At a time of year when we think of men with crowns from the east travelling westwards with gifts, I go in the opposite direction to a place not ventured to for a year. Lewes to be precise: a centre of anarchy where kings, and anyone else deeming themselves to be ‘in charge’, generally get burned. All those fiery crosses and blacked-up faces are a step too far for the uninitiated. I went there once on 5^th November. I might as well have been in outer space for all I understood. Be very afraid.

I’ve been to stay with Bev. I haven’t seen her for ever and a day. Almost to the day. It’s taken us that long to get over the storm-spoiled, chicken-sitting trouble in Provence. I don’t take breakfast which is dangerous. Whether or not one gets any food at Bev’s is a lottery. After all, there was that business with lobster tails in the distant past. I might pass away from malnutrition. However, these days, things have improved greatly. Bev now has a selection of grandsons whom she looks after and there is food in the house; albeit, chopped and mashed. Bev has also changed beyond recognition: she is revitalised by the presence of all these charming small people. How very, very.

The plan, in as much as we two can ever make a plan, is a spot of culture. We are to travel some distance to see some rare frescoes in a Sussex church. This is England in December and the plan is instantly thwarted by the freezing elements. Thus, we must embark a shopathon. Splendid. Firstly, we visit somewhere or other below the Sussex downs. ‘Look for the elephant’, she says amongst the sparsely dressed trees. As ever, I have no idea what she’s talking about but, surprisingly, we find The Trading Post and it’s glorious. I make some purchases and secure a discount on the basis that I will mention them in my blog. They think I’m famous. Possibly not, but here I am keeping my word.

Bev pretends she can’t cook. Then she presents a roast beef dinner to die for. Actually, as I sink into my cosy bed, full of cow, I could die happily. But there’s shopping in Lewes to undertake the next day. To be honest, Lewes has let itself down with its Christmas decorations – there aren’t any. However, there is late night shopping. In Lewes, they only have one night of this and the whole town is out and about. My very favourite bit was the horses. Harvey’s Brewery still deliver their beer by drays and the enormous, beautiful, shiny black Shires were out in the street, amenable to petting by the masses. I’ll forgive Lewes the lack of decorations for where else can we be both spoiled by such animals and an archaeologist explaining all the wonderful local finds with such enthusiasm. And we bought all the gifts we didn’t even know we were searching for. I once wrote a Weasel entitled ‘Lewes is Lovely’ and it is. Odd, but lovely.

The next morning, the house is over-run with tiny folk. On my way in search of coffee, I inadvertently succeed in overloading the smallest with a Weetabix. Job done, I look around this Sussex war zone. It’s 9am and Bev is fighting to dress an 8 month old person. It’s time for me to leave. Returning westwards, I am, worryingly, stuck behind a Daish Holidays’ bus. Caliphate Coaches, have superseded camels. Who knows what gifts are on board? I am too afraid to comment further.

You know it’s Monday when you awake with a sense of dread. Why so, I hear you ask? You don’t go to work any longer, they say. No, these days, Monday mornings mean the over-sixties’ keep-fit class. It’s advertised as the over-fifties but, apart from the instructor, we comprise a decrepit bunch of relics whose combined ages probably exceeds a millennium.

It’s therapy: we go to remind ourselves that another week has started. We can’t remember where to go next, let alone the names of any of the other forty or so masochists present. Most of us have forgotten to have breakfast and by Wednesday we’ll have lost track of the days. And if we failed to notice that it’s pouring with rain, a strategically placed bowl has been positioned to catch the leakage in the community hall roof. Those to the right must (pretend to) march and grapevine and box-walk carefully to avoid said obstacle. Yes, it’s another day in paradise.

