I’ve been clipping a few old roses in the evening sunshine. They’re not real roses of course…bit early for that. I can’t tell you how long I’ve been searching for some vintage silk roses. No luck whatsoever: they’re either too ‘new’ or too expensive for my meagre budget. Within minutes of disembarking the park & ride bus that, for a voluntary contribution, transports a person from the hospital car park into the fantasia that is Frome Independent Market, I’d spotted them resting in an old pudding dish. They weren’t ‘falsely retro’, they were the real thing – an old faded silk collection which, I like to think, had been saved from the demise of some stately home. A young woman was trying to sell Mrs Adler an upcycled pine dining table. Mrs Adler was, as ever, dithering.

‘How much are those flowers’, I intervene? Young woman looks around vaguely and spots said blooms. ‘Well, they’re not really for sale. They’re for decoration.’

‘If they were for sale’, I press, ‘how much do you think they’d be?’

‘Ten pounds’, she says vaguely. The price ends with a question mark which leaves the way open to some bartering. And naturally, in view of the question mark, the price had to be lowered. I love them. And I loved my first foray into this exquisite market and lovely day with my friend.

 We traversed all things vintage, all things edible, all things musical, all things floral, all things arty and crafty and found LilyGrace and her amazing jewellery. And we both fell in love with the same pair of earrings. Trouble was that the clasps were made from the wrong sort of metal for Mrs Adler’s delicate ears. Further, the clasps were too small for mine. When did I get so fat that even my ear-lobes are too big? These are desperate days.

Clutching my cherished roses, I follow Mrs Adler into a pleasantly scented emporium selling who knows what. She metamorphoses instantly into a woman intent on discovering everything there is to discover about pleasantly scented goods. I listen to a woman dressed as Morticia Addams who begins to recount a sorry tale regarding how she’d experienced the ‘other’ world’s longest labour. It began, apparently, on 4 December and finished on 10 January. The years are indeterminate. I resist the temptation to suggest she might be confusing birthing with wind. After I’ve gone through every horrid contraction with her, she recalls all the many and various musical tapes which had accompanied her feat to enter the Guinness Book of Records. After the first two, I leave, nauseous. On the way out, Morticia’s lacy robe becomes entangled in my vintage silk roses. I curse her, silently, as I shed a few leaves.

LilyGrace is more than happy to alter the backs of the earrings that I purchase. This takes some time but there’s still no sign of Mrs Adler. I return to the scented emporium and drag out Mrs Adler with her sack of goodies. I recount various tales of what had passed since she first went into this shop of despair. She has the cheek to inform me of her view that I inhabit a parallel universe. On the bus back, I sit behind a woman I used to work with. ‘Is that you’, I asked as we stumbled off? ‘Of all the buses, in all the world’, she replies as I shake hands with Humphrey Bogart.

The Melbury Abbas road being still shut after a year, Mrs Adler and I follow all the other crooks and take a flight from the airfield where, at the beginning of this long and satisfying day, we’d enjoyed an al fresco breakfast. And I loved my first foray into this exquisite market and lovely day with my friend.

We take afternoon refreshment in the tea rooms at Moreton. Scones and cakes are not involved. He doesn’t want any and I am too fat; although I would’ve been sufficiently polite to join him had he shown an interest in patisserie. Now, I have to be gracious enough to hide the fact that I’m secretly sulking about the lack of sugar and cream. Instead, we discuss the contraption on which the delicious, but-never-to-be-consumed enticements are displayed. It’s a strange affair – four large wheels, an enormous length of wood, unexplained handles and so on.

I ask the waitress, ‘is that…?’ Before I get any further, comes the response, ‘yes, that is Lawrence of Arabia’s funeral bier’. Well, of course, that was just what I was about to ask. Not. And we two, with our open (but empty) mouths, are silenced.

The quiet American is finally in Dorset. It’s difficult to believe. It began with an intrusion into an office in Penryn, recommenced via hat boxes in Galway, continued along the dismal stones of Aran and was finalised in the Moroccan darkness of Exeter. Frankly, I never thought he’d arrive. You know how it goes – ‘you must come and see me when…’

What a time of it we had. I made a coastal plan only to be thwarted by a plethora of ecclesiastical architecture. I should’ve known better: because of him, I’d unexpectedly visited and written about one cathedral in Galway and spent my post-meze Exeter lunch in yet another. In truth, he has a way about himself: he picks a place or person about which one discovers elements of vital knowledge having previously held no particular interest. We call this ‘teaching & learning’.

I like to think I got my own back for the uneaten cake: the desired-to-be-seen geological strata of Lulworth’s environs were superseded and surpassed by the far more gratifying delights of Monkey World. And when I suggest we eat our cheese rolls on the station, it is because, in doing so, he will step into the world of Enid Blyton. It’s good to experience a little diversity.

Bradford on Avon – Avoncliffe – Bradford on Avon practice walk

At some point on the journey from Poole to Trowbridge, I make two decisions: firstly, I’ll go to Bradford on Avon and undertake a practice walk in readiness for tomorrow’s hike. The weather is superb and sitting in a Silver Street Lane bungalow watching the childless ones cooing over a baby doesn’t readily present itself as an agreeable alternative. Secondly, I’ll do the thing properly and purchase a pedometer.

The only place left before my revised destination with any chance of a pedometer emporium is Warminster. It doesn’t bode well. Warminster has been shut for about fifty years although I’m pleasantly surprised to locate a sports shop which is both open and in possession of half price walking ephemera.

At Bradford on Avon, I emerge from a newly discovered car park which has been constructed at a position handy for the canal. Strangely, access is through a reasonably upmarket estate which must be irritating for residents. Still, I don’t live here so I’m not bothered. However, the estate has disorientated me a little so that even though I find myself at the Kennet and Avon Canal Trust shop and tearoom, I feel the need to seek reassurance regarding the appropriate direction to follow.

