as we make our way to be greeted by our friends and their old adopted black dog. It’s a strange and slightly disorientating sensation to be locked into the timeless warmth of an ageless house in deepest Dorset where we drink heady wine from Spain, eat the food of the Far East and listen to music from all corners of the world.

In the morning, our location is no more apparent than it had been the night before. The mist hangs heavily as I wander in pleasing isolation down the dew laden garden. The ground is littered with the fallen spills of autumn and a single pale pink rose towers defiantly. Later, as we walk along the moody river bank in borrowed footwear, searching for missing crayfish, I am told that the day is probably far brighter in other environs: the valley cloaks the reality of life in the wider world. And briefly, we discuss Hardy because we are so obviously entombed in a timeless place where news from elsewhere must be brought by travellers; or, on this day, via the Sunday newspapers. And I resolve to locate the missing story which, reader, does not have a happy ending.

http://www.readbookonline.net/readOnLine/8995/

Not looking for the sympathy vote

It’s an exquisite November morning in Dorset: cold enough to cause anxieties for the primates I’ve just passed in Monkey World but with bright sunshine that streams through autumnal orange trees. It creates a mystical haze over the Purbeck ridge which I can see across the fields from my vantage point. I silently salute the gathered magpies on the dew-laden grass and think longingly of the sea which I know will be glistening beyond, over in Lulworth, just as it did when Hardy was so inspired by these environs.

Well, to be fair, although Hardy gave literary credence to Woolbridge, just down the road, I’m not convinced he would’ve been particularly inspired by my current location. I’m sat inside one of many red brick buildings that comprise a mini-estate known as a green (that’s green as in eco) technology park in Winfrith. And I’m here, with about 40 other assorted reprobates who, some time in the last six weeks, have been caught speeding in their motor vehicles.

It cost a pretty penny to be here: you can pay the fine, take the points and leave quietly; or you can pay extra and come to Winfrith where, effectively, they buy the points back from you. It’s a new deal. Previously, only the selected few got the opportunity, but times are hard and the police need all the funds they can get. For all of us, it’s worth the investment although there are considerable mutterings to be heard as we have to pay for our early morning caffeine shots. We anticipate four hours of lectures on the implications of speeding.

In fact, it’s only three hours and the knowledgeable and jolly instructors are keen to instil the idea that that we are here not because of speeding, but because of distraction. They are kind, polite and extremely respectful and at the end, following an impromptu round of applause, they shake your hand and wish you well. I don’t think I have ever driven as carefully as I did on the way home.

In the afternoon, I went to the job centre because it’s Tuesday and I am a ‘Tuesday Person’. A couple of weeks ago, I went on a Wednesday because I was told to and got into all sorts of trouble for not knowing I was a Tuesday Person. The economic climate being what it is, there are all sorts of clients at the job centre. Clearly, they expect trouble because there are always at least three security men on guard. Generally, these guys spend their time looking at their phones and discussing how drunk they intend to get that evening. This is because there are no people causing problems. There is always at least one person crying but this is just a nuisance, not TROUBLE.

Who are you seeing today they ask?
I don’t know. No-one ever gives their name.
You’re seeing Simon.
Well, why ask then?

Simon turns out to be a rude and surly being who is cross because I can’t come next Tuesday. I can’t go next Tuesday because I have casual work (which I have declared).

But you’re a ‘Tuesday Person’ he argues.
Surely it’s better if I go to a job which has the potential of becoming permanent I suggest.
Yes, but then you’ll have to come on Wednesday he argues aggressively.

I leave dejected and depressed. The job centre in Poole has one of the highest rates in the country of speedy re-employment. It’s my contention that this is because no-one in their right mind can stand being treated like something nasty stuck to someone’s shoe. Do they think that we’re there from choice? It’s a blip in our circumstances which will soon be remedied. Wait until it’s their turn.

A cunning plan

Daughter number one has a cunning plan. If we leave Glastonbury around twenty minutes before the end of the carnival, we will beat the thousands of others also trying to exit the town. We strategically place our collapsible chairs on the pavement at the end of an alley leading to the car-park ready for the quick getaway. We do this at 3.30pm which is roughly about four hours before the carnival will commence and six hours before the estimated time of departure. No-one else has put out their chairs yet and Lisa, who is a Glastonbury virgin, is embarrassed to set up camp and immediately leave. We have no such qualms being old hands; we know that, for one Saturday in November, this street in a small Somerset town will eventually become lined with fishing seats, deck chairs, sun beds, picnic hampers and other regalia normally associated with the beach in August.

