Time to Think

            

There is a Buddhist centre less than one cigarette’s distance from my house which I’ve walked past many times but tonight I’m walking in. I’ve booked myself on a meditation course called “Letting go.” 3 Wednesday nights from 7 until 8 with refreshments after.

                I am uncomfortable with places of worship. I see them as cold and restrictive with lots of rules and apologies for things I haven’t done (yet) but this aimed to be far more relaxed and free. I am also uncomfortable with people sitting in a field singing “Kum-By-Yar My Lord”, all with a uniform of smiles and joy but here I am, sitting in a relaxed room with happy people. In silence.

                We sang a prayer accompanied by a CD of a guitar (I say we, a few sang while others mouthed the words like school assembly or a goldfish that was the prize at a fare) and settled into a ten minute relaxation meditation before Darren talked through the possible stresses in life, interestingly mostly focussing on family life and kids with occasional references to work. He seems a decent man and very genuine and, according to these topics, I must be stress free.

                Darren moved on to the “Four Nobel Truths” as taught by Buddha but with a modern take before finishing with a meditation reflecting on what he had talked about.

                I didn’t stay for refreshments this first week and I didn’t talk to a single person. I didn’t smile with anyone which is very unlike me and I was out of my comfort zone but on the way home I noticed as I smoked that I felt very relaxed and for a brief moment, very positive.

Next week I’ll stay a bit longer.

THE PLAYGROUND

“My mum cooks baked beans until they are on FIRE but she never burns them. She never burns them but when I scoop them up and into my mouth they stick to the top and they cook me and burn me until flames are coming out of my mouth and steam is bellowing through my nostrils.”

“She’s a witch,” stated Claire. Her frizzy ginger hair was plaited.

“Your Mum’s not a witch” Rupert protested. His eyes were looking into his shoes. His left one had come undone. “She’s nice.”

“Not all witches are nasty, “added Claire, “there are white witches too.”

Robert was duffle coat and glasses and bike lock sensible. “There can’t be nice witches and nasty witches ‘cos there are no such thing as witches.”

            “But if there were,” I reasoned, “Mum would be a good witch.”

“Yeah, I like your Mum. She’s a good egg” added Rupert, his feet were doing an awkward slow motion first class of tap-dancing move and his shoes were scuffed, he noticed.

 “Eggs can be good, and they can be bad.” Reasoned Robert. “My Mum can tell the difference by putting them in water. If they float they’re bad, if they sink they’re good.” He paused. “Actually, I’m not sure. It may be the other way ‘round.”

 “Didn’t they do that with witches?”

  

Chilli, Boats, Music, Morris Dancers and Rubber Ducks. "It's Festival Time."

Today Reading has gone festival mad and there is no Bank Holiday Monday to follow.

                My housemate Nat called from the landing to check for signs of life and that I wasn’t cancelling because we are heading to town for the Chilli festival before moving on to the Water festival and some music (and drama) at the Abbey Ruins. Nat has been a friend since I was young(ish) and foolish. Now she tolerates and I think at times enjoys the old fool. The first time we met had chilli’s and dark Morris Dancing and both were involved today, in part.

We began with Chilli’s.

                Nat has an asbestos tongue and a sword-bearing mentality but she doesn’t like the taste of wood so in the health and safety and hygiene world of 2019 that means sampling peppers that could rip out your internal organs has become tricky. There are wooden, disposable forks but there is less bread available to sample their fiery delights.

                We had Chilli “Gummy Bears” though.

              

  Forbury Gardens was alive by the time we got there with the relentless pulse of music, food, people and the Lion who doesn’t walk like a Lion. We zig-zagged and shimmied through though, heading for the newly repaired ruins of the Abbey. The order of play was in sight but so were the ‘happy not dark’ Morris Dancers so to get to the list we risked being dragged into an alien world of bells and white socks (and far too much hand clapping.)

                What draws a person to Morris Dancing? I must meet one and find out but not today.

                The events we are interested in are hours away but the water is near so we headed to the tow path.

There’s a rubber duck race!”

                What fully grown man could resist this?