The last time I began walking the canal to Bath, it was after leaving my car in the railway station car park some way further on. I don’t want to inadvertently begin tomorrow’s hike. I choose a woman laden down with bright orange Sainsbury’s bags on the basis that she must be a local. She speaks no English or if she does she’s not letting on.

At Avoncliff, I try unsuccessfully to cross the aqueduct. This business with bridges is getting worse as I grow older. My grandma had a similar problem. The minute I step away from the edge, legs become jelly and I’m engulfed by panic. I have no idea how I managed when I did the walk to Bath last year at which point Avoncliff was a mere taster for the glorious Dundas Aqueduct a few miles on. I’ve given up smoking since then. It must have been the knowledge that I could have a fag previously that kept me going

The weather is unbelievable and I decide to treat myself to lunch in the garden of the Cross Guns. This, according to the blurb, is an idyllic sixteenth century riverside inn where I will enjoy panoramic views whilst eating sumptuous food. In the bar, a woman of indeterminate years with an extraordinarily coiffured mullet informs hungry walkers that there is no food due to ‘yesterday’. Yesterday was Easter Monday and presumably the joint was overrun by holidaymakers seeking a spot of sumptuousness. Bastards. I consider a sandwich but the price of said item reflects the location of the only pub for miles with nothing else to offer the starving. I opt for a packet of mini-cheddars which I devour with some vigour whilst enjoying the panoramic views.

This brilliant sunshine is excellent news, particularly for those of us with a pedometer to recharge. Sadly, the cut-price sale bargain seems to be of little use. It’s indicating that I’ve already walked thirteen miles. I think I’ll dispose of it and calculate distances according to the signposts.

Later, I go to Matalan to buy clothes that are more suitable for the heat.

Day Two: Bradford on Avon to Semington

I enjoy a hearty breakfast in the company of the Trowbridge contingent with whom I’d stayed overnight once their place became a baby-free zone. One of them is on a diet. It’s a very strange diet. Apparently, you can enjoy a Chinese take-away as long as rice isn’t involved. In the country park café, the regime allows bacon, sausage and egg but no toast. Afterwards, they drive me back to Bradford on Avon for Day One of the journey proper.

They are to accompany me for a short way along the tow path. The one who’s not on a diet has been poorly lately and managed to lose a stone in weight without trying, let alone giving up on bread. He thinks he might not be able to walk too far. As it happens, it’s such a glorious morning, filled to the brim with the goodness of warming sunshine, that they decide to continue beyond their planned stopping point. And once they get to the new destination, they carry on past there too. The poorly one hasn’t felt this good for months. We look over at Widbrook Woods which are relatively new and are currently boasting a spread of sheltered primroses. Then, overcome by the demands of their new roles as travelling companions, those two decide they’re in need of coffee.

As there are no welcoming or even unwelcoming hostelries to hand, they turn tail and head back to Bradford on Avon leaving me on a solitary path.

Shortly after, I look down to where the River Biss joins the River Avon. I hadn’t really noticed that I was high enough to look down on anything but my map indicates that the Biss and Ladydown aqueducts are approaching. I wonder how I will cope but, in fact, when I reach them, they’re barely noticeable. It’s true that I’m on considerably higher land than I’d imagined but the drop to what passes below isn’t fearful: a small amount of water, the Biss, piddles its way under the first, and the mainline railway from Bristol to somewhere else runs under the second.

 Trowbridge looms but, luckily, it’s largely hidden behind a small industrial site. I’m able to bypass the town which is about the best thing that can be done with Trowbridge.

A rare signpost informs me that I’ve already come two miles. The new Hilperton Marina is just around the corner and I’m looking forward to coffee and the loo. When we were young, sixteen or seventeen, Jenny had a flat in Hilperton. We used to go there on a Sunday afternoon to watch old black and white films on the television and eat tinned fruit with ideal milk. I don’t know why. It must have been the thing to do. There’s never been much to choose between in the way of exciting activities in the Trowbridge environs. There’s no fruit, ideal milk or coffee at Hilperton today. Nothing. A posh new marina but not a solitary pub, café or hostelry of any description. I ask a man sitting on a bench if he knows anywhere I could purchase a cup of coffee. ‘Bradford on Avon’, he suggests helpfully.

I continue along the towpath and meet a woman cleaning her narrow boat. She’s one of those foreigners who are taking all the new houses in Trowbridge according to locals. Well, does anyone else want them? Anyway, she lives on a boat. It’s probably a boat that an English family should be living in. I ask the same question. She has thrilling news. Apparently, if I leave the canal at Hilperton Road Bridge, I will find a pub. Sure enough, there on the bridge is a sign advertising The Kings Arms.

 The Kings Arms looks about as near to collapse as is possible for a still standing building. It has a sign attached to its façade informing me that I can rent it should I choose. I cross the road and purchase an election-ridden newspaper at the Co-op. I can read the paper whilst I enjoy my coffee. Although the Co-op has a petrol station, it doesn’t have an accompanying loo. Well, not one that I’m allowed to use. I ask the woman in this place that’s doing more than a passable impression of Royston Vasey if she thinks the pub is open. The sour faced woman peers through the window and says that it looks open enough to her. ‘Really’, I ask? I hate to think what it looks like when it’s shut, but she’s finished with me. I am dismissed. I retrace my steps back to the Kings Arms where I intend to thoroughly enjoy a cup of their best coffee whilst reading The Guardian. Except, of course, it’s shut. Shut down I feel. Back on the canal, I take the first gap in the hedge and pass an alfresco pee on the edge of a ploughed field before heading on to Semington.

