Our Travel blog
The Cambridge Rock Festival (CRF) is now in its 12th year and in the last few has been held at the Haggis Farm Polo Club just outside Cambridge. This year it was spread over 5 days, the Wednesday being a charity event for Addenbrooke’s hospital before the full-on 3 stage 4 day festival kicked off on Thursday lunchtime. The whole event is the brainchild of Dave Roberts, who runs the festival alongside a committee who help with the organisation. And it’s no mean feat; over 5 days, on 3 stages, bands play from 11:00am to 11:00 pm with barely 30 minutes turnaround between each set. In addition there are 2 bars and the usual camping facilities, traders, artist liaison and green room, catering, stewards and crew to manage. Our role in all of this was as back stage crew for the main stage. Our friends from another festival were running the back stage and recruited us earlier in the summer. The job basically entailed loading band’s equipment into one of 5 bays behind the main stage, then getting one band off stage, carrying all their equipment, amps, instruments etc. back to their bay, doing the same in reverse to get the next band on in time to sound check and be ready to perform. Meanwhile another band would be turning up to unload and equipment from bands that had completed their set had to be loaded back into their vehicles to head off home. In essence we moved each band’s gear four times. The key to the whole operation was the risers, platforms on wheels that allowed the drum kit to be set up backstage while the preceding band played. Once finished, their riser would be dragged back offstage for the drummer to disassemble and the new one wheeled on. Occasionally a band would have a complicated keyboard set up so a spare riser came into play and all three would be manoeuvred round like one of those children’s games where you have to slide squares around in a frame to make a picture. Happily we weren’t alone. Under Dave and Trudy’s excellent direction a core team of 9, plus one or two who did odd days, all donned the red tee shirts and passes allowing us to hump and shove backstage. We even had a TV to monitor what was happening on stage and watch the band playing. It was all great fun and soon we settled into the rhythm that was to characterise the next few days, bursts of intense work followed by milling around until a van reversed up and then we’d swarm around like a plague of ants in our red tee shirts grabbing gear and occasionally, in our enthusiasm, spare tyres, the drummer’s lunch and anything else foolishly left within our reach. The festival site was surprisingly small, set in an oval with traders at each end, the three covered stages, a large outdoor screen for the main stage and a marquee with local arts and crafts along with, I was gratified to see, a large Radio Caroline stall. Some of their DJ’s were compèring and I think they broadcast some of the bands too. I grew up listening to Caroline and some of the other pirate stations of the era, a small act of rebellion at a time when they were illegal and frowned upon by the grim suits at the BBC and in government. My fondness for music blossomed under these stations more than anything the staid old Aunty Beeb could throw at me. Caroline played all sorts of music, album tracks and whatever tickled the DJs fancy, a policy I adored. I might not have liked every track but the chances were high that I would. And the DJs didn’t witter on, it wasn’t ‘personality led’ like the legit stations but music led, surely the correct policy for a radio station whose remit is to play music. Apart from the people and music the other joy for us at CRF was being paid in beer tokens, a useful currency since the real ale bar stocked 70 or so beers and ciders over the weekend. We limited ourselves though as most artists wouldn’t welcome slurring uncoordinated fools slinging their $5,000 Fender into the loading bay from 20 feet away. And so to the artists. We saw or at least heard just about every act on the main stage and I have no intention of reviewing each one, instead here are a few highlights. Wednesday – Addenbrooke’s Rocks Wednesday was a sort of bonus day for the festival, a charity event for Addenbrooke’s Hospital which served as a handy warm up for the crew as well. Headliner Don Airey (Deep Purple among many others) delivered a stunning set to close a day that had flowed well, with a mixture of folk and classic rock bands, all of whom had a link in one way or another to Addenbrooke’s. Thursday – Tribute bands There were tributes to AC/DC, Cream, Ozzy Osborne and Pink Floyd among the line-up today and every act was skilled, impressively like the band they were imitating and had an act to match. For us, these tribute acts are the closest we’ll ever get to watching the real thing and done well they are entertaining and fun. I still harbour mixed feelings about tribute acts though. Technically gifted musicians in their own right I wonder how many are doing it because it’s one of the few ways that being a musician can pay nowadays – lugging your gear around on the modern equivalent of the ‘chicken in a basket’ circuit pretending to be someone else and earning them royalties. On the other hand, the bands were good, the musicians unfailingly pleasant and refreshingly down to earth. Where else would ‘Ozzy Osborne’ hug you for finding his £1 pair of sunglasses? Opening band DC/73 played mostly Bonn Scott era AC/DC with a polish that belayed their usual pub gig status. A great start to the festival proper and they get a mention here because they sent a charming thank you email to the crew. Yes, I really am that cheap. Later Pure Floyd headlined, lit up by their elaborate light show. Alison borrowed an illuminated cape from a friend, a sheer translucent material with coloured lights in the arms, giving her the appearance of a luminescent jelly fish. Having wafted about back stage to the pulsating rhythms from the band she was heard to mutter “I’m really quite shy you know” before leading the crew out into the arena to dance about among the audience, a floodlit pied piper cavorting around to the melody and briefly stealing the show before whirling out into the open air, startling the timid, alarming the children and making some serious drinkers look deep into the glass in front of them and wonder just how strong was this pint of ‘Speckled Old Cobblers’ and consider that maybe they should stick to half a mild in future. Friday – Classic Rock So, into the rockier stuff today with some original acts. Worthy of a mention, in my humble opinion, are Son of Man, a kind of hybrid tribute-come-spin-off from the original Welsh band Man. I wasn’t familiar with Man but Son of… were on great form with their psychedelically infused heavy rock. A band I’ll be seeking more of. Later came Remus Down Boulevard. Built around Dennis Stratton, one of the original members of Iron Maiden they played straight forward honest heavy rock with great aplomb. Of note too was their cheery down to earth ego free disposition. They chatted away freely to everyone, mixed with the punters around the bar and if anything dressed down before taking to the stage. Without wishing to appear rude Dennis couldn’t look less like a rock star if he tried and I love him for it. Headlining was Cregan and Co. Jim Cregan is a long-time collaborator and song writing partner of Rod Stewart and the band play their songs. Ben Mills, an X-Factor finalist, fronts the band on vocals and guitar. Now, normally I’d rather listen to the sound of my own testicles being grated than hear anyone associated with a TV talent show but he was great; perfect voice, poised and professional, permanently grinning and he reminded me of Marti Pellow without the smack. Towards the end of the set when the crew started to gather behind the curtains, poised to commence clearing the stage once the final applause echoed around the marquee, we all spontaneously started dancing. I posted a brief clip on Facebook of Alison and a couple of our colleagues lost in the music. It was unashamedly feel good sing-a-long fun. Saturday Another classic rock day and by now we were melding into a facsimile of a professional crew. With our roles and places pretty much sorted we’d slouch around backstage, chatting or watching the monitor or just lost in our own private world listening to the music. As the band’s allotted time drew to a close we’d all drift up the ramp onto the stage, drawn by unspoken command to our stations. Cue applause and announcements, then we would draw back the curtain and scurry into action. The technician would shout the all clear and we’d drag the drum riser off. Then a swarm of red shirts would dart to and fro with equipment; amps, guitars, keyboards etc, clear down the rest of the stage, drag the next band’s gear on, push their drum riser into place and then resume slouching. At our best we achieved this in 6 minutes. Hazel O’Connor was as entertaining and down to earth as ever. Last time we worked with her she had a long conversation with Alison about dog biscuits. Today she turned up with a Sainsbury’s shopping bag containing her tambourine and bodhrán and wondered if it would be alright on stage. Suitably reassured she and her band delivered a storming set. The headliner tonight was Carl Palmer, formally of ELP and a drummer of extraordinary talent. As impressive as his skills were they were matched by the guitarist and bass player who shared the stage with him. Simon Fitzpatrick on bass played Queen’s Bohemian Rhapsody on his 6 string bass and it was stunning. Normally I abhor Queen, Bohemian bloody Rhapsody fills me with revulsion and I consider that any bass player whose solo exceeds 60 seconds should be turfed into the nearest cesspit. (Paul Simon’s You Can Call Me Al has what I think of as the perfect bass solo). Today though I was won over by a masterclass performance. Hearing the crowd hush and then gently sing the words to accompany him was a spine tingling moment. The guitarist, Paul Bielatowicz looked about 12 years old; I swear he hasn’t started shaving yet; nevertheless he was every bit the match for his colleagues, leaning back and staring upwards, eyes tightly closed, lost in the bubble as the music flowed through him. We saw three masters of their respective instruments on stage, I even applauded the drum solos! Sunday – Prog day Prog, short for progressive rock, is generally something I avoid. It’s characterised, by me at least and I may not be an expert but at least I’m not neutral, by long rambling tunes with unnecessary changes of time signature, choruses that are heavy on the ‘la la far de la’s’ and in the worst cases 4 or more keyboards. You just know that the set list will contain the word suite and with a sense of dread you realise the singer will whip out a flute at some point. There’s really no excuse for this nonsense, prog was the reason that punk was necessary. Having said that some exponents’, Pink Floyd for example, convey more political nous than the cartoon anarchy of some of punk’s pioneers, and some of the space-rock we’ve come to enjoy isn’t that far removed from prog. All in all its an area of music I generally find hard to warm to so to escape an afternoon of meandering noodling and self-indulgence we took ourselves off for a brief sojourn to stage 2 to see Gunrunner. A down to earth, no nonsense rock covers band of rare pedigree and talent with a mate of ours, Pete, on vocals. Suitably refreshed we returned to catch Mostly Autumn – Kudos to them for winning Alison’s award for having the most organised van, a multi shelved affair split into compartments and packed like a game of Tetris. Headliners were Focus, a Dutch band who were the most laid back bunch of blokes of the weekend. Leading them was shambolic frontman Thjis Van Leer who assembled an old wooden Hammond organ, stool and amp on stage, all of which were literally held together by gaffer tape. With all the teak veneer his riser resembled my Nan’s living room circa 1972. Their set was characteristically Focus, mostly instrumental with occasional yodelling from Thjis, punctuated by his unique brand of cheerfully erratic stage patter. They went down well with the audience and were a fitting end to a great 5 days of music. After their set a few of us linked arms singing “We’ll Meet Again” during the final stage announcements. I turned to the person on my left and said “see, that’s how to have a hit single” to which he replied “ah, I understand now”. Turned out it was the guitarist from Focus, a band notably hit free since the 1970’s. If their next hit is a version of We’ll Meet Again I expect a cut of the proceeds. When we’d finished loading the van their roadie entertained us with some card tricks, having first explained that 6 pints of larger…”or maybe 7, I’m not so good at counting…” improved his skills. Amazingly he appeared to be correct as he wowed us with some close up card manipulation. Their van packed, Focus pulled away, stopped at the gates and reversed at speed as they realised they were missing a guitarist. Thjis jumped out and started wandering the site shouting “Hello” and asking if anyone had maybe seen a guitar player. Meanwhile the missing person had found the van and was sitting inside wondering where Thjis was and if he should go and look for him. A farce was avoided by Alison guarding the van to ensure no more band members escaped while I dragged Thjis away from the bar, where his searching had turned into mass appreciation by inebriated punters. Which left us free to return to Mavis, happy and exhausted. CRF was the most coordinated multi-day music festival we’ve worked at, although of course we’ve only seen it from the perspective of working in one place but it’s definitely one we’d return to. The crew were an absolute pleasure to work with, nearly all of the bands were refreshingly ego free and grateful for our help, the committee and organisers of the festival were appreciative and the punters laid back, friendly and polite. We were sad when the last extended chord from Focus signalled the end for this year. There is some question of whether CRF will happen next year but if it does we will return. Some people don’t understand why we do what we do for no financial reward but after a few days at CRF we’ve learnt new skills, heard some great music and made new friends. There’s talk of a reunion later in the year for the crew and offers of accommodation, driveways for Mavis and help finding paid work. We slunk into bed reflecting that this could be our last music festival of the season, but if it is we agreed we went out on a high.
