I’ve been away again. It was just an overnight trip but it was to the other side: Wiltshire. First stop, Trowbridge to bring a little joy and succour to the walking wounded. Well, not really walking, more sitting around. No change there then. I only went out of guilt and the promise of liver and bacon. They were a bit too poorly to organise the liver and bacon so we had a Chinese. I only ever have Chinese in Trowbridge. It’s what passes for multiculturalism in those parts. Deep-fried duck in plum sauce and Malaysian rice. Allegedly. It was quite nice but the thirst that followed it made me feel lost in a desert. Say no more.

Afterwards, we spent a happy three hours discussing the following day’s route to Pewsey, which you’d never guess was in the same county. Worse, we then considered options for the journey home to Poole. My hostess had warned me of an impending weather warning. ‘What’, I ask, ‘is the cloud over Trowbridge finally lifting after all these years?’

You went to Pewsey before, they say. Yes, but I was on foot during my trek along the Kennet and Avon Canal. And I caught a train out of the place toute de suite. And why am I going to the back of beyond again? Because it’s the fourteenth annual convention of earth mysteries of course.

There’s about 150 of us gathered in the Bouverie Hall. If you have a picture in your mind of what the delegates at an earth mysteries conference look like you’ve probably understated the vision. One advantage of going anywhere as a single is that it’s easy to get a good seat. Although I turned up at the last minute, I still got front row. Which isn’t a good seat. There’s no hiding place. With the lights dimmed and 150 bodies breathing minimum available air, it’s tricky not to start nodding off. Suddenly, Celia, who’s trained with the North American native Indians, begins drumming and wailing and I am launched back into reality. I am SO glad the Trowbridge contingent isn’t present because I know we’d have been ejected from the premises.

The first speaker, Eric, is soporiphic. I have no idea what he’s talking about. At a point where I awake, he seems to be discussing fridge magnets. I drop off again. I used to love all this stuff but Eric’s gone right over my head. After, I’m somewhat pleased to hear my neighbours being terribly polite whilst asking each other what the talk was about. The lady next to me engages me in conversation and I learn she’s travelled all the way from Nottingham. She’s had a nervous break-down. Well, not since she arrived in Pewsey but I can’t help but feel she might not be in a good place. Literally.

Just then, a woman wearing Sherwood green, with a large floppy feather in her hat, walks past. ‘Looks like she’s come from your part of the world’, I remark; but wish I hadn’t as I have to explain my idea of a joke.

‘Anyway’, I continue, ‘I’m Alison. What’s your name?’

‘Nave’, she says. ‘I changed it by deed poll’. I misheard.

‘Wave’, I ask, tuning into something along the lines of sun and moon?

‘Maeve’, she clarifies.

‘What, MAEVE’, I spell thinking of that Irish writer?

‘No, MAVE’, says Mave. ‘I thought I’d be different. Why stick with something you don’t like?’

There’s a very long silence.

‘I’m sorry’, I say, ‘but it does beg the question: what were you called before?’

‘Mavis’.

It’s lunchtime and I peruse the stalls. I always have money for the esoteric. Frankly, they’re a bit of a disappointment. There’s no-one to heal me or get me in touch with my inner soul. Or even smooth my chakras. Just a bunch of folk on the make. A bit like Glastonbury really. All the hippies grew up to be good capitalists, disinterested in chatting if you’re not in the alternative market.

I leave early, pleased to be back on the road to reality. I feel a bit cheated. I’m back to my own alternative lifestyle in Dorset. Last night, we watched the ghastly Jonathan Ross with a bunch of folk intent on selling their latest books. Not so different.