Having decided to split into pairs, we re-group within minutes at The Blue Note Café courtyard where the obligatory hot chocolate is as ritualistic as the evening dog burger and chips will be later. Three hot chocolates with everything and one with nothing. Everything = cream, maltesers, flakes and sprinkles. Mine is the unblemished one. I am holier than thou and they look thoughtful. And we all look at the weird and wonderful world of Glastonbury as it opens its ancient doors to more tourists than it can reasonably cope with.
In fact, my favourite three storey emporium has closed before five. We are not to be thwarted and knock on the door. The shop assistant stares out anxiously.

You’re not closed are you? I ask with polite incredulity
Yes. I can’t cope with so many people.
Get a grip man. It’s carnival day. You’ll make a fortune. Actually, I don’t say this. I assume my pathetic face.
Could you let us in please? There are just the two of us and we really like your shop.

Amazingly, he unlocks the door, hurries us inside and locks the door again quickly. Of course, now we feel obliged to buy something but that shouldn’t be a problem. Up and up we climb the rickety staircases, quite alone in the vastness of this Tardis-like building, oohing and aahing at the eclectic mix of goods. Daughter number two decides to buy three cushions and asks for a discount based on the fact that she’s taking them off the shop assistant’s hands. I’m shocked at her cheek. Where does she get such nerve? The worried shop assistant immediately deducts £8 and sends us on our way, firmly locking the door behind us.

Now here’s a thing: later, we discover that daughter number one and Lisa had been in the same shop just before us. With just the two of them on the top floor, they are joined by a couple of ghosts. Well, that’s what they said, but they do indeed have some inexplicable photographic evidence. And later still, whilst I am in an endless toilet queue in the George and Pilgrims, the three pass by the closed and empty shop and look up to see a white haired lady in the upstairs window.


There is a flaw to the escape plan: it only works if you’re at the end of the town where the procession begins. We are not. We are at a point which takes the floats 45 minutes to reach; so all the early escapees from the beginning of the carnival are already streaming out. We are the only folk leaving the car-park and the only ones on the first couple of roads and it’s looking good. Then we hit the first road block, become lost in a small industrial estate, drive backwards down a one way road and reach the second road block. We open a window and ask a passing pedestrian how we might find the road to Yeovil.

Turn left at the roundabout says he. Easy enough except the left turn at the roundabout is blocked. We ask one of many important men dressed in high viz jackets how we might find a road to Yeovil. It’s a conundrum.

Well, you need the Street bypass, says he. But you won’t make it through. You could go straight on over but you’ll end up on the peat moors and you don’t want to go there. No, we definitely don’t like the sound of the peat moors.

Of course, he continues, your sat nav won’t work round here and it certainly won’t work on the peat moors. Damn those peat moors.
The only thing you can try is to pass over two roundabouts, cross the little bridge and turn left.

So that’s what we do. With absolutely no idea of our location, and having lost all sense of direction, we make our way along a lonely lane and after about three miles cross a little bridge; whereupon, we we’re faced with the headlights of a thousand other lost vehicles and no left turn. We have to go right: no other option and as we snake along a track that becomes narrower and narrower with ditches the size of moats on either side, we know one thing only – we are on the wretched peat moors.

It’s ok says daughter number one. The sat nav says we’re on a red road.
Yes, but the arrow’s pointing in the opposite direction. Are you sure you reset it or is it still on Glastonbury?
Daughter number two tells me to shut up before proceeding to tell daughter number one how to drive. Lisa puts on an old Petula Clark favourite and we pass our time by singing along. Well I do; that lot are too young and only know one word.

Downtown we yell into the darkness.
Why aren’t there any other cars on this road questions Lisa?
Lisa is told to shut up.

Downtown.

We’re lost on the bloody peat moors says Lisa
Shut up
Downtown

Reader, we were saved by modern technology and good road skills. To be fair, there were four of us driving that car so we were in with a chance. AND we escaped the clutches of the monster from the peat moors AND were safely ensconced in the Royal Oak, Dorchester by 11pm in time for a welcome glass of rouge.

Downtown.