Obviously, greetings don’t involve the time honoured question ‘how are you?’ We’d be there all week describing various symptoms. Which isn’t to say we don’t make enquiries: ‘feeling any better?’ And, of course, everyone is thrilled to have made it through another week – ‘I really didn’t feel like coming this morning’; ‘it was hard work getting up today’. We queue up to pay our £4 subs and the room is filled with an air of bitterness. To be fair, the instructor remembers all of last week’s excuses: ‘how are your hips?;‘did the antibiotics work?’ how’s your father?’ ‘how’s your mother?’;‘how are your ankles?’ The questions are a bit tricky for those who’ve had to learn how to update ‘the dog ate my homework’ excuse. That was last week. Last week has gone, never to return. You have to possess some semblance of memory to be a good liar.

Eyes on the clock, we complete the warming-up exercises after which the woman next to me says she’s had enough and is going home. We’re allowed to pause for a sip of water and replenish our drips. Who’d have thought a plastic bottle of tap water could be of such importance.

It’s time for the pelvic floor muscle exercise. Having obtained the correct position, which involves holding in a tummy that generally precludes sight of one’s feet and would be better achieved with a winch, there are four parts to this activity most of which, from a distance, are difficult to recall. I think the first involves standing up straight and tightening the ‘abs’. I don’t know what the ‘abs’ are, let alone where they might be located. After this, we must relax. I’m good at this bit because I think it means letting it all back out again. Next, comes stage three. I’ve never really understood stage three so always speed on to the final part which seems to involve standing up straight again. Anyway, today, I finally discovered what stage three means. I think. Basically, you won’t understand this unless you’re female. And aged or pregnant. You know that squeeze you do to stop yourself peeing, well that’s stage three. That one that you can’t see other folk doing. Of course, it doesn’t work in a practical sense when you’re old otherwise Tenna Ladies’ wouldn’t have been invented: we’d all be standing in the Co-op squeezing bits that have lost their raison d’être happy as Larry.

After this, we fetch our mats and lay on the floor and I start yawning. It doesn’t matter what time of day it is, every time I lay down I want to go to sleep. Some folk are scattered around the water collecting bucket and there’s a hiatus whilst they discuss the weather and how wet they are. I spot some previously unseen liquid by the door but, apparently, someone has spilt their water bottle; or misplaced their umbrella; or forgotten their Tenna Ladies’. We stretch out and draw our legs up to our who knows what. If we feel like it, we can pull our chins up to meet our knees. Snores and farts join the drip, drip of the leaking roof.

And we always finish with a dance. Thankfully, that business with the scarves has been abandoned as has all that Indian nonsense. Today, we’re doing something that involves a hop, skip and a waving of arms. The instructor has her back to us so we can follow her steps more clearly. She is hopping and skipping and jumping like a demented banshee. Behind her, forty pensioners are standing still and waving their arms half-heartedly. And afterwards, we give ourselves a well-earned clap and rush to the loo

The 4.40 to Brentford is rammed as I attempt embarkation at Clapham Junction. From the relative safety of Platform 5, I spot an empty seat which no-one is interested in claiming due, I assume, to the fear that they’ll never escape its confines and will be trapped upon the Waterloo loop at least until 10pm. Hundreds of us are crushed in the doorway: an amoebic mess of humanity gasping for air that defies the intrepid explorer, with only a small suitcase,  to venture further into the jungle of the condemned.

With not inconsiderable force, I gain a seat next to a small child whose pushy father is supervising her extra-curricula activities. This train carries the privately educated offspring of the wealthy classes into the leafy suburbs west of the city: Barnes, Chiswick, Kew and so forth. My tiny travelling companion is busy on her phone on which she has an app comprising the nearest thing she’s going to get to a game before her thirties. In her digital laboratory, she has to choose appropriate colours and activities that will change one element to another – pour the blue contents of a test-tube into the correct receptacle and voila, a liquid will become a gas. The reward will be gaining another informative square to her growing set. For tiny traveller is constructing the periodic table. Having discovered plutonium, she turns and smiles engagingly at me.

‘How old are you’, I demand?

‘Five’.