Not this one. £1 for 3 ducks as I joined the queue. Actually, I made the queue because there was only one in front but it wasn’t an express lane.

“There’s got to be an easier way than this but I can’t find it.”

The ‘Duck Lady’s’ resigned tone didn’t suggest she had spent too much time searching for it.

“And someone forgot her glasses.”

She suggested a gesture to her colleague and we all knew who she meant. My pound collided with the other coins and the Tupperware while my three ducks stumbled into the plastic barrel.

              

  The first boat we saw had a sign blu-tacked to the widow saying ‘volunteers required’ but there was no-one to volunteer my services to. It’s early though. The next boat had straw inspired scare crows and humanised Coke bottles (!), then the Canal and Waterways charity before finally “The Grumpy Goat” cheese and Ale. We stopped here.

               

There are probably only a handful of things that make me smile more than a child with a balloon which I witnessed today. A child dropping a balloon and an adult desperately trying to rescue it while the wind teases it away. Bent in an undignified, childish manner genuinely believing this time will be different as the balloon once more wriggles free. Fantastic! (Another is “Large White Baps” in Tesco, always makes me smile.)

***

The weather is, according to Nat (and the un-available on Android Nat App,) schizophrenic while families argue and friends smile but there is overwhelmingly a balloon culture to the day as we headed to a play that was being performed. It was a period drama that we witnessed with the cast dressed in jeans and Nike trainers and printed scripts. It was good but we left before the conclusion to watch the Gospel Choir.

                The Choir sang well and with an enthusiasm that was infectious until all that was left was “La Morte Subite,” a band that do not fit anymore than they want to. Zarand, the band leader/singer/ dis-organiser/ hurdey-gurdey (I’ve no idea either!) player, was a neighbour of Nat’s before I knew her and he is a man who’s sense of excitement is infectious. The man with the happiest smile I have seen coupled with a Jools Holland joy and an ability to play the accordian, guitar, triangle and the hurdey-gurdey.

                It is Gypsy music and it is happy. Defiantly happy. Sung and shouted in several languages with one message (and no sense of chronological time.)

                We stopped at “The Nag’s Head” for a final pint and I checked my phone.

                No missed call.

                No text message.

My rubber duck didn’t win.

Bookshops, Boats, Breaks And Ben.

Clubbing seems to have changed. I need to download an app to download a ticket to get to security to show my ID to get on the boat.

                Ben has not changed at all. He has a clipboard and a designated leader frown on his face. Whatever is written on the clipboard is being ticked off in a haphazardly organised way. It’s time to party though (I hope that was on the clipboard) and Martin Krafty is on the first deck as I get on the boat playing a set only he can. It’s dirty with an element of funk cheese always lurking in the background.

                The set times are up and the clipboard is down by the time I caught up with Ben Jurassic and it’s as if time has stood still. Actually, time sat up and thought about making a move for the door as we caught up on nearly 10 years and then gently reclined as if it were sat in the dodgy chair Ben owned in Liverpool Road in Reading. The beats and breaks and basslines (and rocking boat) made my feet move, my heart race and my face smile as Terry Hooligan played his set. The legends of Breaks are out in force and don’t fit in now anymore than they did in the Noughties which is great because Breakbeat never fitted in and never knew its place. Ben’s record bag is now a memory stick, records became CDs which became CDs paying signals but the groove is still there. It’s still so organic and like a happy accident. “The Next Level” by the Ils still makes me wave and jump and shake in a style I call dancing.

***

“Don’t do anything bad until after the first docking point. They won’t chuck you off after that because it costs them money.”

There’s a life lesson in there.

***

                We docked back at Tower Bridge and it’s time for the after party (LaLaLand), but Ben Jurassic is in clipboard mode with the same expression and a phone glued to his face. The after party needs extra decks (CDJs in the modern world) and we need to get them there which in a Nu Skool world meant Uber. When Nu Skool let us down the Tube didn’t (our legs may have slightly.)

                By 3am we were hungry. The club was a dingey, dirty, sweaty hive of activity but outside was a London A road and nothing else except a 24-hour garage shining like The Murco. Time unravelled, tangled, criss-crossed and settled as we headed to the 24hr talking point.