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Monday 1 August Glastonbury is one of those places you feel you have to visit because it’s so well known, mostly for the festival at nearby Pilton. In truth it’s a small town under an impressive tor. A tor being either a freestanding rock or outcrop that rises abruptly from its surroundings or a nipple of mother nature sitting erect on her beating bosom if you’re the kind of person who feels Glastonbury is the spiritual centre of your tie died incense scented world. Maybe it was the damp weather or having to circuit the town twice to find somewhere to park Mavis but I couldn’t warm to the place. The Abbey looked impressive but we contented ourselves with a browse in the gift shop rather than pay to wander around the ruins in the rain. As Alison kindly pointed out, if she wanted to see an old wet ruin she always had me. The shops were nearly all rubbish. And I mean that in a kindly constructive way. Apart from a tiny jewellers who fitted a new watch strap for me and the odd bookshop they were either selling nonsense like crystals and healing bath salts for extortionate prices or tee shirts with transfers of wolves howling at the moon or pentagrams surrounded by ‘magic’ symbols . One shop contrived to look like a potions shop from Diagon Alley out of the Harry Potter movies. It had rows of dark shelves populated with mysterious looking concoctions in quasi medical bottles marketed as ‘healing potions’. Now, far be it from me to dispute their effectiveness but as Billy Connolly once pointed out, if you are laying in the road after being struck by a car you don’t want to hear someone shouting “Let me through, I’m an aromatherapist” We passed a sheltered housing complex on our way into the town centre and wondered if it was a bit like The Chelsea Pensioners Home but for fading hippies. Instead of parade in the morning they have a communal chant and then shuffle off to enjoy a spot of meditation or to polish their chakras until the nurse comes round dispensing the tabs and tokes. Come to think of it, that sounds like a good retirement plan to me. We grew weary of the shallow spiritual sustenance on offer and took refuge in a quaint café that catered for vegetarians with variety and ingenuity, one of the plus points of Glastonbury I guess. I never expected what followed. Well, I expected the Mediterranean couscous and halloumi since I’d ordered it not 15 minutes beforehand and was heartily tucking into it when, in response to a simple question from Alison, years of supressed feelings about my father’s death 30 years ago bubbled up from goodness knows where and flooded out. I’ve written about him on here previously, I hope with a sense of affection for all my foolishness and teasing but today was different. We lost him to lung cancer in September 1986, after a year of chronic and at times bitter illness. We lost the man born to accountancy like a duck is to water but who possessed an anarchic sense of humour, revelling in The Goon Show, ITMA and The Navy Lark. These shows were birthed from the Forces entertainment troupes whose off the wall humour melded with the pre-war musical variety shows, a coping mechanism and release valve to the horrors of war. My father served as a Bevin Boy for a brief spell until he was called up to the Navy. He didn’t see active service but visited the devastated ruins of Nagasaki among other Far East adventures. As is so often the case he didn’t talk about it, but I have his photo albums and postcards from his service days. They show a slight, blond Petty Officer, fit (he was a dab hand at the pummel horse), often smiling in a kindly knowing way, a man who seemed to be as much observing as he was participating. I relived the night he passed away. I had just returned from watching Alan Bleasdale’s play Having a Ball at the theatre. I remembered again the phone call, the sense of helplessness because I didn’t drive and so had to wait to catch the train the next day, the guilt at not being there, the hurt, anger, loss, betrayal and, dominating everything, a sense of numbness; not being able to comfort my mother properly, not knowing what to do, to say or where to turn; being a man, strong, stolid and organised, betraying no feelings. And the numbness, always the numbness. And 30 years later in a small town café on a wet Monday was the first time I cried for him; the first tears I was able to spill over the man who gave me life, nurtured me and guided me, who never judged me despite me giving him plenty of opportunity. Here were my feelings of guilt at not being there during his illness anything like as much as I should have been, at my countless thoughtless indiscretions and imprudence, my errors and lack of emotional literacy, my fragile ego being more important than his suffering. At not being the son he deserved. And something lifted. I certainly haven’t atoned for my sins, for my selfishness all those years ago but some of the numbness that’s lived with me lightened. Alison again gave wise council, ever my safe harbour in the storm. We sat watching the rain, quiet and still, not at peace exactly but aware that something was different. I’m not sure what the Glastonburyites walking passed thought but hopefully the café has some more customers eager to try the Mediterranean couscous for its spiritually restorative powers. We took ourselves back into Glastonbury in a solemn mood, determined to find something of the spirit of the place that draws people here, but our hearts weren’t in it. It was too wet and murky to tackle climbing the Tor so we guided Mavis back to the site, in a reflective frame of mind. Just after our return the rain started again, this time in earnest and we staggered over to the pub in the kind of windswept rain that lashes at you from every angle; under coats, into socks, down the neck. Even my knees were wet, all from a 10 metre dash from Mavis to the bar. Still, the food was every bit as good as it was on Saturday, the beer as welcome and the emotional turbulence of earlier had passed from subdued reflection to us feeling slightly giddy as we chatted away like long lost friends even though we’ve lived pretty much shoulder to shoulder since April. Odd that for all our mocking and derisive thoughts about Glastonbury our visit proved to be a cathartic experience. Tuesday 2 August After the emotional turmoil of yesterday we woke suitably refreshed, the air was damp, a mist had settled, low cloud laying on the hill cutting us off from the valleys below. Under this veil we packed up and set off for Cambridge, gently rolling through the lifting fog, wispy tendrils rising from the trees and hedges as the morning sun broke through. We passed the hill fort at Cley Hill, a mound like an enormous turtle covered in grass, paler than the surrounding fields with the shadows of ancient earth fortifications scarring its summit. We re-joined the A303 and back passed Stonehenge, which looked tiny against the vast open space and big sky of Salisbury plane. Bypassing the mystical delights of the stones we headed instead for some local services and thence suitably caffeined up onwards via the M25, which was slightly less horrific than usual and into the services at South Mimms. We use services for the same reasons as everyone else, toilets and coffee, in that order. Today we fancied a change and gave into our dark sides. Now, I know we try to avoid eating meat and have successfully eschewed red meat for some time but now and then we have chicken and today we both confessed to a yearning for fast fried greasy food of no nutritional value served in a cardboard box. So we went to KFC. I have a long standing suspicion of KFC. I know their welfare standards aren’t exactly high and I’m sure they aren’t model employers but my antipathy comes from many many years ago when, in a rare treat that involved spending money my parents bought a box of KFC bigger than my head. This rare event occurred after a shopping expedition to Lowestoft. Well, this was like Christmas for me, with the added excitement that it wasn’t cooked by my mother. Locked in the back of the family Mazda with the sweet smell of fried chicken the whole way home I salivated while plotting how I’d attack the awaiting feast. Coleslaw first obviously, after all its just salad in disguise, beans second, tasty but really just a tub of beans and then fries or chicken? And how much chicken would there be? Would I get a leg and breast? Could I surreptitiously gain access to the left over chicken bones because in places they’d still have the coating on? We unloaded the shopping, a task in which I was for once an eager participant, laid the table (we did have standards – my dad ate crisps with a knife and fork) and I pulled my chair up anxiously, knife and fork poised to dive in, my plan having been refined to a ratio of 3 chips to every bite of chicken. My father ceremoniously placed the bucket in the centre of the table. It was steaming and curiously charred around the edges. Whipping away the lid in the manner of a magician to reveal the delights inside my father’s expression went from pride to curiosity and then to dismay. Subsequent enquiry led to the revelation that in order to buy time to unpack the car and put the shopping away the bucket of KFC had been deposited in the Aga to ‘keep warm’. Hence my first ever fast food was piping hot coleslaw, beans served from a molten plastic tub and chicken shrivelled onto the bone with the coating disintegrated into fine burnt crumbs. At least the KFC chips tasted the same as they always do; awful. Happily todays experience was much better, the chicken crisp and the chips as awful as ever. We agreed that the guilt was worth every finger licking bite. And on that note we prepared for the next 5 days at The Cambridge Rock Festival. Saturday 30 July We left New Wine late on the Saturday morning amidst a stream of exiting delegates. Around the site tents were being dismantled, caravans packed and patches of bright green dotted the hills where tents were already safely stowed in the back of cars ferrying people back to the real world. We departed with conflicting emotions; happy to be heading to a nearby site to relax, relief that we’d finished working, sad that we were saying goodbye to new friends and spiritually concussed from the week’s events. Happily our destination, after a short stop to take on supplies in Shepton Mallet, was the rather quaint Wagon and Horses pub which has a compact camp site with hard standing, electric and showers a little north of where we’d been. Sited on a ridge alongside a roman road the pub overlooks Shepton to the south. In the evening as we took ourselves over to the pub to eat the clouds were stained orange against a cobalt blue sky, floating above pale green fields that gently sloped away to the valley below, bordered by straggly hedges and shadowy trees. The food was lovely, proper sensibly priced home cooked pub-grub, not the mass produced cook-chill nonsense that’s frequently passed off as fresh because it’s been heated up and had some dried herbs sprinkled on before the salad is added to the piping hot plate and served in a flurry of indifference by a bored underpaid waiter. This had homemade stamped all over it and was much better for it. The ales were local and went down a treat and the bar staff were friendly and eager to help, giving us a list of local, and not so local, attractions that would fill a month rather than our couple of days. All their help was delivered in a broad Somerset drawl, so we became used to the charming ‘alright me lovelies?’ when we walked into the bar or went to order. With her ear for sounds and keen listening skills Alison often finds herself subconsciously mimicking these local linguistic habits, and she does it well, rapidly assimilating them into her every day conversation. On the other hand every accent I’ve ever tried comes out as a sort of Dr. Who villain who has been living in Pakistan with a Yorkshire wife. I even struggle with my own accent sometimes. Anyway even more of a pleasure than the views, food, beer and locals was our bed and the promise of a Sunday morning with no alarm clock. Sunday 31 July We awoke fresh and keen with the lark. Well not the lark but one that’s decided ‘sod it, just for once I’ll let the lazy sparrows or those smug bloody robins rouse people today, I deserve a lay in and I’m blooming well having one’. Following directions carefully given to us by the landlady we walked along the back roads downhill into Shepton Mallet. Which was sad and underwhelming on a late Sunday morning. The town was drab, shops looked uncared for and the detritus of whatever passed for Saturday night gaiety in these parts littered the streets; mostly fast food and Costa coffee as far as we could tell by the wrappers and paper cups in shop doorways and spilling out of the bins. Even more sadly the gleaming glass and steel shopping netherworld on the edge of town was doing a thriving business. Anchored around a Tesco’s it also houses a Costa and those strange stores that always seem to be busy but no one appears to actually buy anything. There was a bedding shop that also sold toys, presumably so that little Todd or Betty can pester mum or dad to buy them a Corgi bus painted purple to commemorate the queens 90th birthday or a union jack model tube train to appease them while they mull over which of the 25 or so slightly different pillows to buy. Next door was an Edinburgh Woollen Mill shop. A bit like an Ann Summers store for people of a certain age who favour man-made fabrics and who furtively stock up on pastel trousers, nylon blouses and cardigans with lacy cuffs while pretending that they only popped in to stock up on shortbread. Maybe they get a thrill out of the static charge they get when they scurry home to parade around in secret behind chintzy curtains closed over starched nets. As nowhere seemed to be open in the town we trudged around Tesco’s and armed with enough supplies to get us through a few long winters took a taxi back to Mavis. Once unpacked we settled in for an afternoon of doing as little as possible… and I’m happy to report that we succeeded. “…God didn’t build himself that throne,
God doesn’t live in Israel or Rome”* I am writing this while tired. I have had a busy week filled with hard work and some emotional moments. I want to capture my feelings whilst recognising that at present they are raw and may change with time. Apart from the usual corrections to spelling, punctuation and grammar where it is important for clarity, I don’t intend to revise it. I may though consider an addendum or companion piece if my views change with the benefit of further experience or hindsight. These are my views and mine alone. If you choose to be offended by them then I’m fine with that. I’m sure that it will resonate with people in different ways. If we had the pleasure of working with you at New Wine then please understand this is a strictly personal account and no criticism is intended. I hope these words help to explain how I found the spiritual aspect of New Wine and as such may be of benefit. I’ve never really got the whole faith business. I’ve been to church, sang the hymns, dozed during the sermons and can recite The Lord’s Prayer. Beyond that nothing’s really touched me. I’ve never felt any stirring of my soul, whatever that is. In short I have never really believed that God exists. But when I met Alison I started to question that. Her faith shone, radiant and immovable in the face of my cynicism. Even my youngest son, a man schooled in the fine arts of the cynic from an early age, a boy who was rapidly acquiring grand master sceptic level by the time he left primary school, confided that he found her faith charismatic and that ‘she lived it.’ When conversation flagged I’d fire arguments and questions at her. You know the type of questions, those oh so clever ones atheists reserve for people of faith that are supposed to catch them out. And she took it all in good spirit. Every time I thought I’d served an ace she returned with a compassionate lob or loving volley. I came to realise that I wasn’t trying to change her mind but to have mine changed. Most of my adult exposure to faith was as a sneering outsider. I’d pick up on the contradictions, on the schisms, on the tanned TV evangelists living in mansions, on the ridiculous God Hates Fags memes on social media and the neo-fascist Britain First, hiding their hate fuelled agenda under the cloak of Christianity. But living with Alison was a revelation. She lives compassion, tolerance (she does live with me after all) and love, and not only on Sunday mornings so that she can feel righteous for the rest of the week; she doesn’t seek confession to cleanse herself to make way for new and exciting ways to sin next time (which is a shame as I have an interesting and stimulating list for her to try). She just lives as a normal human being; a selfless, charming and flawed human being. Yes, flawed, as we all are. We all make mistakes, and we all wish we’d made different decisions sometimes. And so, on my quest to establish my atheist credentials, to further cement them as a part of my identity I started questioning my views. Maybe there was something in faith. Maybe, just maybe I was wrong. I agreed, with practically no objection, to getting married in church with the whole Christian marriage service. The two ministers who led the service and preached understood my values and feelings, and my doubts too. In a sunlit church on a September afternoon I felt as close to God as I ever had; an inexplicable feeling of warmth, of stillness, of peace and of oneness. Since then I’ve been to a few services, although in the spirit of a full and frank confession one of those was mostly to gain free entry into Canterbury Cathedral. As it happened it wasn’t free. The price was further doubts, further discussions with Alison’s wise counsel, and further exploration. And so, on our 6 month sabbatical I readily agreed to accompany Alison to New Wine. New Wine is an international umbrella organisation for what I think of as charismatic ‘happy clappy’ churches. The festival is spread over two weeks, with most delegates attending one week or the other. There were around 10,800 delegates in the week we attended plus around 1,200 crew and volunteers. We attended as volunteer stewards. In the course of our time at New Wine I witnessed some interesting things that have helped my journey, although not necessarily in the way that they were intended to. It’s hard to reduce the complexity of faith into handy bite size paragraphs, so for simplicity’s sake I have picked up on four topics that piqued my curiosity during the week. These are: worship, healing, prayer and testimony (personal stories of God in action or sometimes, in what I thought of as the faintly ridiculous idiom of some, ‘God-incidence’, not ‘co-incidence’). I’ll consider each one in a little detail below. Worship: In the spirit of polite enquiry I attended the full-on communal worship on Friday evening. I struggled with some of it. Every song was about how wonderful God is, every talk about his magnificent love, his grace, his mercy. So I asked myself, what sort of insecure deity requires constant affirmation? How low is His self-esteem? I got the feeling that God is seen as some loving but insecure father figure, a bit like a dysfunctional family patriarch who will fly into a rage with the slightest provocation and has to be appeased with constant approval and attention. Where were the songs about injustice in the world? Where were the pleas to God, or to the fellow congregation to stand up and fight for peace and justice? The previous evening I had stewarded a gig by Andy Flannagan. Andy is an acoustic singer songwriter who happens to be a Christian and he sings songs about injustice and of hope. I connected with him immediately. Here perhaps was the gentler meditative approach I feel comfortable with, delivering real lessons and inspiration, a direct line to my conscience. What a shame that only a handful heard his message while the main arena was standing room only the following night to tell God how great He is. The worship was certainly done well. After some testimonies of miraculous interventions we listened to a short speech from a senior figure then launched into five songs from an upbeat rock band. They were good. Very good actually but as they delivered songs of praise, with words on the big screens so we could all sing along I saw a performance. A slick, well presented, well delivered performance. By chance I sat next to another introverted person who was a committed Christian. We shared our stories and watched as most of the room were whipped up into fervour. The devout here sometimes receive the holy spirit in extreme (to our eyes anyway) ways. There are people whose whole body will shake, some fall dramatically backwards, others are head nodders and some spoke in tongues. I know at least five sensible, down to earth people who have experienced inexplicable feelings, shaking and similar. I’ve heard and discussed their personal stories about it. I cannot explain any of this. The atmosphere was charged and mass hysteria may be an explanation. God may be another. The final speaker was a polished entertainer and great communicator; charismatic, witty and engaging. In the end the message was affirming for the converted and in that I recognise that it serves a purpose. He did challenge the audience in an interesting way by politely pointing out that all the shaking, head nodding and speaking in tongues happens in church and it’s funny how it’s never when you are sitting at your desk at work; an interesting thought. What I would say here though is that the whole New Wine worship and seminar experience gives practicing Christians a chance to reflect and ‘recharge’ amongst likeminded people. To do so is clearly important and to see people actually enjoying their faith was inspiring. Plenty of the seminars and speakers are a challenge to the faithful. You can preach to the converted and still make them think. Healing: There’s plenty of this going on, with prayer for recovery or relief. A lot of people gave witness to God’s intervention and for God healing their bad back or whatever. I suspect they have found relief and that’s great. It may be placebo effect; it could be divine intervention, although I wonder why it always seems to be successful for things you cannot really evidence in a scrupulous scientific way. To my knowledge God’s never rearranged someone’s chromosomes or healed cerebral palsy. He hasn’t done anything that would meet a standard of proof that would withstand challenge. There is video footage of a lady at a previous New Wine meeting who was born with one leg shorter than the other receiving healing, and her leg grew by one and half inches. Miraculously so does the leg of her jeans. Maybe it’s genuine healing, if so where is the supporting evidence? Where is the follow up testimony, medical evidence of the before and after? A miracle occurred that might convert hundreds, thousands, millions maybe and it’s