 It’s a pleasant enough stretch but it’s the continuation of seven miles without a coffee emporium. I consider a previous nine mile walk from Bradford on Avon to Bath. Along that stretch of the Kennet and Avon there’s the pub at Avoncliff and quite a good café past the Dundas Aqueduct. After that, it’s about five miles with nothing to drink until the George at Bathampton. Someone’s missing a trick here. I ask a family on a narrow boat heading in the opposite direction to me how far they think it is to anywhere. They were having quite a peaceful time of it up until this point. Individually and collectively they think the answer might be ‘some distance’. I am minded of the general Dorset answer to anything that might require a quantitative measurement – ‘quite a few’. At the fishmonger, ‘how many mussels do I need for five people?’ Quite a few. At a carnival committee meeting, ‘how many marshals will we need?’ Quite a few. However, having reached a consensus, the people on the boat now begin to argue with each other about how far ‘some distance’ might actually be. I wander away quietly.

Some time later, I come across two men in Canal Trust tee-shirts who are pushing what appears to be a motorised wheelbarrow along the towpath. Even though I know I’m probably causing trouble, I dare to ask about the potential for coffee. I helpfully point out that there’s been nowhere since Bradford on Avon, which is somewhere in the distant past both geographically and psychologically; a sort of aboriginal Wiltshire dreamtime. One of the men tells me that if I’m looking for solitude I’ve come to the right place. I feel obliged to remonstrate: ‘solitude is no problem to me my good man but caffeine might help me along life’s path’. His colleague kindly offers me a sip of his water but I have my own. It strikes me that I am wreaking emotional havoc along this section of the canal: I’ve already spoiled one family’s morning and now these representatives of the Canal Trust clearly feel they’ve been next to useless. In a last ditch attempt to redeem the situation, they suggest that if I leave the canal at the next bridge, cross two fields, turn right and walk along a main road for a while, I’ll come to Hilperton. The two of them debate how far this might be. Some distance, they agree. I wander away quietly.

It’s a truth that there’s no available refreshment between Bradford on Avon and Semington. There’s a short cut across the fields from Semington swing bridge to the Somerset Arms. However, the swing bridge is currently open for canal traffic and there seems little likelihood of it closing again this side of Whitsuntide. I pass on to Semington road bridge where there is unexpected but welcome information about this point where the Wilts and Berks canal once joined the Kennet and Avon. I am confused, particularly by the mention of Camilla who, it seems, once stuck a handy spade in the currently missing Wilts and Berks whilst trying to find interesting ways of filling in time waiting to become queen. I clamber up to the road bridge and hurry to the Somerset Arms which is to be my billet for the night.

 The Somerset Arms describes itself as boasting luxury accommodation. It doesn’t. Following a few afternoon zs, I return to the canal hoping for a spot of action at Buckley’s Lock. An enormous unattractive man sporting a peaked cap with ‘captain’ embroidered upon, and clutching a large glass of wine in the hand not in contact with any part of his narrow boat, shouts instructions to a woman and child in charge of manipulating the lock gates. There’s a lot of this sort of thing on canals: the peaceful beauty of bygone travelling days is also a fine opportunity for the verbal and physical abuse of women and children that we so nostalgically remember. Mostly, however, these two take little notice of Captain Flab. From my viewpoint on a handy bench, I derive considerable satisfaction from watching him sink below the line of sight as the lock empties even though we can still hear him shouting. After he’s passed through and the slaves have been dispatched in search of a handy mooring, another crew arrives from the opposite direction. A new, potentially oppressed woman in charge of a number of battered children and a boisterous Springer Spaniel called Willow take their places at the lock. As the waters rise, so too another male head gradually appears above the parapet issuing orders to anyone with half a mind to listen.

 If you want solitude, avoid the locks where the nouveau riche pass noisily by on their rustic hols. A pleasant man strides by in the evening sunshine and I look up from my note-book. ‘What more could you ask for’, he enquires genially? ‘A drink’, I respond. The face of the pleasant man drops like a stone. ‘Yes’, he replies despondently in the voice of one who has momentarily forgotten the existence of alcohol. He wanders away, sadly.

Day Three: Semington to Devizes.

At 9.25am, I’m sat on a bench dedicated to Olive and Harry Barrett who apparently loved this view. I’m barely surprised. It’s particularly lovely, especially in this morning’s sunshine which already seems even warmer than yesterday. The early Spring cardi has already been discarded. If I knew what the future/past tense looked like, should it exist, I would tell you that this stretch of the Kennet and Avon is/will be/was far more attractive than the previous. I’m already past Seend and having stopped to take a photo of the contradictory Fareham Towers – both spookily gothic and early-morning beautiful – I’m now looking over gentle slopes of dew-soaked pasture where one or two horses are munching contentedly.

At first, I think the graceful undulations must be the remains of ancient bronze aged earthworks. A study of my map informs me that these are the leftovers of Victorian ironworks.

Despite this being the longest stretch I will walk over these three days, I write few notes. Perhaps this is a reflection of the constant pleasure afforded by the gentle countryside: sheep and horses grazing at the edge of a canal and, unexpectedly peering through a warm haze, a field of alpaca. I see very few people during the early miles apart from a man heading purposely towards me carrying a lock handle. Yes, a man. Drifting downstream comes the narrow boat with his good lady at the helm. I tell her he’s the first man I’ve seen in three days about to open a lock and congratulate her achievement.

 For me, the beauty of walking towpaths is that they’re flat. I’m not a fan of hills. However, the main reason for this particular jaunt is to see the Caen Hill Locks. And there’s the contradiction: hill. Caen Hill Locks comprise a scheduled ancient monument being, as they are, the steepest lock flight in the world.