“What sandwiches do you have?”

“Chicken and egg.”

“Chicken AND egg?” There’s something discordant about adult and child in a sandwich but we took what he offered which wasn’t chicken and egg.

                We got back to Ben’s at a time only he knows and he only knows because he has a watch that tells him where he has been, what he has been doing and how many calories he’s burned doing it and it is a whole new world to me. I’ve seen people argue over who woke who up but I’ve never seen it argued with statistics from a phone. That doesn’t seem to settle it though, it serves as another angle of attack, but I think Ben lost.

                It seems fitting that after breakfast we visited a bookshop and Ben Jurassic was passionately involved with a Roald Dhal book he wanted for his children while Rosie (his wife) was perplexed by an A to Z book where A was activist and F was feminist. Ben is the same child I met so many years ago.

                My body ached as the train headed back to Reading and my face smiled. A fantastic trip back to the Noughties which I probably never left.

Bookshops, Boats and Breaks

“Go on Jon. It’ll be fun. Just like the old days!”

An evening on a boat with two floors of dance music and a top deck smoking area. Old skool (which were Nu Skool at their time) breaks, people I haven’t seen for 10 years.

On a boat.

On the Thames.

In London.

With an after party.

What could possibly go wrong?

“Go on then. I’m in.”   

***

                As the day (night?) approached procrastination began to set in. Procrastination is quite swift for something of its’ nature but it was halted in its steps when I discovered that, ON THE SAME DAY, the bookshop from Good Omens was being recreated in Soho.

                I can’t argue with fate, it’s not cricket (or the ineffable plan.)

                It’s the morning of the day and the night and I’m rapidly talking myself out of it. After all my week has been hectic, I’m watching the pennies (while the pounds dance a merry jig out the door) and I am too old.

“You can’t be too old for a bookshop.”

Fifteen minutes later I am on the way to Reading train station.

I know what this is.

This is excitement.

***

                I’ve had a shower, put on my best jeans (my newest jeans. The least faded with no rips. They go on a sliding scale from “best” down to “painting”) and patted down the sticking up bits of hair.

London, here I come.

It’s hot today and I’m on the 12.21 to Paddington, then the Good Omens bookshop, then the “Back to the Noughties” boat party, then the after party.

                The giddy excitement has returned and if I’m not careful a childish grin will spread across my face like ice cream.

                I’m not.

                It did.

***

                A quick ciggie and a text to Ben (Boat Party Captain) and I’m ready for the Tube in search of a fictional bookshop in Soho.

“Oh my god. He’s actually coming.”

                Ben has been a true friend for probably 16 years although we’ve spoken for possibly only 10 of those so I’m not going to argue with that. Also, it’s true. I am actually coming, via a bookshop.

                I found Azirophile’s bookshop, a shop you could walk past and not notice if it weren’t for Crowley’s Jag outside. On the way I found 3 record stores identical to this “fictional bookshop” in every way except 1) they were record shops and 2) they were real.

I love record shops.      I love book shops.

 I also have a keen interest in pipe shops.

Obviously I know this bookshop is not real. Obviously I know I know the books and props (including a fantastic till) aren’t real (am I convincing you yet?) but the “what if” and “if only” feelings are increasing in intensity.

                I rolled a ciggie and made notes in my book which included:

That was brilliant (complete with whys and whats)

What makes a Trekkie?

Do they know they are Trekkies?

How do you spell Trekkie?

Am I a geek?

                These questions need answers and Google says there is a pub 20 yards around the corner. I opened the door to reinstate my reality. The man propping up the bar shared a joke with me.

“Van Gogh was in here last night.

I said ‘do you wanna drink?’

He said ’it’s alright, I’ve got one ear”

(Better said than written but only marginally.)

                Back to reality and I’ve got 4 hours to get to the boat and decisions to make and it feels like an episode of 24 (or modern equivalents.) Decision made, I’ll head to the Thames and walk it.

                The Thames in the City of London is quite unique to this area. Pollution and grease make a water colour that, if described by a car manufacturer, would be ‘metallic, discordant blue.’ I sat down and rolled a ciggie as a couple walked past. “It’s nice to know you are nasty to everyone I suppose” said the girl in the pink, flowery dress while the glorious sunshine highlighted her every curve as it reflected off her sunglasses.

