FRIDAY 13th JUNE.
I am now sat on the 11:10am to Plymouth at Leeds train station, bound for Administer via Exeter. This is for the “World nettle eating contest” in Marshwood Dorset, and I will be in England now for the next three months recharging my batteries, - (I suppose I could have done that in Spain, - just used a different adaptor).
I had an interesting time coming through security at Alicante airport yesterday. Apart from the usual shenanigans trying to get my belt off, (the metal tip of which snares the loops of my jeans rather like a fish hook in the mouth of a startled Chub), I managed to set off the alarm. During the ensuing frisk, the gentleman found a lump on my leg, - it didn’t worry me, it was my money, it worried him though, and he passed me on to the head of security.
The offending envelope was placed on a desk, the officer looked at me and then asked me how much money I had in there (of course all this is going on in Spanish so I was never really sure at any point what was being said exactly, to whom and why). I’d been to the bank the previous day to draw a few quid out, and this money I had; I then pooled it with the money I had left hanging around in the house, so in truth I didn’t know exactly how much I had at all. I told him this, - or at least I think I did. I was suddenly feeling rather vulnerable and just a mite flustered and my pidgin Spanish was baffling the best of em. I was using words I’d never heard of before, and at one point, thinking that I was being accused of theft or of being a drug baron, I produced my bank book showing at least where some of the cash had come from. He must have asked me if I was travelling alone half a dozen times, before shaking his head and producing a tiny piece of laminated card with a table of numbers on it.
The conclusion of this little one way argument was that I had heinously broken the law by taking more than my allotted number of bank notes out of Spain. Let’s get this right though, I could understand it when they had the peseta, but the euro isn’t strictly theirs is it? Think there’s about another forty countries laying claim to it up to press.
Anyway, I was quite chuffed really, it’s probably the only time in my life that I’ve been accused of having too much money.
Leeds train station is bustling as usual and I settle down for the long journey with only empty cans of Heineken and Strongbow in the seat pocket in front for company, also there were plastic glasses filled with lager (hopefully) in the main luggage rack and several Tetley’s bitter cans rolling about on the floor, and this is 11:00am!. A chap with a plastic bin liner came round just outside Derby and did a half hearted clear up but still left me with my empty ale cans, which was good of him.
It’s amazing how fast these journeys can go if you have something good to read, I’d polished off the newspaper in ten minutes flat as usual, mainly because I only ever read the “Man flushes dentures down the toilet” type headlines and the sport. However at the moment I am reading a quite brilliant book by Harry Thompson called Penguins stopped Play. Harry who? I hear you ask, and I’d never heard of him either, but it turns out that I should have done. The Observer newspaper voted him one of the funniest and most influential people in British comedy. Not surprising really when he was the producer of such programmes as Harry Enfield and Chums, Have I got News For You and They Think It’s All Over, and many, many more. He also was instrumental in creating the Ali G character and did much to further the careers of Ricky Gervais, Nick Hancock and Paul Whitehouse. The book is essentially about his cricket team “The Captain Scott Invitation X1” (so called because Scott was an heroic runner up), whereby he assembles a team of players who have never actually played the game before!. His accounts of these games and the subsequent world tour are absolutely superb and I didn’t look up again until Birmingham New Street station, and even then it was only because a cleaner finally relieved me of the empty Heineken and Strongbow tins, which was a bit of a shame in the end, we’d formed a bond.
At the arrival at each station a scratchy voice comes over the intercom announcing where we are and usually apologizing for it’s late arrival. More often than not this is delivered in stop start mode, a la Norman Collier, either that or the volume is equal to that to a knackered portable radio with flat batteries. This usually results in startled recently awoken passengers croaking “what did he say”, before frantically craning their heads desperately scouring the platform looking for a clue.
While we’re on the subject of craning your head desperately looking for a clue, why the hell are destinations put on the front of trains?, we embark from the side don’t we?. Unless you happen to be in the privileged position of being on the platforms edge when the train arrives, and just happen to be looking in the right direction to see the two inch high letters through the grime, then you’ve got to take a guess and mumble to someone, “This the Exeter train?”. They’ll invariably reply “I think so”, nobody is ever really sure on British railways, talk about magical mystery tour.
In actual fact the intercom had been working fine at the start of the journey, and some bloke by the name of Chris announced himself to us, rattling off our stopping off points and telling us we could get tea, coffee and sandwiches but this wasn’t recommended unless you were earning at least fifty grand a year.