not on national TV? My father used to do a ‘trick’ where he’d appear to have one arm shorter than the other and then it wasn’t. (It was a laugh a minute growing up with him let me tell you). I think the video shows an illusion – albeit done sincerely and without intention. Pardon my doubts but I’m not convinced. The video is here. Prayer: I can find this quite revealing, sometimes in positive ways. What I didn’t connect with was the type of prayer requesting that everyone follow correct procedure. It’s not so much a prayer as a reminder of the steward’s guide. During one medical emergency I assisted at, a couple actually interrupted the medical team to ask if anyone had prayed for the lady involved. To be fair though most people were concerned but understood she was in good hands and moved on. I can understand prayer as a form of meditation. We all require ‘me’ space; time to be alone with our thoughts. I use music, some walk the dog, some pray. What I’ve discovered at New Wine is that people pray openly and ‘actively’. Towards the end of the week I consented to being prayed for twice. In the past I’d have politely declined. Actually probably not that politely. Here I thought, meh, what’s to lose. On one occasion it was with Alison in the crew room where our fellow team stewards gathered around and prayed for us. I don’t know if God was involved but the feeling of warmth, of love and concern from fellow humans with whom we’ve no more than a passing acquaintance was wonderful and genuinely moving. On the very last day I popped into the ‘Just Looking’ seminar. This runs every day for people like me who are curious but not convinced. I’d been once before and one woman managed the unusual feat of being more cynical than me. She was challenging and direct in her questions. At the end of Friday’s session the ministers leading the discussions offered to pray for us in turn on a subject of our choosing. She agreed, but with the caveat that he listen to God and provide the subject or message He wanted. He did. I won’t invade her privacy on here but it reduced her to tears. I don’t believe it was ‘cold reading’ or a trick. I don’t think she was a ‘plant’. It could have been luck but it was certainly uncanny. I witnessed something I cannot explain. Testimonies: We’ve heard testimonies of finding lost keys, operations at exactly the right time, bad shoulders improving and suchlike. I’m not in any position to claim that they weren’t the work of God. I did though find myself thinking that a lot were uniquely first world problems. At approximately the same time that I was listening to the story of a car being miraculously refilled with oil an elderly priest was being murdered by two knife wielding assailants in the French city of Rouen in the name of religion. I think he was much more deserving of divine intervention than a minor automobile inconvenience, but who am I to judge? I came to New Wine as a non-believer with an open mind. I met people from all walks of life, including a tattooed and pierced sound engineer, policemen, angry teenagers looking for a cause to rebel against, gentle pensioners, a lad who has Down Syndrome and couples in matching Hunter wellies and Waitrose shopping bags; I encountered many lovely people; the delegates were almost without fail charming, gracious and friendly. These are not traits unique to people of faith. I could say the same about most festival crowds. I found tribalism hidden under a veil of religion. The New Wine tribe is of course one of many spin offs from the greater Christian tribe, which in turn is one of three Abrahamic tribes. Like tribes everywhere, like the biker club we camped with at the Sonic Rock festival for example, they have badges (the crucifix and the fish) they have mottos, (not ashamed, WWJD etc), they have initiation ceremonies (baptism) and they indoctrinate their young. And like all humans there is a tendency to be selfish, flawed and self-absorbed. Praying to find your lost keys is all very well but people are being slaughtered around the world, people are starving, living in poverty, sick, struggling with mental health and suffering in countless ways and you’re praying to the almighty, miraculous all seeing God full of love, grace and mercy for your fucking keys? I feel angry and frustrated by this. Supposing the 10,800 people on site this week, plus the 12,000 expected next week, started something momentous? Imagine if the great work being done in the name of faith for refugees, for Syria, for people in Africa, for the homeless were coordinated and harnessed, freed from bureaucracy and ego. During my week at New Wine I was reminded of sheep standing around in flocks being minded by the sheep dogs. Suppose a shepherd came amongst them and led them? What a wonderful, powerful army that would be, how simple it would it be to overthrow the wolves. Jesus didn’t ask the money changers in the temple if they’d maybe consider moving along please, if it’s okay by them, when they get a chance, no rush. He was angry at corruption and injustice and He showed it. Change can come with directed righteous anger; without the politics, without the endless bloody church meetings to decide what colour bunting to buy this year, without the administration and hierarchies, without egos and tribes, without schisms, without the bullshit and without the evangelism, uniting people of faith and of no faith. People who are already trying, working hard, selflessly giving of themselves to bring change, who are saving lives as I sit in comfort sipping coffee whilst typing this. As Alison wisely pointed out, thousands are already striving for political and social justice under the banner of faith, attempting to build a better world from the rubble of our fractured, selfish, tribal planet. So just visualise a world where all the people of faith are a blazing comet sweeping millions along in its tail. Genuine change would drive people to follow. No need to evangelise because the power, the true spirit of human kindness, the genuine love people have for their fellow humans would do that for them. Supposing our prayer is in the action we take, that genuine worldwide equality is our worship, that we deliver the means to help people heal and then maybe, just maybe, everyone will proclaim that as testimony. Am I closer to finding God? Yes. I’ve witnessed things I don’t understand, I’ve felt ‘different’, and I have a much more open mind – but I cannot shake the over-riding feeling that the path to God would be a whole lot simpler if he didn’t put human beings in the way. “…God will remind us what we already know, That the human race is about to reap what it’s sown, It’s forgotten the message and worships the creeds…”* *Lyrics quoted from Armageddon Days by The The. We awoke in good time to get to New Wine, a few miles away near Shepton Mallet and after a leisurely breakfast checked the details and discovered that we should have been there Friday afternoon for a full stewards briefing. As it happened the horrendous traffic would have prevented us getting there in time but nevertheless we rather felt we’d started on the wrong foot. Our fears though were unfounded as the crew, stewards and staff were unfailingly polite, helpful and gently dismissive of our apologies. The warmth we felt continued as we set up camp with friends in our little encampment high up over-looking the site. We started work that afternoon and settled in to meet our fellow stewards under the amiable leadership of Tony, our Blue Team leader. New Wine is a Christian festival of talks, seminars, children’s activities, worship and some music spread over 2 weeks, with most delegates attending one of the two weeks. I’ve written some personal reflections on my experiences of the spiritual aspects separately so this entry is a summary of our more down to earth nitty gritty stewarding experiences, as per the other festivals we’ve worked at. New Wine is well organised, as befits the largest festival we’ve worked at, aside from Hay perhaps but that was not residential. Stewards were divided into teams and worked a five day rota with Tuesday – the delegates ‘day off’ organised differently. During the week we took on a variety of tasks which included:
Patrols were mostly fun. We’d wander around in our purple stewards’ tee shirts with a high vis jacket and a radio with an ear piece to keep us in touch and to report in. Apart from the occasional misplaced child this was mostly a customer service job. On patrol we developed the Policeman’s ‘Plod’. This is a slow walk where you swing each foot in turn, letting the downward momentum carry your boot on the upswing, pendulum like and thus proceed in an orderly fashion, slow and steady and alert for miscreants or anything amiss, like fire buckets being used as goal posts or BBQ’s raging out of control. It’s a strange festival to work at, the hours were long at the beginning of the week and because of the split shift pattern it felt like you didn’t get a break, all your time between shifts was spent eating or relaxing. This was fine except that we wanted to go into some of the seminars and festivities but felt too exhausted to do so. Nevertheless we had the good fortune to be camping with friends who revived our spirits when they flagged and the fact that we turned up with a bottle of Fire Cracker cinnamon whiskey and a keg of Old Speckled Hen helped! On the Tuesday the delegates had a day off from their itinerary and most made for the local delights of Wookey Hole, Cheddar Gorge or whatever other diversions this part of the world holds. Most decided to descend upon the main gate en-mass and based upon their experiences of previous years the organisers had a plan to cope with so many cars moving on site. Our part in this plan was to be marshals directing traffic. I ended up as a kind of human roundabout at a major intersection in front of the main gate. Alison was doing a similar job on the opposite side of the site. 99% of drivers were patient and cheerful in spite of the volume of cars and Somerset Council’s decision to deploy rolling roadworks on the same day that 10,000 people want to look at a Wookey’s hole or a valley of cheese. The mathematicians among you will of course realise that 1% are unaccounted for. These are the people who either drive Audi's (except Ro and Jade of course) or should go out and buy an Audi so the rest of us have fair warning. People drove against the direction of traffic and insisted that they were correct despite all available evidence, like signs every 10 meters, marshals at every junction and there clearly being no space on the road for two lanes. Still, like I said the vast majority were gracious and charming, swapping smiles, jokes and encouragement. In fact a characteristic of this festival was the pervading family atmosphere and friendliness of delegates, many of whom went out of their way to thank the stewards for what they were doing. Anyone working at the festival was fed three times a day. The catering was a remarkable venture, feeding up to 1200 people three times a day in a huge marquee. The first day the option was ham or cheese salad and we feared for a week of this but from the next day on there was ample breakfast, good lunch with a hot veggie option and rather lacklustre dinner – which we skipped for the most part because it was, well, lacklustre and early for us too. But overall, it was a great feat and delivered with good humour and charm despite the early hours and long queues. One duty I had was stewarding The Bible Society marquee during an afternoon showing of The Peanuts