“I’m the same to everyone” corrected the man dressed in greys and pale blues as they walked along the river, holding hands.

                Lost in my own thoughts and maybe what the thoughts of that couple were i was slapped in the face by Tower Bridge and it’s 4pm. The boat party is boarding at 5.30 so I watched the world in a bar with a member of staff who is on her break. A pint and a people watch and it’s time to head for the boat.

BACK TO THE NOUGHTIES.

The Kennet, cockiness and the last trip home.

I’m getting a cocky bounce now as I check my map to prove my arrogant swagger is not misplaced. The Canal is within an hour and I know exactly what I’m doing. The sun is out and I’ve got a grin on my face like a Cheshire Cat who’s just found out he has won free dental treatment for the rest of his nine lives.

                I can’t remember the name of the village just North of the Kennet (1.2 miles North) where I stopped to cook my tin of beans with sausages (not sure I ever knew its’ name) but it had a typical bench on the green, complete with a plaque and a dedication. I took out my map for no reason other than to know where I am and rolled a ciggie. I packed the map and headed over the bridge onto the Kennet.

                My speed along the towpath was leisurely to say the least and I stopped at most locks.

Every lock has a bench.

Every bench has a plaque.

Every plaque has a name.

***

                                The names are full names often with “nicknames” between the first and last and the short dedications started me thinking about how much I’d like to have met these people when all their quirks and oddities were celebrated.

Boats have singular names such as “Rosey.”

                It was somewhere in the middle of the afternoon and somewhere in the middle of Wiltshire when I realised how little I had talked in 4 days. I realised this after I’d sat on a bench at a lock next to a lady sat on the same bench at the same lock enjoying the peace. I had explained my thoughts on the names of boats and benches and moved on to how many lanes in England are called Church Lane or maybe Church Road and what makes a lane a lane and a road a road when she made her excuses and left.

 At this point, although she will never read it, I would like to apologise to that lady of the lock for my waffle and thank her for her patience (and her uncomfortable but dignified retreat.)

***

       The rest of the day was beautiful but uneventful. Anyone and everyone on a boat topped up my water bottle and offered food (the cheese and pickle sandwich was amazing!) I had a few fantastic moments of fulfilment but mostly I was feeling very smug. The stage was set for a fall and this fool was blissfully unaware.

              

  Anywhere past Newbury would be a result so as I boiled water for a Mugshot in a park with a pond and numerous benches in Newbury I was a little arrogant. Actually, a little arrogant was 5 miles West of here and that was a couple of hours ago. Cocky is the word. “Just got to find a place to rest my pioneering head and I’m done.”

                I found a place to sleep. A ‘grassy area’ on the south side of the canal (getting technical with my descriptions) and I wrote a letter to some young people I know because hand written envelopes are nice to wake up to, especially when it’s not your birthday although if I waffled like I did to my lock lady it was probably a battle of endurance to read. I had a quick swim-wash and settled down for the night.

                By the time it was fully dark and I was wrapped up in my bivvy it sounded like a tractor was cutting grass, it was close but the volume was distant and relaxing in a murmuring sort of way. A low rhythmic rumble whose sound surrounded my head. It would have been the best track on a “sounds to sleep by” CD except I kept thinking “who would be cutting grass in the dark?”

                No-one.

                It does rain in the dark though and it’s raining now but it’s not a problem because I’m wrapped up and I’m a pioneer but in the morning…

In the morning it’s still raining, I’m still dry and I’m still in my bivvy. I unzipped the hood a fraction. Rain and other 4 letter words flooded through my head. It’s time for a very simplified plan that I can stick to.

                   Get out.       Grab stuff.         Run to the bridge for shelter.

20 minutes later and with no Plan B I opted for Plan A.