 By the time I reach the café at the top of the 237 feet climb, after seven miles of walking, every part of my body is complaining. There’s a certain smugness of accomplishment to enjoy though. My three day walk from Bradford on Avon, with its preamble, daily deviations and onward trip to Devizes Wharf, constituted around 18 miles. Before the end of the holiday, I’ll add another seven miles on a return day trip through Bath. None of it’s going to be recorded in the annals of great canal journeys but I loved it. Meanwhile, I sit on the grass canal-side in Devizes with a large slab of Victoria sponge and wait for the Trowbridge contingent to collect me.

Kennet and Avon Canal: Bathampton – Green Park – Bathampton

The April weather continues to be stunning. Folk are foreseeing wall to wall sunshine for the next three months at least but I’m due back at work on Tuesday. On Sunday evening, I make a last minute plan to drive up to Bath the following morning and enjoy the Kennet and Avon in Sydney Gardens. It won’t be a trek – more of a relaxing in-depth look at the canal in the city. On the day, however, it seems that events are conspiring against me: the A36 at Claverton Down is shut which means that I have to crawl through Bradford on Avon with the rest of the world and approach Bath from the ‘wrong’ side of town. Sick of the inside of a Ford Fiesta, I abandon my original plan, take a sneaky left turn onto the toll road that runs through Bathampton and leave the vehicle behind The George.

 To begin again at the pub is probably a better plan. The last time I walked this way was in the final stages of a nine mile trek from Bradford on Avon. Then, I was in no state of body or mind to absorb and enjoy this gorgeous and largely unknown stretch of the Kennet and Avon. Well, clearly it’s known to waterside residents and those who frequent the area by narrow boat. When I say unknown, I mean to those many thousands of folk who travel to Bath for the culture and history, unaware of central waterways other than the weir at Pulteney Bridge

The pictures tell the story but it’s worth saying a bit about Sydney Gardens of which tourists straying from the city centre see little further than the Holburne Museum. The Kennet and Avon runs a secret course behind the gardens through two small tunnels which wealthy residents of another era decorated ornately to disguise the fact that they lived close to a working class transport system. The Kennet and Avon arrived here in 1810 to carry coal from Bristol. Unless one knows otherwise, it’s an almost fortuitous accident to take an unannounced exit from the towpath and find yourself in the only remaining eighteenth century pleasure gardens in the country; like wandering through an invisible wardrobe into an Austen-like Narnia where the 39 feet high replica of Minerva’s temple awaits along with Peter and his dog.

 Peter has been up to the Royal United Hospital this morning for the first of his twice weekly treatments. He tells me a lot about his life including where he lived previously – Clapham and Dorset – and why he’ll be moving again shortly: second time round fatherhood has produced an unanticipated son who needs to be schooled in Warminster for reasons as unexplained as Peter’s frequent visits to the Royal. He tells me a lot of other stuff too: Minerva’s temple was located here for the Bath Historical Pageant which, a handy plaque confirms, ran from 19 – 24 July in 1909. It’s quite a wrench to leave Peter: we’d got along so well on a number of levels but I had previously unseen parts of the canal to cover and anyway, his dog was bored.

The canal continues onward past a small modern marina and down to Widcombe locks. The one is as different from the other as could be: canal tourism followed by the authenticity of bygone days. The only thing they have in common is their proximity to the rumours of a transport bound city, of which there is no obvious indication here. In the current general election, the number one concern of the residents and potential representatives of Bath is road congestion and the lack of a transport policy. It’s what political success hinges upon. You’d be hard pressed to work this out in the calm of Widcombe.

 However, I have to leave the canal for a few confusing minutes to negotiate one of the troublesome roads. Trying to locate the continuation of the towpath amongst the fumes and horns of an eternal road traffic jam is an unpleasant experience but I’m soon back on track heading for the place where the River Avon joins the canal. The contrast is quite stunning and I am almost alone.

Widcombe Road Bridge used to be known as Ha’penny Bridge due to the crossing toll imposed. It’s relatively unsightly but dates and lines carved into one of the bridge’s supports attract my attention. A solitary person is wandering along the embankment towards me with his eyes glued on his mobile telephone. I ask him if the dates and lines indicate previous flood levels. This seems to be the obvious explanation but it’s difficult to believe the water could have risen so high. On the 15 November, 1894, for example, the river rose 19 feet above its normal level. That’s a lot of water. The man with the phone knows nothing other than what’s currently trending on Twitter. He’s been coming this way every lunchtime for eons and has never previously noticed the markings. When I get home, I research this area and am amazed to discover the history of Bath’s floods.

This was taken in December 1960 in Southgate Street

I walk on into the remnants of Bath’s industrial canal side and eventually leave the water at the Midland Road Bridge. I’m confused by the leftovers of Green Park Station which is doing its unsuccessful best to become a regenerated area of post-modernism. I once had an important boyfriend who lived in Green Park but it’s impossible to locate his place of abode if it still exists. Even harder to remember what went on there. Unplanned, I cross the city on foot and stop by a solitary fruit and vegetable stall to eat my sandwich.

Momentarily displaced by vegetables that remind me of the other country, I purchase 6 artichokes. After all, I think, the plan is to take a taxi back to Bathampton. As it happens, there’s a dearth of taxis in Bath today and, taking a detour along Pultney Bridge to look at the weir which has virtually eradicated the Avon floods, I pass by the Holburne Museum and back into Sydney Gardens. What might have been a maximum of two miles has turned into a much longer trip. Dylan Thomas made his famous Return Journey devoid of a rucksack full of artichokes. No stamina, these writer types.