Movie. If a room full of sticky pre-teens wasn’t enough the film was diabolically bad, although I guess a 50+ year old bloke in a neon vest wasn’t the filmmaker’s core demographic. Scanning the audience I could see that most children looked attentive, their parents less so. Generally fathers were asleep, stooping forward on their chairs, occasionally their head would nod violently, they’d snort and jerk upright with wide eyes, trying to recall where and when they were. A faint glimmer would cross their face, relief that little Peter and Jane were still beside them watching the film, then realisation that it was The Peanuts Movie and they’d gently drift off again. Others went for the full legs out head back approach to napping, propped across the chair like a warped plank, arms flaccid by their sides and head dangling over the back of the chair. Occasionally I’d see one with a bulb of dribble hanging from the side of their mouth, as if their head was leaking while they slept, the children nearest staring at them rather than the film in gruesome fascination as a puddle formed beside them. The women present were more resilient in the ways of childcare, they’ve sat through many films of dubious quality and seemed to use the time more effectively, chatting, knitting, rearranging changing bags, eating and some actually watched the film. I wondered if these were just veteran nappers, wise women who could catnap and recharge while appearing to be awake and alert. This is a formidable skill and means their offspring are always wary and on their best behaviour. Meanwhile they could always use the fathers as trampolines without fear of waking them. The week got easier as we went along, the hours less demanding and we became familiar with the duties. All in all it was a worthwhile and enjoyable festival to work, the crew were fun, you always felt like your contribution was appreciated and like most festivals we’ve worked we came away with new friends, which is a positive bonus of our lifestyle. Our destination today was Wincanton racecourse, a Caravan Club site which we are using as a convenient overnight stop before we head to the Bath & West showground for the New Wine Festival where we are stewarding for a week. But first we had to negotiate the traffic. The M25 was, sadly not unexpectedly, running at a snail’s pace, the M4 likewise and then we joined the A303 which has the double problem of sections of single carriageway and it flows past Stonehenge. Well, crawls passed is a more accurate description. The monument causes motorists to slow down to have a look. A lot of people place great importance on Stonehenge, as an historical monument and as a spiritual centre.
For me though the part of the journey I was most looking forward to was joining the A303. This is simply because a song I rate as one of the best and most important of the 20th Century mentions it. The Battle of the Beanfield by The Levellers chronicles the violent clash between ‘New Age’ travellers and the Wiltshire Police on 1st June 1985. The police were preventing a convoy of several hundred travellers, the so called Peace Convoy, from setting up the 1985 Stonehenge Free Festival. After an initial skirmish at a roadblock 600 or so travellers took refuge in an adjacent beanfield. After some further scuffles the police, numbering around 1300, attacked in a brutal display of state endorsed violence. Pregnant women were clubbed, coaches and vans, people’s homes, were smashed and children injured. 16 travellers and 8 police were hospitalised and eventually 537 travellers were arrested. There is no evidence to support most of the police ‘justification’. Reports of travellers having petrol bombs were falsely spread in the wake but this was 1985, the age of the video and of documentary evidence. They show little resistance and brutal police tactics. The Earl of Cardigan, on whose land the convoy had previously camped witnessed the events and subsequently refused the Police access to his land to “finish unfinished business…I did not want a repeat of the grotesque events that I’d seen the day before” he said. One officer was found guilty of actual bodily harm in 1987 and in 1991 a civil court action awarded 21 travellers £24,000 in damages for false imprisonment, barely covering their legal bill (the judge didn’t award them legal costs). Whatever the rights and wrongs of denying access to the monument, whatever the tactics of some convoy members, and many were no angels, the response from the police was sadly typical of a country in transformation. A country where tolerance and respect for alternative ways of life was challenging to the conservative mainstream and was being openly, sometimes violently repressed. A country where traditional industry was closing, where miner’s jobs were being fought for, where whole communities were being decimated and an overriding sense of a bleak and threatening society struggling to retain order lay like a fog over the land. The genius of The Levellers Battle of the Beanfield is that it captures the sense of threat, of violence and injustice and channels it into a 3 minute song. “Down the 303 at the end of the road Flashing lights - exclusion zones And it made me think it's not just the stones That they're guarding”* I should point out that for the most part the Peace Convoy and others living on the fringes of society were handled if not compassionately then at least sensitively. As is ever the case the police and authorities who handle anything controversial mostly do so with diplomacy and skill and they receive no attention in the press. The vast majority did a fine job in 1985, and still do, unrecognised and unheralded. To my eyes it’s a sad state of affairs that good work seldom receives attention and bad ones hit the headlines. Unhappily, selling newspapers is more important than reporting the news and as a result we get a dismal view of the world that’s distorted through the prism of editors eager to satisfy their shareholders. To cheer us up after this meditation on the woes of the world, just after Stonehenge we passed a sign advertising Wookey Hole, which I’ve always thought was a pornographic Star Wars spin off but apparently is a cave system adorned with attractions to drag in families with money to spend. And so we went on, crawling in the heavy traffic along straight roads, surrounded by vast rolling fields of greens and soft honey-toned browns until Wincanton and up through the pretty town to the racecourse. The site is basic for a Caravan Club site but clean, well maintained and the couple running it were almost painfully cheerily despite what was obviously a long day. We settled in and took a weary stroll around the grounds before retiring for an early night. *Levellers - Battle Of The Beanfield Tuesday 19 July There comes a point when rest and recuperation intrude on what have essentially been a few days of rest and recuperation. Thus we did even less today than usual, and elected to sit in the shade and read and drink tea while our washing dried. It was glorious, sunny with a hint of sea breeze and the aroma of sheets drying to a crisp. Anything bright, like a yellow tee shirt, or Alison, became covered in tiny black bugs, tarmac on the road melted and the only movement under the midday sun was the occasional bird flapping lazily overhead. Colours were washed out; as if the landscape had faded with the rest of the laundry. Around 4pm we strolled to the sea. Even then the air was still and a haze hung over the countryside around us, making the fields wave without any breeze. Down on the beach the air was fresher and smelled of ozone and the sweet tang of drying seaweed left stranded by the receding tide. I stripped off to only my shorts (easy ladies…) and waded in, enjoying a cheerful swim in the cool waters, diving under the rich camouflage green saltwater and popping up amidst jelly fish. Now, I’ve swum in the sea plenty of times and don’t mind the odd small one but these were big buggers and taking evasive action only increased the chances of brushing into another, so like the brave little soldier I am I flapped for the shore and emerged less like Daniel Craig in James Bond and more like a silent film of Oliver Hardy running into the sea played backwards. I scuttled up to Alison who was emerging from her cocoon of towels in which she had changed into something skimpy, and advised her of the situation. Thus she just enjoyed a paddle and happily (for me) spotted a few jelly fish to verify my tales of heroic struggles on the Hemsby foreshore with these beasts of the sea and my eventual cunning escape to dry land for tea and medals. The only task now awaiting me was to change out of my sopping shorts. Other people on the beach don’t seem to have trouble with this. They wrap a towel around their midriff and 30 seconds later whip it aside to reveal a pair of pristine swimming shorts with everything tucked in, cord tied and the clothes they’ve removed neatly folded on the floor in front of them. I wrapped the towel around me, managing to do it up in such a way that the split down the side revealed my entire right leg up to my armpit. With a bit of jiggling I secured it more modestly and set about removing my wet shorts under it. This is of course entirely impossible. After much cursing and cheeky glimpses of white flesh to anyone unwise enough to be watching, I found I’d hopped and staggered a quarter of a mile up the beach. In the distance I heard Alison explain to a passing stranger that I was still affected by the tide on dry land. Now bent double with one leg out and one in and my free hand clutching the towel I found most of the beach was stuck to my legs, making every movement feel like I was being caressed with sand paper. In an effort to secure the towel I reached in and grabbed what I thought was one end of the bit I’d knotted and realised that it wasn’t, and I now had a firm grip on a part of my anatomy that a gentleman shouldn’t grip on a public beach. Letting go I made a grab for the towel, stepped free of the shorts and stood upright still holding the towel and set off on my long journey back to Alison, who I noticed was now wearing dark glasses and pretending not to be with me. At this point I’d like to apologise to the nice family whose lingering memory of their fortnight in Hemsby may well be the sight of my pale buttocks waddling away since the knot in the towel had twisted round to the back, framing them like curtains in a theatre. Alison kindly pointed out that I was lucky no one was on the beach looking for a place to park their bike. We walked back to Mavis and took dinner there. I spent the entire evening in dark glasses hoping that the police weren’t out looking for the strange man from the beach. Wednesday 20 July Alison smuggled me across the border into Suffolk so I mercifully escaping custody and entry on some kind of register. We stopped at a 1950’s style dinner, one of many independent restaurants we’ve seen on our travels trying to bring life back to former Little Chef premises. It was spotlessly clean, the staff cheerful and attentive, although with only a few customers the ratio of staff to clientele was almost 1:1 and the food good, if on the pricy side. I had possibly the worst meal I’ve ever had, at least one not prepared by my mother, in a Little Chef so I applaud anywhere that is trying to usurp them. On the occasion in question I knew as soon as I sat down and my arms stuck to the table that I should have left immediately. The waitress tossed a menu on my table, a duplicate of the one I was reading so quite why I never discovered. Maybe in case I vomited on one. The whole place was dirty and unkempt, spiders had colonised the rafters and insects feasted on the debris around the skirting. I considered curious white marks on the carpet and concluded that they may have been from the staff trying to scuff out the chalk outline the forensic department left around a previous customer. The food was so late I asked for it in a take away box as I needed to be elsewhere. Thus the waitress, who I christened Adolf on account of her clear hatred of humanity, and her moustache, dumped what may have once been a vegi-burger in front of me. In its short journey from the kitchen it had come completely apart in a box far too big for it, and now sat forlornly in an ooze of mayonnaise, limp lettuce and stale bun. It brought to mind the stage in an operation when the surgeon turns to the nurse and informs her that there’s nothing further they can do for this one except make him comfortable so let’s stitch him up and get him back to the ward. It also arrived without the promised chips so I interrupted Adolf on her way to fetch more phials of botulism and enquired after their whereabouts. 