***

               

The simplified plan only went off plan in that running is quite tricky with a bag on your back, untied boots and a sleeping bag wriggling its’ way to freedom under your arm but I was under the bridge and out of the rain. I laid my bag out to dry and thought in as positive and pioneering way as possible “this is shit.”  A couple walked past with their work bags and looked at me with a ‘don’t make eye contact’ look and I obliged and averted my gaze to my soaked sleeping bag, laid out in a sleeping position under a bridge just outside a town. I look like I am homeless. I look just like I am.

                If I had the emergency cash people had suggested I take I would be heading to Newbury train station but I didn’t so I can’t. instead, with a fading battery, I looked up the weather. Rain all day.

                I need to get dressed but the only dry place to do it is here. Under a bridge. On a public footpath.

                It is public but it’s also 6am, no-one will be using it so it’ll be fine.

                An early rising, environmentally sound office worker cycled past in a hi-vis jacket. I waited two minutes and no-one else came past. Just because no-one else came past in those two minutes doesn’t mean no-one will come past in the next two minutes though and I wasted those two minutes because now it will only get busier (I wasted 3 minutes thinking about that.)

                Finally, I got my dry clothes out in the order I would put them on (I’m learning) and stripped. I’m now naked with a soaked sleeping bag laid out in a sleeping position under a bridge just outside of town. What do I look like now?

                I’m dry and it’s raining outside. I am also hungry so ‘Pepper the food provider’ is In action with beans and tuna in a camping tray acting much like the protective blanket that my bivvy had to me an hour ago. 

                I smoked a ciggie while they cooked and let out a sigh. The ciggies to sighs ratio would make interesting reading to a psychologist but I’m a regular bloke who half an hour ago was naked with a soaked sleeping bag laid out in a sleeping position under a bridge just outside of town who is now cooking beans and tuna on a stove made from a discarded can.

Time to move on.

                When I left the bridge the rain had turned to heavy drizzle and within half an hour it had stopped. It was disappointingly easy and I was gutted by the fuss I had made.

                I would love to tell you about the sense of achievement, the pioneering spirit and the love of the world I felt and I could because I’m quite good at lying but this was just a mission to get home. I plodded. I used my battered body like the battery on my phone to listen to “The Graveyard Book” and ticked the locks and the miles off until Theale where I moved away from the Canal and posted the letter to the boys and crossed the M4.

                The drizzle passed and the rain poured but I still stopped to laugh at an amusingly apt sign.

   I reached the Calcot Hotel and took shelter in the smoking area.

I smoked.

      I smoked for an hour or more until the A4 was, in an ironic gesture, looking more like a Canal than a road (God must have tired of his cat videos.)

       I walked the A4 from Calcot, the same road I had walked so many times before. This time was a little bit longer but when I got home only James was in.

         “How was it?” he asked.

         “yeah, really good.”

Bristol to Reading- An indirect route

                I woke up, hungover and I learnt that a late night is better than an early morning.

If you get stuff done.

If you pack your bag.

If you buy your train ticket.

If you set your mind.

                I was hungover after a late night with an unpacked bag, no train ticket and a mind full of NOs.

                Bristol was a long way; the way back was longer.

            I got on the train to Bristol with a backpack, a sleeping bag, a stove made from a Dr Pepper can, some maps and enough of a plan to know when I’d gone off plan. I took no money as I was going to live off the kindness of strangers. I have to point out that I had stocked up on tobacco. (My ex-partner found this hilarious, “you’ll risk running out of food and water but not baccy??!!”)

     I went from Bristol to Bath, into the Cotswolds and onto Swindon. I slept by the canal and in Savernake Forest (amazing!) before joining the Kennet again. I planned to visit the Chiltern Hills and come down to Reading.

***

                I like Bristol. It always seems to have its head in the clouds.

                I like Reading too but it’s more a head in the sand place. It’s easy to escape though and 5 miles in most directions will get you to the middle of nowhere. Here I am, 80 miles in a westerly direction.

                I got out of the station and had a wander around town until I found a Tesco at 11.30. By 12 my plan of using the generosity of strangers had fallen flat on its face because you can’t expect generosity if you don’t ask for help but I was now hungry and I had no food so I had to ask.  Except the person I choose as the weakest came to me first and asked if I was OK.

                It’s the first morning and I already look rough enough to be offered help but a lovely lady called Margaret bought me a banana, an apple, water and a tin of spaghetti hoops

I love spaghetti hoops.