I sit alone at one end of the folly next to six grape hyacinths and a solitary dandelion. I choose the spot because I admire the small bravery of their colours against endless green. Actually, as I acclimatise, I realise other paints are present: clumps of yellow and white daffodils encircle a spindly tree like a floral wagon train. And like the sporadic existence of random daffs I recently spotted along the lonelier parts of the Kennet and Avon Canal, I wonder who planted them and why. Meanwhile, a sparse and close at hand patch of celandines turns faces to the unexpected warmth of the April sun.

Creech Folly, also known less enigmatically as Grange Arch, was constructed in 1746. In some ways it looks newer. Two hundred and something years of dirt and age are not immediately obvious, although other bygone remnants may be present: earlier, I tried to perch in a recess set in the main arch. It looks like the kind of stone seating area that might have been kindly and conveniently placed for those that have trudged up the incline to escape the pounding of Bindon Hill firing range. But, as I sit down, an older noise, one of the scuttling variety, sends me jumping back into the Purbeck air before body and folly have a chance to know each other in a physical sense.

I look behind. Nothing. Had I been in the other country, I might have anticipated a large lizard. I’m not in France. I’m on top of the Jurassic coastline where hawks and pterodactyls are floating dreamlike on ancient thermals over sheep-ridden downs between the folly and the endless sea. Here roamed dinosaurs leaving fossilised footprints and other Anning-like leftovers, useful for upcycling as handy evidence for world heritage funding.

Here was Paul Nash, wandering about and around with his pencils, paints and photographic equipment. Commissioned by Betjeman, on behalf of Shell, his fossil-ridden Dorset Guide pre-empted re-loved Jurassic reinventions by about fifty years; even though he, ironically, iconically and contemporaneously wrote in the footsteps of Hardy. When he wasn’t constructing what was to become the rarest of the Shell County Guides, and imposing his own brand of surrealism upon the already and still surreal Dorset, Nash was either behaving badly or taking tea at the Grand Hotel in Swanage. His was the first representation I ever saw, and the first knowledge I possessed of Creech Folly. The absurdity that Nash depicted made me want visit instantly.

Later, I acquired an original etching of the folly by John Liddell, an outstanding printmaker. Unlike much of his work set in Poole, Liddle depicted Creech Folly in deserved colour. Interestingly, he placed a horned ram in front of the edifice which somehow makes the picture seem much older than it is and gives the erroneous impression that he arrived on the hill before Nash.

More recently, someone else was here for reasons unknown. They failed to place old age/new age votive streamers in bushes, leave candle stubs at the folly’s feet or even build piles of enigmatic but boring stones. Somehow, nonetheless, the unknown presence managed to get a beribboned garland to sit at the top of a hawthorn tree, at a height impossible to attain by natural means. How and why did they do that? What story waits to be recorded here?

During these dark and endless winter nights, my thoughts turn to St Gabriel’s Chapel near Tarascon. Despite this being one of my very favourite places in the universe which I inhabit, these musings are more than reflections on summer days passed with pencil and notebook under ancient olives. And they are borne of an hour spent latterly in a church I seldom visit. Actually, that could be any church in which I yet again, somewhat deceitfully, attend a Christmas carol service. I found the vicar to be rather evangelical in his sermon, euphemistically entitled ‘words’ in the order of play. Well, I assume he’s supposed to be that way inclined.

My rationale for being present was that it’s a good story and I like carols. And when I’m there, it makes me think about things. And I imagine that’s also what I’m supposed to be doing. One of the things I thought about tonight is that every Christmas I write a festive blog with the title drawn from a line in a carol. But only tonight, did I realise that I always choose It came upon the midnight clear. How odd. It does, however, contain some splendidly written phrases.

The church at Lytchett was rammed: all seats taken and standing room only. Par contre, St Gabriel’s Chapel, in all its loveliness, is rarely open let alone occupied. That might be part of the joy and mystique of the place. If you want to know more of its known and suspected history, you can look back on other postings. I guess it was relevant tonight because of its sponsor – St Gabriel. He of the startling messages. Can you imagine?

I can’t. I was too busy thinking about those carvings above the door of the chapel when the vicar suddenly asked us what we would request if we could have anything for Christmas. Nothing. My request was answered three weeks ago.

I haven’t posted on this blog for some time because other things have been happening in my life. I published my book, Chez Martin. There’s a new page on Donald dedicated to this. One day, I might get around to writing something about it. I haven’t had much time because the other thing that happened was that Phil and Rene finally came to live in Dorset. They abandoned all that canal walking business, packed up their lives, got in their cars and, like late-in-the-day swallows, drove south. At some speed.

It’s my delight to get to know my parents again. Thank-you vicar. Loved the carols and the readings. Loved the opportunity to quietly reflect. Popped my financial gratitude in the saucer and took my free chocolate Santa home. Merry Christmas one and all.

I know it might be getting boring. All this old stuff. You think it’s boring? Try living it my friend. I’m obsessed and I’m the type of person to get on with it. Whatever ‘it’ is. The options decline daily. For a start, I’m writing shorter sentences owing to the fact that I can’t remember what it was I’d intended to say.

And then there’s the mirror. That would be the mirror that magnifies one’s face by 1000%. This is a necessity in order that all the cracks can be suitably filled by some ridiculously priced golden glow make-up otherwise known as Pensioners’ Polyfilla. And which precipitates Daily Depression. There’s been some good news though this week on the aging front.

Loyal daughter number one is currently housing her missing father to whom I was, back in the mists of time, once married. Missing father, of a similar age to your author, hasn’t been seen for some years. Which is why we refer to him as ‘missing father’. Ever the optimist, he’s experienced a number of subsequent wives over time. All have failed his expectations. I question her with some rigour:

Why was he on the pavement when you found him?

He’d fallen over and couldn’t get up

Why couldn’t he get up?

He’s proper old, mum. He’s not like you.