10 minutes later she delivered them on a plate. I wondered if I was allowed to take the plate with them on in my car so, not wanting to disturb Adolf again in case I too became a chalk outline I went to the lady on the till and pointed out the idiosyncrasy of a takeaway in which half is served on a china plate and half in a box. Her face appeared to melt with concentration as she struggled with this delicate conundrum. It was like I had asked her to explain quantum theory in return for a tip. How difficult was it to grasp? She did offer to put them into the box with the burger until I opened it. She actually recoiled. After some negotiation I was given a separate box for my chips, and made to pay. For everything. Short of time and patience and frankly rather scared of Adolf lurking in the background I paid up and ceremoniously dumped the box containing the burger into the bin beside the till. The chips were awful too. Sorry, I got rather carried away there. Meanwhile, back on our travels we left the dinner, fatter and poorer, and made our way to Cambridge. Thursday 21 July
We returned to Cambridge to attend the wedding of Alison’s best friend’s mother and her beau. It was a sunny day, we all scrubbed up well, the service was lovely, people smiled and joked, fawned over the happy couple and there was love and affection in the air. The reception was an afternoon tea in a Cambridge college and it was wonderful. I didn’t seem to wear too much food and mercifully managed to eat a meringue without my dining companions ending up resembling snow-capped Alps. Afterwards we wandered around the college library and along the corridors looking at sepia pictures of former students at work. They all looked earnest and determined, serious and slightly sinister. Quite a contrast from the vivid colour photos on the student’s noticeboard of eager young people doing their best to look fun and engaging to draw you into their society. The college seemed to be composed of the sort of people I avoided at school. The joiners, the people who for curious reasons I could never fathom didn’t just attend school but actually enjoyed it and became part of its fabric. Then again they ended up going to Cambridge University and I went to Colchester School of Nursing so I suppose the difference today is that they live in big houses with big burdens and I live in a motorhome. And no amount of money could make me trade places. Saturday 16 July Saturday morning found us in Lavenham with Alison’s parents. Alison used to work there so is familiar with the town and all its charms. It’s an almost perfect picture postcard place, or would be if it wasn’t for all the cars cluttering up the streets. Mind you they do serve as a reminder that the town isn’t a purpose built tourist attraction but a functioning settlement where people work, rest and play. We had a wander, drank tea and ate scones and ambled back to our vehicles along streets lined with well-tended hanging baskets and houses fronted by impressive floral displays. Of particular note is the large town carpark, which I was gratified to find was free but ‘welcomed donations’, which I think is a nice touch. Goodbyes said we went our separate ways and we took Mavis northwards to Hemsby in Norfolk. On the way we passed a burger van cheekily advertising itself as Carlsburger in the green script familiar to fans of a certain Danish larger. Approaching Hemsby from Norwich we started going through holiday towns that rely upon tourists. One such place was Filby which declared itself ‘A lovely place to be’ on its elaborate village sign. A lovely place to be what I wondered. A smurf? Dead? Despite the inanity of the strapline it did indeed seem most becoming. The townsfolk obviously know how grow flowers; every lamppost had hanging baskets suspended from them and most of the gardens and civic amenities were enlivened by elaborate arrangements of colourful flowers. I think they should seriously consider amending their strapline to ‘A lovely place to be, unless you have hay fever’ though. Everywhere was very neat and tidy, almost sinisterly so. Alison felt it was the sort of place you’d soon get a visit from ‘the committee’ if your lawn wasn’t trimmed to the requisite length. We wondered if at the end of the season the hanging baskets were replaced by the heads of villagers who failed to maintain their gardens to a suitable standard. I passed the time by inventing suitable inane straplines for other villages we passed through:
And so we rolled into Hemsby. We chose Hemsby because its home to a good site, close to a couple of places we want to visit and has the added bonus of being gloriously tawdry. If Southwold is the Waitrose of holiday resorts then Hemsby is the Happy Shopper; bold, cheap and unpretentious. I’ve stayed here, or hereabouts, on a few occasions; with my parents on at least one of our out of season jaunts and a couple of times accompanying adults who have a learning disability. The village is split in two by the Yarmouth road. To the west lays the village proper; clustered around a school, modest shops and a social club are houses and bungalows of no great distinction. East of the road lay a few cul-de-sacs of neat retirement properties, the sort where the gardens are so well tended they appear artificial, the lawn gets cut twice a week because there’s nothing else to do and a fat little dog waddles up and barks half-heartedly when you walk passed. The road then gently falls away towards the sea and is lined with holiday villages. The old Pontins is shut up and derelict behind security fencing but at least three more are still going, although they all look like they’ve seen better times with peeling paint, hastily mowed untidy lawns and weedy carparks of loose gravel. One of them seems to be making a good go of it though, with colourful flowers, tidy lawns and retro chalets that look well kept. It feels like you’re walking passed a bit of a time warp. The clubhouses to these camps boast of dubious delights, ‘Stan Sings the Hits’, ‘Gary Page – hits of the 50’s to 70’s’ and whom amongst us could resist ‘Rita’s Red Hot Karaoke’? Further down, the road becomes a pulsating neon glare, vulgar, noisy and smelling of burnt sugar and fried food. Along this strip wander portly men squeezed into football jerseys designed for trim athletic bodies, lads in vests that fall tantalisingly short of their sagging cut-off jeans and women with weathered hard faces, sticky children in tow and overexcited toddlers fighting sleep so they can have one more go on the mini dodgems. Older women play joyless bingo while their husbands sit outside reading the tabloids, their concession to being on holiday a pair of cheeky sandals to show off their crisp white socks. Shops sell the usual array of cheap beachwear, confectionary in worryingly luminous colours and a new addition to the seaside (to us anyway) vaping supplies. There is a bewildering selection of accompaniments to choose from, including filters, batteries, various flavours and coils. I’m supposing this last one is a necessary part of vaping paraphernalia rather than holiday contraceptives. One shop that caught our eye had “New York, London, Paris, Rome, Hemsby” painted under its name. Call me Mr Cynical if you will but I find it hard to imagine a supplier of beach toys and vulgar postcards to have branches in the major cultural capitals of the world. I imagine the main culture in Hemsby requires antibiotics and a stern lecture from the clinic rather than hosting internationally renowned arts and fashion. One of the amusement arcades was called The Las Vegas. I wonder if there’s a Hemsby Casino in Las Vegas? What Hemsby doesn’t seem to do is decent food, particularly of the vegetarian kind. The Dolphin pub, based on the site we are staying on, has nothing, absolutely zero, on its evening menu that would pass as vegetarian unless you count a plain baked potato as a meal. The pub in town boasts a selection of Vegi options with a proud green V next to them. One such is the Carrot and Courgette Spaghetti, served with sundried tomatoes and chicken breast. Now, I’m prepared to accept that some foodstuff can confuse. Cheese for example may have animal rennet in it. But what sort of brain dead nincompoop believes chicken is a variety of vegetable? Talking of nincompoops, the gents shower block here has skylights installed to provide natural light and save electricity. All quite laudable except that at least a third of each one is taken up with a bulbous plastic wallet containing the guarantee documents. These aren’t a new installation, judging by the cobwebs and how much they’ve faded. Which just goes to show that nincompoopery is not confined to culinary matters in these parts. Most establishments, the pubs and shops for example, have racks of glossy leaflets whose sole aim seems to be to convince you that everywhere else is more exciting than Hemsby. Which may very well be the case but we resisted the lure of boat trips, wildlife parks and model villages. This last one has always puzzled me; I’ve never quite understood the allure of a model village. My ever resourceful father used to take us to a hill overlooking a real town for exactly the same effect and all for free. A win-win as far as we were concerned. For all its brashness, and even though it may be fuelled by calories and vulgarity, Hemsby is fighting a rear-guard action against foreign all-inclusive holidays and boutique resorts with all the pretentions they have on offer. Down the coast Southwold and Aldeburgh may have fancy beach huts, expensive restaurants, craft beers and shingle but Hemsby has chips, lager, fun and miles of fine golden sand with sheltered dunes and a shallow inviting sea. Everyone seems to be making the most of their time here to relax and enjoy themselves. It’s all very working class England in a way that’s slowly vanishing, but while it remains it’s a source of cheap, cheerful pleasure and long may it continue. Sunday 17 July We dallied around a bit and did laundry. The man in the site office, from where one purchases laundry tokens, seemed genuinely stumped when his stock phrase “you’re on holiday love, you shouldn’t be doing laundry” was met by Alison’s deadpan “we’re not on holiday”. He stuttered, stumbled with the tokens and ummed and errred until we’d departed. I suspect we’re now on some site black list warning other parks of the