They’re like being 8 years old again.

I headed in the direction of Bath which is an easy start because it’s signposted as a cycle route and has nice, smooth tarmac. You don’t see many people or many opportunities to ask for help though and it showed a flaw in my planning. Having no money expecting people to be kind is hard when there are no people about.

I made it to Bath and took out my stove to cook my hoops (on closer inspection they were Peppa Pig shapes.)

A stove made from a Dr Pepper can is a great thing to have it turns out because a man was so intrigued he came and asked me about it. As a result, I got a pack of Mugshots, a tin of beans, more water and some crisps. (Anyone notice the different “essentials” men and women have?) I carried on for another hour and found a field to sleep for the night. I laid my bivvy bag down and rolled a ciggie.

Sleeping under the stars in a field, what could be more relaxing?

Sleeping in a field without an A road next to it I’d think and I was seeing a lot of lack of planning in my plans but tomorrow’s another day and I plan to get to Swindon (anyone from Swindon can probably already spot a planning mistake.)

***

                My bivvy is so warm and I woke up at first light but just like bed at home at some point you must get out. On reflection having your clothes ready before you are naked would be wiser but I live and learn (sometimes I learn.)

 I had a ciggie and checked my map.

The first part of the journey was quite good but I lost a little soul on the way. I think that because there were lots of taps and I had food it became just a walk but when I hit near Swindon I was, Bored.

                Not for long though. The fields around here are occupied and though most animals are friendly I can’t tell what they are thinking and there was a lot of noise, the people of Swindon get drunk in fields as well.

***

                It’s Wednesday morning and it feels like it’s going well. I am turning down food at this point because I can’t fit it in my bag but I’m missing something. Something of the original plan.

                I am very proud (stubborn) to not use Google maps or GPS but there are times when I wonder what they would suggest over Ordnance Survey and this was one of those times.

                I am on an A road.

                There is no footpath.

                There are lorries.

                This may be a mistake.

                It may have been because I was tired but when an HGV went past and the wind nearly blew me over I felt quite fragile and like everyone going past thought that I was an idiot.

I knew I had to turn right so I decided any right would do just to get me off this road. Finally I could see a road on the right and it wasn’t far but to get there I had to zig zag a little but the end was in sight so it wasn’t a drama. Why wasn’t this road on my map though? I can physically see it but it’s not on my map. It has curbs and everything, not like all the country lanes that went left.

It wasn’t like the left lanes and it wasn’t on the map because it wasn’t a road. It was a 25 foot by 15-foot concrete area. With 3 concrete bollards blocking the entrance.

I don’t believe God hates me but sometimes I feel like I’m his equivalent of cats on YouTube, entertainment to pass an hour.

                I rolled a ciggie and got my map out. It didn’t look too far until my right turn so I knew I could do it but it didn’t give me as much hope as I’d expected. I ate a banana, rolled another ciggie and tightened my shoe laces.

                The last section had firm banks so it was disappointingly easy and I was gutted by the fuss I had made.

I turned right.

What a beautiful little lane and the Ridgeway was my next destination. I knew the views would be gorgeous and the path would be peaceful. On reflection, the planning may have been wayward again. The views were gorgeous and the paths peaceful but the sun was hot and my water bottle was empty.

                I met the one taint on the landscape, a mobile phone transmitter, but when I looked at my phone I had no signal. I was at the top of a hill (good planning to put a mobile phone transmitter there) and there were no buildings in sight.

“Oops” (and other 4 letter words.)

When your plan goes wrong you should probably stop, assess and make a new plan but I went with “as long as I put one foot in front of the other I’ll get there” as a mantra.

                It worked in a more by luck sort of way.

There were two cottages. Two! I walked up to the second one (no, you’re right. Why not the first?) It had a printed Word doc on the door that said, “This is not Celia Cottage,” That’s OK. I’m not looking for Celia cottage. Or Celia. I am looking for water so I knocked in an apologetic way. No reply. After a politely agreeable time I shut the gate and went to the second cottage (the first cottage on reflection seeing as I had walked past it.) This time the note was handwritten (quite neatly) “This isn’t Celia Cottage.” I’m not looking for Celia cottage or I wasn’t, but I want to now. The only two buildings I have seen in the past two hours both say they are not Celia so who is? No-one answers again but now I want to find water at Celia’s.