‘You are scarily clever’, I inform her.

‘Say thank-you to the nice pleb’, says papa.

At Barnes Bridge, most of the train’s cargo, including Marie Curie, fall out through the doors, and possibly into the river for all I know. Jane emerges from the adjacent carriage wherein she’s been entombed since a week last Tuesday.

Saturday sees the predominant reason for my visit and the highlight of the weekend. As a belated birthday gift, I am to be wined and dined aboard a narrow boat which will take us from Paddington Basin to Camden Town and back in three gastronomic hours. With due serendipity, this morning’s Daily Torygraph informs us that the trip, courtesy of the London Shell Company, currently ranks among the top ten eating experiences in our capital. Our set menu for today’s extravaganza comprises Lindisfarne Oyster & Mackeral Tartare with Angel Hair Fries, Crab with Watermelon Radish, Braised Cuttlefish with Mussels and Saffron Aioli, Blonde Ray Wing with Turnips, Black Cabbage and Caper Butter and Apple Streudel with Raspberry and Yoghurt Gelatto. No wonder it’s going to take us three hours and I haven’t even mentioned alcohol.

Naturally, given that the galley is the size of a wardrobe, there are long pauses between each delicious course whilst the crew regroup. However, during these times, we can venture forth to watch the passing scenery. I’ve written about this part of the canal elsewhere but today I learn that we’re passing the Sultan of Oman’s house, the garden of which is the second largest in London after Buckingham Palace. We’re also lucky enough to see some of the animals that live in Regents Park Zoo who were hiding the last time we ventured this way.

Obviously, we need to keep diving back in for more refreshment. As you can see, and as you might have deduced, the accommodation is cosy. No matter. We share our table with three Japanese tourists, two of whom speak no English. We thought you liked speaking with strangers, say my companions.

Those Hanwell ladies are the epitome of generosity. They also have high expectations in the ‘joining in’ department. Later that evening, when the day’s excitement might have proven sufficient for the Dorset contingent, we yomp on down to the allotments at The Fox for a bonfire and BBQ. You probably think we’d eaten enough for one day but, let me tell you, those hot dogs went down a treat.

Sunday, and it’s all aboard the Kew Gardens road train which, forthwith, will ever be known as the Unicorn Express. Or whatever the opposite of an express train is. From the start, driver Christine tells us that the ride will be bumpy. She also informs us of the certainty of being attacked by passing trees. After such cautionary warnings, both of which prove justifiable, Christine’s voice turns strangely soporific.

It’s as though, having dealt with the prosaic nastiness of life, she has fallen back into the world of the …………… unicorn. For Christine soothes the listener whilst simultaneously keeping us awake in anticipation of the last word in the sentence: ‘and through the bushes to your right, you will see the …………..unicorn’. ‘Said mythological creature adorns the gate which royal princesses used to access the gardens. ‘Nowadays, they mostly arrive through the main entrance by car but, in the once-upon-a-time days ……’ Christine trails off into her own world. ‘By what’, we shout. Tube? Bus? Unicorn?’

I duck to avoid a rampaging holly bush that’s attacking us via the glassless window. ‘We’re going to turn …………right’, says Christine. ‘When I come to this part’, she continues, ‘I always feel I’ve arrived in …….’ ‘Where, where’, we demand looking through the trees. ‘………… Narnia’, sighs Christine. Helplessly, we look around for wardrobes and lamp posts. An evil shrub attempts access to our carriage. ‘To your left’, intones the stoned engine driver, ‘is our largest …………’ tree? bush? flower? ………..’picnic table’. claims lunch-denied Christine.

Speaking of which – we have brought a small picnic with us. When this possibility was initially raised, sub-zero temperatures weren’t mentioned. We leave the train, not by the enormous picnic table upon which Aslan was slain, but to perch on a bench by the river overlooking Syon Park, the home of Ralph Percy, 12th Duke of Northumberland.