odd couple who book into sites just to wash their undies. Karen and Barry, if you are reading this – beware! All this laundry frivolity was only the pre-cursor to today’s main attraction though, for we had an evening appointment to watch the stock cars and banger racing at the nearby Great Yarmouth Stadium. We’ve both got histories of attending these events, Alison with her mother’s parents and me with my father. We used to go to a grass track in Suffolk, cheerfully devoid of all but the most basic safety precautions. Dodging a bouncing tyre was all part of the fun. Latterly I took my children to the small shingle circuit just outside Braintree in Essex until the A140 was built over it. Occasionally we’d really splash out and go to the proper concrete oval in Ipswich or at Lakeside. These were high octane affairs with plenty of spills, which, let’s face it is the main attraction of motorsport. It’s all very well watching a parade of F1 cars whizz round a track but the real excitement happens when a car gets airborne or catches fire, ideally both. If there’s an occasional limb spiralling past so much the better. So we found ourselves a spot on the grass bank and watched cars crashing into each other. The banger racing seemed to be taken particularly seriously by the crowd, and attracted most of the pit crews alongside the spectators. Cars rolled, bounced off each other and the track sides in a cacophony of screeching tyres, crunching metal, roaring engines and noxious oily fumes. It was terrific fun and one of us squealed and leapt about at every minor prang or nifty bit of overtaking and expressed genuine sorrow for the people who had to retire mid race. On the way home, in one of those moments that even with the benefit of hindsight I simply cannot explain, I fell off my bike. In fact, to be entirely accurate, I was walking it across a busy road. One minute I’m sauntering out into a gap in the traffic and the next I’m laying underneath my bicycle looking up at the car coming my way. I bounced up before my limbs had a chance to protest, behind me Alison waved the car down until I’d shuffled onto the pavement where she joined me. It was over in a flash and I was enjoying a jolly good swear when Alison, a look of affectionate pity on her face, took me gently in her arms, planted a kiss on my forehead and gently whispered in my ear “only you could fall off a bike you weren’t riding dear”. Presently, with little more than a bruised ego and sore knee to show for it we cycled back to Mavis. Monday 18th July We decided that after the excitement of yesterday a walk would do us good. Alison had fond memories of visiting nearby Winterton with former work colleagues so we set off along the beach in that direction. As we headed across the dunes we saw a bird of prey swoop down and settle in a clearing. As we’ve already established my ornithological skills are such that I just said, ‘look, a birdy’ while Alison identified it as a bird of prey. Anyhow there is photographic evidence so do let us know what it is. Anyone who says Robin is disqualified from further competitions. After this flurry of activity we strolled along the beach and let the sea lap over our feet. In the heat of the day, this wasn’t going to be a quick walk anyway. It was around 23oC when we left and promised to rise as the day went on so cold toes and a gentle sea breeze was welcome. Winterton itself is a pleasing little community, sedate and tidy. It had a variety of old cottages, many in the local flint, and a couple of shops, one of which seemed to have changed little since around 1950 except, maybe, some of the stock. It was in here we stood with ice creams gently melting while the proprietor served people ahead of us while keeping up meandering conversations and moving at the pace of a man who gets a few customers a day and is determined to eek out every single one. Once free of this twilight zone of commerce we ate our dripping ice’s along an old track and stumbled upon the ghostly ruins of St Mary’s Church at East Somerton. St Mary’s survived the Reformation, but the parish was subsumed into that of neighbouring Winterton, and it operated as a chapel of ease to the Hall until the 17th century, before falling into disuse. (Thanks to http://www.norfolkchurches.co.uk/somertoneast/somertoneast.htm for the info) It’s an enchanting place, laying in what is now dense, wild woodland. The walls and tower of the church are covered in ivy and a tree grows in the centre of the nave. The sun sent fingers of light through the trees casting ghostly shadows on the ancient walls. In the still air with only the crunch of our footsteps for company it didn’t seem like a place to linger, magical though it was. After a trek in the sun to skirt an old estate and along a narrow road we entered West Somerton and took refreshment in the pub. It looked as if it had been taken over recently and everything sparkled. There was an air of enthusiasm about the place with pleas to join snooker and darts leagues, to partake of karaoke and to sample the food. We did the latter and can report that the seafood is good. Suitably sustained we took the long way around the village, or in more accurate parlance, the wrong way, and eventually found our route on the shady footpath passed the tranquil Martham Broad and onto the banks of the river Thurne to Martham itself. The Broads are always fascinating and are mostly man made, being the flooded remnants of medieval peat digging. As a national park, the area is protected and some areas off limits to casual users as they are nature reserves. The area of around 117 sq. miles attracts around 8 million visitors a year, swamping the resident population which is only around 6, 300. Mind you they are estimated to contribute over £568 million so I don’t suppose most of the locals are that upset. Tourism flourishes with B&B’s, campsites and of course holiday chalets in nearby places like Hemsby. Many visitors hire leisure boats or make for the seaside, while a good many come to enjoy the sights. The weather helps as the Broads are one of the UK’s driest places in terms of rainfall, as well as one of the flattest. The highest point is the mighty Strumpshaw Hill at approximately 38m above sea level. It might be of interest to the residents of Stumpshaw that if they climb the hill 233 times they’ll have exceeded the height of Everest. I mention this for two reasons; firstly because I was curious so I looked it up and secondly because I thought it best to keep my head down and look busy because Alison has just found a tissue with the explosive properties of a grenade in the otherwise clean laundry and I fear that I am the culprit.* After the shade around the Broad we took the overgrown path along the river bank in the full glare of the afternoon sun. The river was hidden behind an impenetrable boarder of reeds so afforded us no chance to cool off on its banks. Tantalising faint breezes rippled the reeds and silvery willows but faded as soon as they appeared. The grasses, reeds and thistles over the path scraped at our bare legs, which stung with sweat. The air shimmered over broad flat fields. A few cows lay around the water trough, tails lazily swooshing away the flies the only sign of life. Unseen insects buzzed and chirruped in the undergrowth and shimmering dragonflies zig zagged across our path. We passed ruined wind pumps, windmill like buildings that are feature of the Broads. In the 1800’s there were around 240, today around 70 survive in various states of repair. Mostly these were used to pump water from the marshes into the rivers and dykes. There were a few that were more traditional windmills and ground corn. To help me write this I started to look them up and found myself falling ever deeper into the precise world of the enthusiast. I fear though, that in that direction lay only tedious men with fussy moustaches and ruler straight partings under which are tidy organised minds full of specifics about fantail designs and suchlike. Gradually the path became more defined and we entered an area obviously used by anglers and dog walkers which brought us to some welcome shade and the drag up to the village along a narrow road. Martham is a pleasant village, set around two greens with a duck pond and a few traditional shops. One of these sold us some cold drinks which revived our spirits. It is also where Alison visited with her former work colleagues on a regular basis. Along with Winterton beach it holds many happy memories for her of times that have passed, and is also a reminder of the good friends from then that she still has and who enter our lives from time to time. It is these solid relationships, formed throughout our lives that withstand episodic contact and enrich us, marking out friends from casual acquaintances. After a short stop we made our way back into Hemsby. It was 3 miles to our site, negotiating roads and harvested fields, or in one case through a crop of corn beside the road following in the tracks of some mammoth farm vehicle to avoid any damage and finally hopping on and off the steep grass verge. I’m not sure that anyone has been so pleased to see the pavements of Hemsby as we were on a sweltering Monday afternoon. We took showers before our limbs had the chance to protest, drank tea and were thankful for the shade the tree lined site afforded us. *After a stewards’ enquiry it was decided that I was indeed the culprit. However in an opportune turn of events a second load was also contaminated and on this occasion it was Alison’s blouse that contained the tissue. I refute allegations of having placed it there myself. For further enquiries please contact my lawyer. Wednesday 13 July
After an eventually peaceful night we hit the A1 heading towards Thetford. We left in good time but soon encountered signs alerting us that it was closed further along our route. Thus we elected to swing left through Grantham, which I’m sure has nice areas but we didn’t see any. Our route took us in an arc from Grantham to Kings Lynn and then down to Thetford. The Lincolnshire Fens really are rather special. Dull, monotonous, tedious, and endlessly flat in a strangely hypnotic way. Broad flat fields of pale greens and yellows sweep away from the road, with arrow straight dark green hedges little more than markers between the crops. Settlements of box like red brick houses sit alongside the roads at intervals, probably a legacy of manpower once required to manage the 4000 plus farms of the greater fenland area (Lincolnshire, Cambridgeshire, Norfolk and a tiny outcrop in Suffolk). 