And in the middle of my horrid and unnecessary impersonation of the Spanish Inquisition, I suddenly hear what she’s just said. And I’m aware that it’s a parental duty to speak in short sentences; to not mention hospital appointments; and to infer that one’s own aged parents might be of more concern to one’s children. It’s not acceptable to be decrepit.

Yesterday, I went to have my excess facial hair seen to by the lovely ladies from Pakistan who reside in the Dolphin Centre. Lets be fair: I wouldn’t know I had excess facial hair if it wasn’t for the bloody magnifying mirror. But, there, euphemistically, it is: top lip please. So, that would be moustache then. Salvador who? Afterwards, I go to M & S. Back in the day, we’d call it Marks. That would be our feeble attempt at modernising. No more Spencer for us.

M & S is an old woman’s shop. I peek in from time to time because I like their Indigo range. It’s vaguely hippie-like. So, there I was, browsing the modern-day, latter-day clothing, when I realised, along with all the other aged flower power bods, I was almost dancing between the racks of kaftans. M & S were playing music. And not just any music. It was Roy Orbison. Good job daughter number two wasn’t there. I’m already in disgrace for setting off the alarms at the Grayson Perry exhibition last week at the National Portrait Gallery. Could be worse: could have a parent laying in a heap on a pavement.

All the oldies in the queue were singing along with Roy. Someone who’d lived long enough to reach the till explained to the whipper-snapper employed to take his money who the genius that was Roy Orbison was. She was not just any till person: she was M & S trained. Thank-you, she replied for this gratefully received information. That explains a lot.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=NcGzwyTvkIQ

If you were in France, no-one would give two spooky hoots about Halloween. Tomorrow’s the big day: Day of the Dead no less. In France, the supermarkets don’t sell things they’ve no business selling: if you want fags – go to the Tabac; if you want flowers go to the pepiniere (with appropriate accents). But, during this last week, rules will have been broken as huge displays of chrysanthemums and cyclamen crawl over car parks. On November 1st, All Souls Day, everyone has a holiday for the purpose of cleaning up the graves of deceased loved ones. After this, they deck the memorials with said flowers and have a picnic to celebrate past (and passed) lives.

We do things differently here. You can get into Monkey World free on Halloween if you dress up. So, we dress up. If you want to see a past example of this, simply click on the ‘about’ page of this blog. This year, Asda had run out of suitable witch outfits so I went as Minnie Mouse. So I thought. Grandchild asked whether I’d recently looked at a picture of Minnie Mouse. No. Well, if you had, she irritatingly informed me, you’d know that Minnie Mouse has a black face. No points for effort then Grandma. I am the ghost of Minnie Mouse, I told her.

We sit in a tedious, miles long queue of folk trying to access Monkey World. There are three small people in the back of the car, one of whom is Dan the Skelington. Skeleton, I say. Yes, skelington, says Dan. From no recognisable conversational link, Dan the Skelington engages me in the following discussion:

Did you see Eastenders last night? No.

I can’t wait to see what happens tonight. Don’t tell me. I haven’t seen last night’s yet.

The queue’s not moving.

OK. What happened last night?
Well, you know the man who’s in love with the woman with the thing on her head? Well, he had a box of those things like cauliflowers.

Cabbages?

Yes, cabbages. And he said none of the other men would dare to do it with those things.

What things? Cabbages?

No. Pumpkins.

What did he do with a pumpkin?

Well, he took his clothes off and put that other thing on his bum. Then he put the pumpkin in front of his you know what. I wasn’t going to watch Eastenders anymore but this sounds intriguing. Anything else happen?

Well, Charlie’s grandma switched the light off and dead Nick was there. I’m hooked but the other small people have different ideas:

My aim is to get past that signpost.

My aim is to get past that dead bush.

My aim is to reach home tonight and open a bottle of red stuff.

The road is strewn with fairies, ghosts and goblins who’ve abandoned their vehicles in the unseasonal heat. Witches open their boots to retrieve lunch boxes and picnic basket. Small pixies are hung over autumnal verges to partake in a desperate pixie pee. The devil in the car behind has phoned Monkey World and informs us that it’s shut due to overload. Cars are doing 98 point turns. It’s the hottest Halloween known since records began. Everyone has their windows down which makes it easier to pass the news down the queue. Behind us, an enormous convoy of very important flashing vehicles from the tank corps at Bovington sit helplessly in the carnage. It’s worrying. These are the defenders of the realm and they can’t overtake or deal with a bunch of part-time, under and over-aged spooks.

Lace-covered daughter number one suggests we abandon this Halloween nightmare and decamp to the beach at Kimmeridge. Which we do. Man at Kimmeridge, temporarily speechless at the arrival of Minnie and co wants to charge us £5 for the pleasure. We have a heated debate during which he makes the mistake of telling me I look nothing like a mouse. I inform him I’ve made more effort on this auspicious day than he seems to have. This is followed by boring sob story regarding his boss. We cough up and eventually arrive at the beach where, of course, no-one else has bothered to celebrate the day.

Later, we call in at Sainsburys in Wareham where, perfectly straight-faced, I purchase some fags and enquire after the nearest pumpkin purveyor. Woman appears incapable of speech.

I liked this day a lot.

Only two days left until the end of October. 5.40 pm and the already bible-black night creeps in through the still-open patio door. Such confusion: I must carry a torch to light the ridiculously short and slippery route to the wheelie bin which I take in what seems to be the dead of night. It seems as though I should be preparing for bed but it’s too early. Pointless wouldn’t have finished were I watching it. And it’s so hot!

