I’m going to Walford. Trains are few and far between because – and this may come as a shock –Walford is fictional. I might as well be going to Hogwarts, of which I’ve read nothing; although I have watched EastEnders for the last three weeks. A young woman embarks at Winchester and, despite my best efforts to appear sound asleep which, largely, I am she asks whether she might sit down. I’ve spread my meagre belongings across two seats in an unfriendly sort of way and, eyes closed against the world, ignore her plaintive request. You can do this if you’re old. Unperturbed, she taps my naked wrist with an icy finger: death is clearly calling her and refuses to leave. First impressions suggest she seems a likely client for Coker’s funeral parlour in Albert Square. Her touch is so cold I fear she may have already passed. Sadly, she hasn’t passed me. I open a bag-ridden eye and pretend to be surprised by her presence. Yes, of course I’ll clear a space, but I manage to make quite a to-do about the process.

Having bad-temperedly scrunched myself and worldly belongings against the window, I fall back at an awkward angle into catching-up sleep mode for sufficient time to allow the onset of an unpleasant crick in my flabby neck. No sooner am I back in Dorset-inspired aboriginal dreamtime, than she wakes me again; this time by sobbing wretchedly and dabbing at her watery eyes with a much abused tissue. At first, I think she has a cold or hay fever and turn to glare at her. Hasn’t she noticed this is the quiet zone? Can’t she weep outside the toilets? She’s plugged into her phone from whence apparently distressing news is arriving via the WWW. This not-so-silent sobbing continues all the way to Clapham Junction and it’s impossible to either sleep or concentrate on the tribulations of David Copperfield who, at the age of 10 years, has far more reason to be noisily distressed. Let’s face it, even when life improves for David, it’s conditional on the fact that he agrees to be called Trotwood. Can this crying creature surpass this?

My friend B says I am hard-hearted. She mentions this whilst sobbing uncontrollably through a DVD of Paddington Bear. I am sorry for her distress over the death of Paddington’s uncle in deepest Peru and take pains to explain that it’s not real. B works on Eastenders so spends her life in an unreal otherness. She has kindly taken me onto the set of this iconic soap where, irrationally, I am thrilled to meet Shrimpy in the allotments. I don’t even watch EastEnders generally but I know who Shrimpy is. He has a rather minor role in life but so do I. Shrimpy’s optimistic that his role will expand soon. You never see Shrimpy sobbing. As Robin Williams said, ‘carpe diem Shrimpy’.

Large yellow courgettes and lemon cucumbers are donated from the allotment. Too much wine is consumed and Jane worries that my journey home might not be uneventful. I like eventful journeys. EastEnders is where a scriptwriter’s view of life occurs. Keeping your eyes open in real life is where you see things.

Well, the previous post was about a train journey and here are a few more stations for your pleasure. There’s no getting away from the fact that I do enjoy a good trip by rail; especially, as, in this case, it’s along a previously untravelled line. It begins badly, however, at Dorchester West – an unmanned, unwomaned affair at which parking is non-existent. There is, admittedly, potential: there’s a ginormous area to hand called the Market Car Park. Sadly, it’s Wednesday and the market car park is full of  – the weekly market. To the left of this photo of Dorchester West, which I stole from the WWW, and which I would like you to study carefully, is a huge parking area belonging to The Range. During my pre-journey research, I investigated The Range and discovered a range of reports about folk who’d been fined £100 for parking in the car park when the shop was shut, at a time when nobody else needed to park there. Worth a look as the excuses of these heinous criminals are quite inventive. Anyway, probably in response to the many ongoing court cases, there are a number of signs in evidence advising sanctions.

To the right of the picture, other potential parking spaces are available belonging to a shop called Mud, Sweat and Tears. This emporium has different signage which warns of unwelcome cars being clamped so that was a non-starter. In front of the picture is an electrical wholesaler whose employer said I was welcome to park in one of their spaces. Until I mentioned that I wanted to stay there for two days.