The sun was out when we arrived but it’s since disappeared behind a large black cloud. To take my mind off the all pervasive frostbite, I quietly study the amount of pickle in my friends’ sandwiches. I was allowed to add my own pickle to my sandwich this morning. Reader, this probably doesn’t seem such a big deal. However, I am staying in a house of kindness in which I’m allowed to do nothing. On being presented with the Branston jar, it was to garnish bread that had been sliced for me with geometric precision on which identical slices of cheese had been lovingly displayed. Thus, spooning out the pickle was a big deal; but not literally, as, obviously, I only took a polite scraping. I can’t help thinking I’ve missed a trick as I notice the abundance of pickle oozing out between their slices of bread.

Anyway, I’m spared the opportunity of commenting on the unequal distribution of pickle by the arrival of Edith and her husband. Edith wants to know whether that’s Syon Park across the river. Apparently the husband, who has now disappeared, told her it was. B & J, mouths crammed with Branston politely inform Edith that it is indeed Ralph Percy’s gaff. And that should be an end to it but Edith is like a bloody terrier and won’t clear off.

It should be blindingly obvious, even to the thickest of dimwits, even with the pickle disparity, that we are three friends on a bench having a private picnic. She’s asked the question, received an answer, described the overhanging cloud, obtained directions on how to get to Syon Park, now knows about opening times, told us where she lives, discovered the precise address of Jane’s sister and for all I know expanded on her views of globalisation and world poverty. I’ve stopped listening. I’m sat on the far end of the haemorrhide inducing bench and have devoured my sandwiches, a pork pie and a bottle of water before she finally toddles off into oblivion. Those two turn round and are surprised to see me without any lunch. ‘We thought you liked talking to strange people’, they say.

And later, there’s a delicious home-cooked roast chicken dinner, silly board games a tearful viewing of Tim and Pru, and early to bed. Thank-you dear ladies of Hanwell for a glorious weekend.

Last Saturday evening, five of us set out on the alternative pub crawl around old Poole. The rationale is to visit hostelries that are not normally frequented by any of our number. For example, although The Queen Mary, our starting point, is just around the corner from my son’s house, none of us had ever been inside previously.

I don’t know why it’s been disregarded; maybe because it’s away from the Quay, isolated amongst traffic lights and junctions. It wasn’t always that way: before the so-called town regeneration of the 1960s, there were many more pubs along West Road and up to Towngate. The Queen Mary is the last survivor and, as such, the excellent Town Centre Heritage Report notes, quite rightly, that this Victorian pub, wearing original Carter’s tiles on it’s façade, should be cherished.

It’s really nice inside with quite a few interesting artefacts. This photo is a copy of the framed picture that Palmer’s brewery gave to Lizzie, the landlady. She also has very old photographs of Poole and a map of the harbour with all the named buoys – I didn’t even know buoys had names. You can tell this was our first port of call as all the photos are sensible. Into this tiny space, 35 folk were expected for Sunday lunch the following day so, clearly, we weren’t quite the pioneers we might have thought.

Next, we’re off to The Blue Boar which is in Market Close and not, as you might’ve thought, in Blue Boar Lane. Actually, I’m having trouble locating the latter so perhaps the owners did too. The Blue Boar pub is housed within the former building owned by the Adey wine merchant family and was re-opened in 1996.

In truth, we shouldn’t really be here: we’ve all been before, some of them on many occasions, so it doesn’t fall within our remit. They like it, however, and it has very good reviews so I’m on my own in finding it all a bit soulless. It boasts a bunch of diving memorabilia and is famous (or infamous) for being the venue for the post-New Year’s Day bath tub race on the Quay. You can see we’re slightly more organised as now someone’s remembered to record our visit. You can also see that the joint is not exactly jumping.

And now for something completely different. We’re definitely in the High Street and most probably in a pub called The Brewhouse. Finding reviews is tricky as Poole also has a hostelry called Brewhouse and Kitchen. This isn’t it. This is Pub of the Season, Spring 2017. No comment.