A heavy mist – more of a fog really – has enshrouded the now inappropriately named Twilight Zone. It hangs heavily and uncomfortably and silences anything that might dare to noisily intrude. The sparrows, always keen to devour the Lidl fat balls in a Hitchcock-like threat, have long since departed into night-time foliage. The deer are nowhere to be seen. Even the sirens have finally ceased.

It’s Wednesday. It’s Diamond Day at B & Q where swarms of the elderly will have gathered earlier in the safety of daylight. I often join them, seeking a purchase or two at discounted prices. Generally, I don’t mind fighting my way through a car park full of pristine Jags, Audis and extra-large Hondas, all with booster seats on the driver’s side. Normally, I’m not averse to undertaking a slalom through walking sticks and Zimmer frames, Usually, I’m ok with avoiding all those extra-large trolleys on which the ancient transport new doors and fences in order that I can purchase a tin of wood stripper or suchlike. Let’s face it: I’ve also got a Diamond card and sufficient wrinkles to argue a familial connection with Jagger. Not today. I’ve had enough of old people this week.

I went to Tesco instead. I inadvertently caused a problem by deciding to take up the offer of a number of stamps to enable me to buy an iron casserole dish at a reduced price. The person that gave me the stamps was about 190 years old. This is my BIG fear. I will be too old to continue in a job whereby I dish out (probably) unwanted advice to the young. They will farm me out and, finding myself finally paying the price for a wayward life with no adequate pension, will be forced to man the till in my local supermarket.

Old man on the till recognises me as someone of a suitable age to chat up. I wanted to tell him I had Freshers’ Flu which is why I look particularly decrepit. I had neither strength nor inclination. Young man, back in the day, might’ve invited me for a drink. Old man gave me ten iron casserole dish stamps instead of the regulatory two. Old man, being very old, couldn’t find the necessary card on which to stick said stamps. Old man became upset and confused. I left him sobbing and chose my iron casserole dish which I took to the fag counter.

Ancient lady on fag counter was distraught and unable to cope with iron casserole dish stamps because they were not stuck to a card. Aware of an increasingly hostile crowd behind me, I offered to stick stamps on anything she might care to give me. I had already apologised to members of hostile queue and mentioned that I was a little anxious. Ancient fag lady said there was no need to worry because all the people in the queue were young and didn’t get upset like us oldies.

Finally, I escaped and set off in the direction of home. Unfortunately, due to the fog, there had been a major accident. The way home was blocked as ambulances screamed their way to the scene of carnage. I managed a 48 point turn and thought carefully about alternative routes. There was no getting away from it: the only way to avoid the tailback was by cutting though B & Q car park.

I’m only recounting this tedious story because I started swimming again this week. Due to old folk’s complaints, I’ve been, factually and euphemistically, out of the water for a month. It doesn’t suit me. It makes me even more disagreeable than usual. A friend from the changing room emailed to say could I hurry up and return because she had no-one normal to talk to. And when I reappeared on Monday, after knowing her for seven years, she invited me for coffee for the first time. These are truly desperate days.

I don’t know whether some well-meaning GP has advised a load of old folk to take a spot of exercise in the pool but we were back to the slalom: this time trying to swim a path between herds of ancient wilder beast wandering aimlessly through the water with no sense of direction or purpose. I asked the duty manager whether they were filming a remake of Cocoon. Duty manager was of an age whereby reference to Cocoon meant nothing. She claimed they were there for social reasons. Well, go to the frigging park then! Why would you be so ancient and insist on getting up at 6 in the morning?

Probably because these foggy silent nights are so very long.

There’s a knock at the door. That’s one of my favourite phrases in literature. It conjures up expectations of unknown and generally unwanted visitors. In Chez Martin, I end a chapter with those six words. It’s a well-tested tool to inspire the reader onwards to the next part of the book. In The History Boys, Alan Bennett indulges Hector with almost half a lesson of discussion regarding who might be responsible for the knock at the door. And the most famous, and probably the most often paraphrased visitor, is the Person from Porlock. Allegedly responsible for the non-completion of Coleridge’s Kubla Khan, the Person from Porlock has since travelled widely throughout the history of literature, including a cameo appearance in another favourite of mine: arriving unexpectedly, Morse accuses Lewis of being the Person from Porlock. In those days, Lewis played the stooge and replies, ‘no sir, Newcastle’.

Anyway, it’s five of the clock in the Twilight Zone that I inhabit. It’s time for unwanted and unsolicited phone calls from people born in other countries: Scotland, for example. I’ve already responded pleasantly to a saleswoman from Ford and am just gearing up to put on my angry head when there’s a knock at the door. What’s the last thing you could possibly imagine being asked on opening the door to unexpected visitors?

Accompanied by his mother, who’s clutching yet another of my late-night Amazon purchases, is Aaron from over the way. ‘Can I watch your washing machine’, he asks? Even mother has the grace to look surprised. If I’d had time to think, I would’ve been ultra cool and said ‘of course’ without batting a drooping eyelid. Let’s face it, the machine, full of towels, and heading in the direction of final spin, sounds as though it’s preparing for a journey across the kitchen and onwards to the car park. Hardly surprising then that Aaron’s attention has been alerted by the noise. As it happens, there’s no time to formulate a reply as Aaron, faster than you can say Fairy Non-Bio, has ducked and dived his way into the kitchen and is looking at the spinning machine in awe:

‘Good Lord’, says Aaron a few times and I have to concur – it’s extraordinarily noisy. Living alone, one doesn’t tend to notice these things. Previous visitors have complained that they can’t hear themselves speak but, like the washing machine, I tend to ignore them.

‘It’s a Bosch’, announces Aaron. ‘Will it start moving? Will it come out?’ As he’s clearly an expert, I wonder whether Bosch machines have a known tendency to travel. I point out that it’s currently jammed against the fridge so, hopefully, will maintain its current position. A number of questions follow:

Why are you doing washing? Do you always do washing on Mondays? Are you doing any more washing afterwards? Will it click when it’s finished? Answers: my clothes are dirty; possibly; no; yes.