70% of this area is farmland, growing cereal crops, ornamental flowers and plants, vegetables and orchards, alongside some livestock. The area we passed through was almost entirely arable, with broad straight roads catering to articulated lorries constantly ferrying the yield and all manner of supplies back and forth. The area was salt marsh until it was drained and managed by a clever use of drainage channels and sea defences. Driving across it you pass dead straight ditches that run uninterrupted for miles to a distant vanishing point. Occasional villages appeared on the horizon, a church tower poking through mature trees. The odd truck stop or roadside warehouse slid by as we trundled on until eventually Kings Lynn reared up, a welcome tangle of roundabouts, supermarkets and all the paraphernalia of an urban outpost, or what passes for urban out here. From there it was into more familiar Norfolk territory, flint cottages, meandering streams, irregular fields bordered by trees and colourful hedgerows. Thetford Forest Centre is a tranquil place, secluded but benefiting from a café, bike and walking way-marked routes, ample picnicking areas and a Go-Ape high wire attraction. It was this that brought us here, not to take part but by kind invitation from friends to join them for a post adrenaline picnic. We enjoyed a wonderful afternoon, played games, and ate well. At one point I had to hum a tune as a forfeit in a game and even the most musically accomplished failed to spot The Beatles Yesterday! Then again it’s not that much of a surprise; at primary school I had a singing part in the nativity play until I opened my mouth. The Virgin Mary fainted, paint peeled, insects fell stunned from the rafters and there were suspicious puddles forming around plimsolls. I was gently moved from a solo part as a wise man to the choir of shepherds and then less gently to a non-singing part, a tree I think. The only drawback of the Forest Centre is the outrageous cost of parking. Oddly Alison and I have often disagreed on what constitutes a reasonable parking fee. As a Cambridgeite Alison has been brought up to accept anything under 3 figures for a day reasonable whereas I was raised by a father who would park in the next county if their car parks were 10p cheaper. Today we agreed that the prices were extortionate. I know the money goes to a good cause, helping to maintain the forest, but £11.50 for 5 hours seems rather steep. But no matter, we had a great time and headed north towards Swaffham and The Swan public house at Hilborough, which has a small field for tents and vans with hook up and facilities for a very reasonable £12 a night. Of course it would have been rude not to try the restaurant and beer. So we did and can report it was good. Not exceptional but reasonably priced, well prepared and served with élan by a young lady who appeared to be the entire front of house staff; barmaid, waitress, hotel receptionist and campsite attendant all in one cheerful person. The Swan was a real gem and if we are this way again on our travels it’ll warrant another visit. Thursday 14 July Back today to our old stomping ground in Sudbury, Suffolk, a few miles from our former home in Colchester and scene of several successful Soul Nights, where I pretend to be a DJ along with Alison’s father and a good friend from way back. We’re playing tomorrow so we’re staying at the small but very nice Willow Mere campsite in Little Cornard, in the Stour valley just outside Sudbury. There is great entertainment provided for us in the shape of the ducks that run around in a pack towards anyone who may have food. They are ungainly creatures when they run; necks stretched forwards, waddling from foot to foot, tails wagging and accompanied by muted quacks. Having pitched up we took to the camping chairs and spent the afternoon doing as little as possible in the hazy sunshine. Eventually we stirred ourselves enough to get the bikes unhitched and explored nearby Cornard Country Park. It’s quite pleasant in a fields and woods kind of way but what really drew our attention was an obstacle course. Stretched out along the side of a meadow it consisted of a dozen wooden obstacles of no great difficulty but sufficient challenge to keep us amused for a while. Alison’s performance on the monkey bars was only surpassed by her squeals of victory in having conquered them. We cycled back with bits of our bodies, that are untroubled by the exercise that comes from walking and cycling, aching considerably. Friday 15 July We cycled into nearby Sudbury and did some shopping. Try as I might I really cannot make that sound any more exciting. It was perfectly pleasant and Sudbury has always been a place we’ve liked. We have good friends who live here, we’ve been to gigs and the town is comely, just the right size to retain a cluster of useful and interesting shops around a central market square and church and, most importantly of all, it is the home of our quarterly Soul Nights. These started when I realised Alison’s father has a collection of original soul records from the 60’s that rival any collection I have ever seen. Another good friend has a similar collection that includes a lot of northern soul and I was building a collection based around the STAX record label but adding Motown, Atlantic and some northern stuff too. We held the first one, with borrowed decks, in a pub near where Alison and I lived in Colchester and after one more there we moved it to Sudbury where we get a regular crowd. And paid, which is a bonus. We had a great night. It’s always a tense time beforehand, worrying about your choices, the crowd and in my case, what I’ll do wrong. On one occasion one deck developed a technical fault during my set and went completely dead. We scrabbled around for a bit checking wires and suchlike while I switched tracks to the one working deck, until the guy who set up the system and knows what he is doing returned to help. He checked everything we had and more, stood back and scratched his chin, wiggled a finger in his ear, approached me with an air of exasperation mixed with pity, the sort of look you reserve for a disobedient puppy, lent over me and switched the offending turntable back on. I’d somehow managed to switch it off and that was the one thing we hadn’t tried. Suitably chastened by this experience my only schoolboy error tonight was starting Turnin’ My Heartbeat up by the M.V.P’s, a stomper of a song, at 33 rpm because I’d forgotten to change the speed. Quickly sorted and only I, and everyone else present, noticed. Anyway we returned to Mavis in the early hours in a taxi we appeared to have stolen from the nice couple we were waiting with. Monday 11 July Northumberland, at least the part we saw around the Tyne valley and Hadrian’s Wall, is simply stunning. We explored Corbridge a bit more, taking a stroll along the river and up to Corbridge Roman Town. This is an excavated street of a former Roman garrison town which offers a fascinating glimpse into military and domestic life. The street drains, grain store with its ventilated floor and various buildings are all in evidence. What sets it apart though was the finding of The Corbridge Hoard, a wooden trunk filled with armour, tools, weapons and personal items. Most appeared to need repair so one theory is that it was set aside for repair or recycling. Whatever the reason it has provided a fascinating insight into Roman life here at one of the Empire’s furthest outposts. The other artefact of particular note is The Corbrige Lion, a stone effigy of a lion standing over its kill. It seems that experts cannot agree on whether the victim is a stag or goat. I’m not sure that I’d call myself an expert if I couldn’t tell a stag from a goat. We wandered around transfixed by the fascinating little museum and were enchanted by the lady manning the gift shop, who insisted on giving us an itinerary of must see places to do in a day. She gave us maps, leaflets and seemed genuinely happy to be of assistance. She wasn’t alone in this, the Northumberland people we encountered were almost without exception pleasant, interesting and keen to show off their county in a modest kind of way. Almost as if it’s a surprise to them that people want to come here and visit. Even the lady selling coffee at a desolate and remote carpark high on the hills above Hexham, braced against gale force winds, told me about the area, the nearby Temple of Mithras and bade me return if I should require a refill, more hot water, any amount of milk, sugar or a second cup if this one gets too hot to hold. Duly charmed and inspired to go further afield we took the rest of the day to drive along the B6318, a former military road that runs roughly parallel to the wall. We stopped in a series of car parks at strategic points. The scenery was a delight, innumerable shades of green on smooth rolling hills with tufts of trees, remote stone cottages and almost empty roads. We alighted at Housesteads Roman fort which lies on the wall, and enjoyed a good scramble through the ruins. The views were to die for now the rain had abated and the sun was peeking through the clouds. I can well imagine just how bleak it was to be stationed up here through a Northumberland winter with raiders from the north waiting to pounce any day. On the plus side though, they had rather splendid communal latrines that have been well preserved and appear to exert an endless fascination to all who see them, especially young children. Further along the road we visited the crags near Steel Rigg. This is a natural geological fault that has created a cliff, or edge, facing towards the North. The wall runs along the top and you are rewarded for climbing to the summit with unparalleled views. The meadows along the way, through an old quarry were a delight. Pale pink Common Centaury and vibrant yellow Coltsfoot line the path and gentle willows reach down, providing shade on the steeper climb. It’s an enchanting place but we didn’t linger too long as we had yet to secure accommodation for the night. Which will teach us a lesson. We called ahead to what, according to the guide given out at the tourist information office, was a promising site. Suspicions were raised when we had to pass under a railway, next to an industrial estate, but it was surprisingly quiet and pretty. The lady who greeted us was amiable; she runs the site with her sister while they share caring for their 80 something year old mother (I thought it impolite to take notes while she was talking). The pitch, set among static holiday homes was fine but for over £20 a night we expected at least serviceable facilities. The toilet block had clearly seen better days, some of them probably during the Roman occupation. The gents had one shower, which you accessed through improvised saloon doors made from what looked suspiciously like a cheap kitchen worktop salvaged from a skip. The tray was dirty and cracked, the shower hose oddly lumpy and the shower head corroded. I’ve no idea how it functioned because to add insult they expected you to pay 40 pence for the privilege. The toilets themselves were clean enough but over the whole building there hung a curious aroma; hints of damp and mould with an undercurrent of effluent and high notes of bleach. To help create the right atmosphere they’d thoughtfully put in brown tiles of a pattern that’s never been in fashion and whitewashed the walls directly over the peeling plaster before lighting it with a yellowing 40 watt bulkhead light. It was all rather grim. Tuesday 12 July We left the site after a peaceful night and having dodged whatever dire afflictions await anyone foolhardy enough to use the showers we decided upon a Caravan Club site in Cromwell, just north of Newark where we’d be sure of cleanliness and subtle mood lighting. Which is exactly what we got. The site is set around lakes, just off the busy A1 but surprisingly quiet. We got lots of laundry done, which was probably a lot more exciting to us than it is for you to read about but these things are important when one is travelling. After a short stroll to look at the quaint local church we retired, ‘lulled’ to sleep by the man 3 vans away whom, one assumes, is as deaf as a post as he seemed to have no volume control. Accompanied by the occasional ‘ummm’ and ‘yes dear’ from his wife, he held court on all manner of things in staccato, loud outbursts; “My father would turn in his grave if he saw that…” “Want some bread with your butter?” “How does this work without a battery?” and so on. |
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