Perilously close to the time when my train would depart, I dumped it on the pavement at an odd angle outside Dominoes Pizza – bad move.

I’m off to Totnes, firstly by means of The Heart of Wessex line. This is an 87 mile route between Bristol and Weymouth calling at stations in places that I’d say are largely unheard of by the wider travelling classes. I have to change at Castle Cary. I don’t even know in which county Castle Cary resides. Furthermore, stations in between Dorchester West and my destination are ‘request’ stops. Now, I think it’s quaint and quintessentially English that you can have request stops on a train. Reader, think about Southern Rail who have cancelled so many trains in the last fortnight that folk have lost their jobs because they can’t get to London on the day they want, let alone at the right time because unions are arguing about whose job it is to open and close the bloody doors. Now The Heart of Wessex doesn’t sound so quaint: it sounds sensible and caring and well-populated with staff. Moreover, there aren’t any electronic doors: once you’ve advised the conductor that you’d like to leave at Chetnole or Yetminster or Hogwart’s Central, upon arrival you lean out of the window and open the door yourself, making sure to politely shut it behind you.

By Maiden Newton, I’m already wondering whether to disembark and return to my abandoned car at Dorchester West. I should’ve looked at the internet photos beforehand as the one I’ve posted clearly illustrates that it’s perfectly normal to park on the pavement.

It appears to be a largely single track affair to Castle Cary yet the train driver spent most of the journey with hand on the horn. Perhaps this was to warn stray cows of impending death. The Heart of Wessex website informs me that all of their stations offer ‘opportunities for adventure and discovery ‘. Here’s a photo of Castle Cary, established in 1856, on the day I arrived. Actually, there are quite a lot of folk around as this spot in the absolute middle of nowhere seems to be a crossover point for travels to Paignton, Piccadilly, Plymouth, Weymouth, Exeter and almost anywhere really. It’s like a rural portal or black hole. I’m quite sad to leave The Heart of Wessex, but needs must and I’m heading for Exeter St Davids.

There is nothing identifiable in the countryside as we rush past “faster than fairies, faster than witches, bridges and houses, hedges and ditches, and charging along like troops in a battle…” No points of reference. The corn is already shorn and the harvest safely gathered in. Horse country followed by cow country. Followed by the drainage ditches of what must be the Somerset Levels. In some other life, Leonie and I came to Glastonbury on a most unexpectedly fortuitous day when part of the Sweet Track was open to the unaware public for a mere twenty four hours. It’s an ancient timber tracked causeway, constructed over 6600 feet in 3807 BC and was the oldest known roadway IN THE WORLD. Well, until 2009 when an even older one was discovered close to Belmarsh Prison. It’s an evocative story and just as well as the photo shows the view awaiting the intrepid explorer at Taunton Station.

I notice a sheep in a field, upside down with its legs in the air. Is it tired? Dead? These are called Cast Sheep and, having fallen over, are unable to get back up due to pregnancy or heavy coats. They die quickly. An ancient being walks through the carriage, nodding and smiling at everyone like royalty. Those who have been graced with the nodding and smiling look the other way. The royal lady joins another who is wearing the most extraordinary straw hat. At the front, it has two points like animal ears. At the back, it runs out of ideas and looks as though the straw has been tucked underneath whilst the milliner pops out for a cup of tea and further inspiration. And the next thing I know is Dawlish. What idiot would build a railway on a sea wall? Oh. So it’s Isambard Kingdom Brunel is it. Well, he should’ve know better. My picture, yet again stolen, shows a sorry state of affairs in February, 2014. Mind you, it only took them two months to rectify matters. That’s not too bad when you think of the London to Brighton line and the bloody doors.

Finally, past the windswept beach against which the holiday makers of August  are heavily wrapped, we reach he home of nag racing. And from the train, I spot a rather beautiful and  enigmatic flying horse. Reader, you can research its meaning should you choose. Me – I’m meeting my friend at Totnes in ten minutes.

(Poem by Robert Louis Stevenson)