Aaron’s mum asks whether they can go home to retrieve the camera and return to take a snap of the Bosch. It’s the second confusing question but at least I have time to be amenable. They leave the Amazon parcel that contains a new book by Graham Robb and an old record by Bruce Hornsby. They return with Aaron’s exercise book in which there are many photographs of the washing machines of friends and family. A commemorative picture is taken. I ask Aaron if he will remember the make of my machine when he writes up his latest acquisition and he regards me as if I am stupid. ‘A Bosch’. I ask Aaron if he would like to switch off the now silent machine for me. This is received in a better frame of mind. All is silent. ‘What’s the noise’, he asks? I can’t hear anything so I look at mother for help. Mother is looking around vaguely. It’s the silent fridge which is, apparently, not so silent to those with acute hearing.

Aaron is bored: ‘whose door shall we knock on now’, he enquires? Marie seems to be in the frame and serve her right after that unfortunate business with the skip.

Aaron is eleven years old. Where I work, we refer to our students as having learning differences. Those with learning difficulties don’t make it into higher education. Actually, in Aaron’s case, they don’t even make it into mainstream education, let alone further, higher or anywhere else. They go to school in a mini-bus that does the rounds daily to collect all these special children. And at the end of the day, the mini-bus brings them home and returns them to the arms of ever-smiling parents.

‘Thank-you for the parcel’, I say.

‘I didn’t even hear the washing machine’, says Linda.

Some way along the A34, at a point where recently demolished chimneys used to mark the half-way point on this particular journey, I glimpse the flashing and thrashing of huge brown feathered wings amongst the brave, road-lining trees. Autumn is almost upon us as I write but the colour-changing, storm-waiting foliage has yet to fall. Unlike the pheasant that drops to the ground from the branches like a weighted coloured stone as I pass. Had I not been driving, I might’ve seen the hawk reatttain giddy heights in search of something more manageable. Reattain. It is a proper word but seems clumsy when speaking of the elegance of hawks. In any case, this hawk may well have waited for the irritating traffic to pass before reclaiming its prey.

It’s not a bad road, the A34, but it has its moments. I’ve travelled it for more years than is justifiable for any harm I’ve ever done others. Small children with a toy rabbit, over which they have thrown up, and which subsequently lost an ear by being washed and hung ignominiously on a line at Grandma’s, are now in their mid-thirties. A later, unexpected, but gratefully received son who was taken en route to see Thomas the Tank Engine at Didcot railway junction, now – to me – mysteriously manages clients and speaks kindly, but authoritatively to his speedily aging mother.

And still I travel onwards to my own parents. I drive along that part of the road which takes a dangerous fork where the choice is London Town or the nebulous Midlands; and a place that used to be Newbury before it became bypassed. I’ve yet to enjoy this stretch. Beacon Hill. It sounds spiritual. Why, in 39 years, does it always rain here? It’s greyer than the rest of England. It’s spooky. I don’t like it. And I’m bored so, even though it’s not time for lunch, I need distraction and reach for my sandwich and crisps. Today’s ‘meal deal’ is bacon and egg crammed into pieces of brown bread with a shiny packet of cheese and onion cholesterol.

I remember when travelling lunches were quite different. There wasn’t a lot of journeying back in the day but there were rare school outings of which the ‘picnic’ was an integral part. The sandwich arrived in greaseproof paper and comprised, inevitably, cheese and cucumber. I don’t know whether it was the effect of the greaseproof paper or whether the food was simply better: I do know that, no matter how far you’d travelled, the cheese was neither bland nor sweaty: it was tasty and strong and reminded you of the village shop and thus of the home from which one had been temporarily wrenched. And the cucumber was like a refreshing drink: sharp, hard, juicy and with a distinctive smell. The crisps were in a slippery bag with a little corner of salt hidden at the bottom.

Travelling lunches are de rigeur now. And tricky to access. They arrive in triangular, cardboard packaging which is impossible to open with one hand on the wheel. I’ve travelled twenty minutes, nibbled at the crisps and arrived at the hawk-causing carnage before I manage to make an intrusion into my ‘all day breakfast’ goodies. Despite the frustration, the result is fortuitous. By the time I see the pheasant fall in its death throes, not only have I managed to open the sandwich packing, I am actually hungry. Further, I am listening to something wonderful.

In that foreboding part of the A34, that unnerving no-man-or-woman’s land, radio reception is muffled. Communication with the outside world is non-existent so I play a CD. I am amongst the last of those who haven’t yet accomplished musical downloads. Every now and then, my darling boy, who was once so grateful to see the fat controller, gives me a CD that he thinks I will enjoy. I love the latest gift despite the fact I’m unable to differentiate between the name of the band and the title of their production. I revel in the fact that he knows exactly what I’ll relish. By the time I’ve arrived at the scene of carnage, I’m doing a spot of hand dancing and eating my sandwich. I’m full of bonhomie.

The last time I wrote about a road it was by way of an exercise demanded by tutors on a course I was studying. I didn’t even have to think about which road to write about. I was so unhappy it was obvious that there was nothing so dreadful in my life at that time as the A30. And, as there was no way I could write rationally about what I then referred to as ‘that bloody, bloody road’, traversing the bleakness of Bodmin Moor in a south westerly direction, I wrote about being homeward bound. Stupid tutors. Clever tutors: what a great way to make you thing about travelling rather than leaving or arriving. A bit like life really.

The road to your parents may be tedious. The arrival might not be quite what you’d anticipated. But some people can no longer make the journey.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=TZ9IXScip68