This converted shop looks like a long, narrow mock Tudor joint. Others in our party claim it reminds them of Disney, whilst the one in the new leopard-skin coat (also mock) says it’s like a place they visited in Bratislavia or some such place. No matter, we’ve a couple under our belt and this pub, compared with the previous two looks like a pub ought to on a Saturday night. Sort of. Mine host seems a jolly salt.

Conversely, Christy, landlord of The Butler and Hops, seems a bit down in the dumps. He’s only been in the job a week and is currently surveying his vast emporium which is largely empty. Maybe folk have never heard of the place as it changes names for a pastime. And maybe he doesn’t know it’s history which is more than a tad interesting.

 John Butler built the pub in 1761 when it was called The Angel. Within five years, due to the trade with Newfoundland, it was one of the most valuable properties in the High Street and, for reasons unknown, he changed the name to The French Horn and Trumpet. By 1777, it had become The London Tavern, a staging post for coaches between Southampton and Weymouth. In 1936, it was demolished and rebuilt in the art deco style, decorated with the friezes that are now on display in our wonderful museum. Bombed in WW2, it subsequently opened in 1961 as The Old Harry, and finally as the Globe Café. Too late: it had gone right downhill and gained notoriety.

Poole is a Royal Marines’ base and the headquarters of the Special Boat Service. This fact is reflected in many of the town’s pubs, not least the Foundry Arms in Lagland Street. It regularly wins awards in the ‘pub of the year’ contest specifically in the ‘knowing your community’ section. It’s a pub run by and for marines.

This is me, your adventurous reporter, trying to get the low-down from landlord, Moz. I’m standing next to another former marine who we previously met in The Blue Boar. What I’m trying to discover is where the foundry, whose name the pub takes, was sited. It’s tricky: I’ve had quite a few of those little glasses of Guinness you can see but at least I’m still standing. The rest of my party has fallen over.

Moz reckons the foundry was sited where Sainsburys is now located. The bloke from The Blue Boar says it was on Baiter. Well, maybe there was more than one but my subsequent research shows that the Dorset Iron Foundry was initially located in the early nineteenth century on West Quay Road, directly opposite my son’s house. I should’ve asked him. The goods railway actually ran past his house and down onto the Quay to where the foundry expanded and subsequently became Hamworthy Engineering.

I didn’t particularly want to go to The Foundry and I still think we hit the joint at the right time. The place was exceptionally busy with a coach party of men dressed as hippies on a day tour. This was their eleventh stop so they made our lot look pretty sober. There’s a veritable shed-load of Royal Marine memorabilia proudly displayed in this pub so it’s not a joint for pacifists: it’s a place for objective observers who don’t mind a television showing a screen of constant scenes of instruments of war. Nonetheless, with my woozy academic head on, Moz is interesting and welcoming and eager to speak about his establishment.

And so to my very favourite pub in Poole: The Cockleshell, which, in times past, used to be The New London Tavern. presumably after the old one became The Old Harry. The cockleshell heroes were, of course, the first small group of the now SBS force that went to occupied Bordeaux in WW2 with the aim of destroying the German fleet. Six of them were executed and two died of hypothermia.

I love this pub. Walking through the door is like stepping into a time warp. There’s no fancy dress but everyone is dressed from the eighties. As my son says, ‘are we in a scene from ‘Life on Mars?’ The smoking laws haven’t yet arrived: the landlady has a cigarette and the DJ is smoking. Our party, now quite the worse for wear, are drawn easily into the fray.

Some of them attempt the karaoke. At 10.50. last orders is called. At 11pm, there’s a change of plan and there’s an announcement stating that the bar will stay open, followed by a loud cheer. At 11.20, I’ve decided that, if I want to see another day, I should find a taxi. It’s been a great way to discover some history of our beloved town.