                                I never did.

I did find a farmer though and we exchanged names but I can’t remember what they were. I told him about my journey and his face looked puzzled as he led me to a tap.

“Bristol to Reading with no money?” He showed me the outdoor tap to fill my bottles. “Where are you sleeping?”

“Tonight, in a Forest.”

“Bristol to Reading with no money?”

There was a sign for an art gallery. I asked him why there was a sign for an art gallery.

“My wife was an artist.”

“Do you get many visitors?” I hadn’t seen anyone for hours so it can’t be based on passing trade.

“There was a family at Easter and you if you’d like to have a look.”

“Alright.”

He went to get the keys and we walked towards the building.

There were paintings and sculptures of brass, wood and other metals bound together in a rustic style. They seemed simple but fun to me but that may say more about me than them. We walked back towards the farm entrance and said goodbye.

 “Bristol to Reading?”

***

 I had started to get blisters on my heels and my shoulders but now I was bouncing. I stocked up on water (getting a bit good at this now) and the signposts said 2 miles to Savernake Forest. I had a cheeky smile on my face.

I am amazingly good at ignoring convention but incredible shit at breaking rules so the sign at the entrance to Savernake was not happy reading.

“NO CAMPING OTHER THAN THE DESIGNATED CAMPSITE.”

                I even made the effort of walking as though I was going to the campsite.

“Excuse me, where is the campsite?”

“It’s a fairly long way.”

(I didn’t ask how far. Distance was quite relative at this point.)

                I followed his directions until he and his dog were out of sight.

                I ate a pot noodle. The moon was full and I was snuggled up on a clear night under the stars with the leaves gently rustling above me. So close to nature having just eaten a Pot Noodle. It was like a fairy tale. My right shoulder was bleeding and my leg ached but fairy tales always have a dark side.

                I woke up totally refreshed. I won’t bore you with the details of the deer that was two foot away from me that didn’t run but looked at me as if to say “you’re new(?)” Actually, I just have but I didn’t eat breakfast cos I was here and I shouldn’t be here (there are rules here) and I walked as fast as I could to the forest exit. I fancy a day along the Kennet though. A bit of familiarity wouldn’t go amiss.

***

A Different Way Home

At 8.34 (ish) the minibus that I drove us to work in would pull up at the red traffic light and Heart FM would play “What about us” by Pink.

            “They always play this song when we get to these lights.”

            It’s impossible to argue with that statement but there are two factors involved here.

1)      You don’t need a watch when you are listening to Heart because their play list is that predictable.

2)      It’s 8.34 (ish) and the minibus that I drive us to work in has pulled up at the red traffic light and Heart FM is playing “What about us” by Pink.

I made a plan.

            Planning is something I’m very good at, it’s the doing I struggle with.

Two weeks to pay day and 1 weeks’ worth of money with the second week as holiday. The option seemed obvious. Buy a train ticket to Bristol and head back to Reading by foot with no cash and no cards. What could possibly go wrong?

The morning of the first day starting badly because I overslept. Not so much overslept but didn’t pack the night before. I also didn’t consider the amount of time I spend delaying taking any action!

5 days later I walked the final 8 miles in heavy rain with blistered feet and a bloody shoulder but I felt great.

           

            That was amazing!

            I’m going to do loads of stuff like this.

            

          The morning(s) on the minibus starting this off. It was a Spring morning and it was a Spring week that I walked.

Over a year ago.

                  

SPRING 2018!

Here’s my plan:

·         If I think “what if?” do it and know “that’s what.”

·         Less planning, more doing. (I appreciate that I’m failing on that because it’s included in my plan.)

So I’m having an adventure (or planning to) so feel free to come along for the ride. If it works it should be interesting and if it doesn’t it will be funny.

***

I use pen and paper as the means of collecting my thoughts so any advice on the modern computer system would be duly taken (with resentment.)