Going home

Sunday trains are always a gamble. Sometimes they don’t run. The train from Bromley North to Waterloo East is an example. Despite having been sold a ticket for said transport, there are no trains on the line due to engineering works; which entails going from Bromley South to Victoria, to Green Park, to Oxford Circus to…yawn. This convoluted route means that, in my guise as aged parent – a title previously accorded to my own mother and father – I have to be accompanied by daughter number two in order that she can explain to various railway employees along the way why I shouldn’t have to purchase another six tickets. At my time of life, and up from the country, I’m not allowed to speak for myself.


What awaits me on a Sunday, at what Bridget refers to as ‘Big Waterloo’, is also an unknown quantity: will there be more challenges involving cancellations, deviations or buses? Or will it merely be a case of traversing most of the home and south counties, always ensuring I am in one of the front five carriages, as those at the rear are lost along the way? My travelling companions seem equally confused to be on their way to Dorchester North when all they wanted to do was to put their feet up on their settees in front of the TV in Guildford. A surprisingly large number of folk leave the train at Havant, apparently having ever given up hope of seeing civilisation again. Some sense of normality is finally regained once we attain landfall at Southampton, whereupon a young boy embarks with two budgerigars in a small cage.

You don’t see those very often these days I remark pleasantly.
Young boy, who has no comparable memory of old ladies covering Billy with a tea-towel for the night, a tea-towel with a pointy edge which cloaks an ancient cuttlefish, smiles wanly but politely.
What are their names? Young boy assumes more interest.
The blue one is Marcus and the yellow one is Holly.
I run out of continuing conversation and watch the budgies silently open and close their beaks like twins speaking a secret language.

I am seated near the toilets which have a circular sliding door that seals itself closed with frightening efficiency the minute a passenger enters. I’d like to use this facility but I’m terrified of becoming trapped inside. This is not an unjustified phobia for now comes the sound of frantic knocking from within. Somewhere towards Brockenhurst a man leaning against the window, drinking from what I surmise to be not an isolated tin of lager, becomes vaguely alerted.

I can’t get out comes a muffled voice.

The budgies have perked up and we watch with interest as Lager Man falls forward and presses every button he can locate without losing his balance.
I’m trapped comes the sound of the near hysterical entombed being.
Lager Man is now on a mission to remember the sequence of keys necessary to contact the aliens in Close Encounters. And finally, he releases the imprisoned victim.
Thank God says the prisoner. I thought I was in there until Weymouth.

Daughter number two has a new home, hence the visit. She and her fiancé - an old-fashioned word, but one to which I am drawn because it goes some way to explaining the up and coming events which are in danger of denying my family any other interest in world events - are keen to extol the virtues of living in a delightful bijou terraced house in the leafier part of Bromley. I am camping on a futon in the sitting room. I don’t know what distinguishes a futon from a settee but I have a cold and it’s warm and I look forward to the rustle of leaves which I have been told is the only potentially disturbing noise I can expect. The people next door arrive home, share an unpleasant argument with the rest of the street and resolve it by holding an impromptu party.

Around 3am, the neighbours decide that winter has kicked in and start chopping up firewood. We country folk know that this is what’s happening but tomorrow I will be told that the fiancé has suggested that the noise emanates from aged mother downstairs. What does he think I was doing? Whittling an ear trumpet from a branch of ancient willow? Daughter number two comes down and prepares for battle, suitably dressed in pyjamas skinned from a number of Friesian cattle. I am impressed, as are the neighbours. The noise subsides but just as I am drifting off to a germ infested slumber, the burglar alarm on the other side of the house commences an intolerable wailing which will continue until the dawn chorus has given up and migrated to Wapping.

Unlike the inhabitants of Guantanamo Bay, with whom I have recently assumed some empathy, I have a handy supply of Kleenex and mange to insert six in each ear. By five in the morning, this has reduced the siren to an incessant drumming and in desperation, and with some fortitude, I manage to convince myself that I am in the south of France, surrounded by the incessant chatter of cicadas. It works for the four remaining minutes before the boiler fires up in anticipation of those demanding hot showers.

Back on the train we approach Bournemouth and a beautiful young woman on her way to the dangerous toilets – should I warn her? – stops to speak with our young ornithologist.
I’ve never seen anyone on a train with budgerigars
This elicits no response.
What are their names?
Well, the blue one is Marcus………