I think that maybe our friend Chris had left his microphone switched on by mistake in between stations, as I distinctly heard a sneeze, a cough, and most bizarrely of all a wolf whistle!. (A couple of hours later I realized that it wasn’t the intercom at all, but a young student type behind me playing some strange game on his mobile phone). He then announced that unfortunately the display screens that tell you what carriage you’re on weren’t working so all those people who had reserved a seat (these were on coach C), didn’t have a clue where coach C was and drifted up and down looking for the conductor. Actually, I’ve got a reserved seat somewhere on this train, but I’m quite happy where I am thank you, whatever carriage I’m on.
There was then another announcement which said “Can I remind you that there is no smoking whatsoever anywhere on this train, including the toilets. And if anybody is found doing so they will be put out on the next platform, regardless of if it’s their stop or not!”. Just who exactly was going to put them out on the platform I don’t know, the conductor was about seven stone wet through and the driver was a bit tied up.
The first leg of my journey complete, I arrive at Exeter St. David’s station and in direct contrast to my other visits this year thus far the weather is fine and warm and I can feel a good mood coming on. I approach a middle aged lady, with a bright yellow waistcoat that says “customer services” on the back.
“Excuse me, I’m after the train for Axminster, do you know when the next one is please?”. She slowly produced her timetable.
“Ooh, yeah, roight, Aaarksminster you say, roight, oil just check thart for yer. Humm, now then, let’s see. Aaarksminster, that would be the London Waterloo train, or at least it is usually”. With that she pulled the piece of paper closer to her nose and with a slight nod of the head. “No, I’m wrong there I think, now let’s see, we are at Exeter St. David’s and you want to get to Aaaarksminster, that would be the London Waterloo train, - which is what I thort it was in the first place. Yes, definitely, that would be the London Waterloo train leaving in twenty minutes from platform number, er, three. No, er, - yes, platform number three in twenty minutes, - definitely”. She was my first contact with people in Devon since I worked in Devon in 1986, and I liked her.
Whilst I was waiting on platform three I heard another strange announcement, “Can we remind all passengers, not to board a train unless you intend to travel on it – thank you”. Fair enough, they must have terrible trouble with passengers purposely getting on the wrong train round these parts.
I arrived at Axminster station (on time!), which is a delightfully small single track station which reminded me of Walmington-on-sea. The place where I’m staying is only about twenty minutes walk from here apparently so I thought I’d just hop into a taxi as I haven’t a clue which direction it is. There were no taxis to be seen anywhere so I made for the call box and picked up one of the business cards that had been left in there. I lift the receiver and put my twenty pence in, nothing, - dead as a Dodo. What’s this? Minimum charge forty pence!, since when?. I phone the number whilst simultaneously rummaging through my pockets looking for the piece of paper with the address of my bed and breakfast accommodation written on it. As I got through I realized that I couldn’t find it. “Er, could I have a taxi please, I’m going to Stoney Lane”, said with a certain relief that I could suddenly recall the name of the road. “Is thart in Seaton then?”.
“I’m sorry, where?”
“Seaton, that’s where we are you see, Seaton”.
“Actually, no, I’m at Axminster train station, I’ve just found one of your cards in here”.
“Well, you’d probably be better off with a local firm, goodbye”.
I then pick up one of the other cards left in there and try again. “Hello, could I have a taxi to Stoney Lane please”.
“Stoney Lane, where’s thart then?, that’s in Seaton is it?, Oym not sure oive ever heard of thart”.
“No, I’m in Axminster one of your cards is in this telephone box, and I just thought that maybe you were a local firm, - sorry, I’ll try another number”.
My third attempt. “Can I have a taxi to Stoney Lane please, the name’s Holt”.
“Stoney Lane, tharts in Aaarksminster isn’t it?.
“Er, yes, yes it is”, I said excitedly.
“Well” (this word was dragged out so long that I just knew there was a “but” coming up in the sentence somewhere).
“We caan do et, but it’ll cost you abowt fifteen pownd – because thess firm is baysed in Seaton you see”.
“Yes, I have heard of it, thank you”.
I had run out of fifty and twenty pences at an early stage and had been shoveling pound coins in for a while and I wasted another on a number I picked up in the train station for “Cheap, local and reliable Taxis”. They weren’t that reliable at answering their phones though and I gave the box a resounding thwack with my palm as I was diverted to an answer phone and winced as my penultimate coin plopped down with rest of my beer money.
I celebrated getting through to a local firm with my last coin with a silent clenched fist celebration, they went up further in my estimations when the driver turned up on time and guessed the name of my Bed and Breakfast from my vague description of “Mill something”.
As we drove through the town centre it struck me that Axminster was smaller by far than I had imagined. I don’t know why, but I had pictured a large bustling town with a dirty great big carpet factory in the middle with a huge steaming chimney sticking out of the top it.
It has it’s origins back in the Celtic times of around 300 B.C, and is set among some glorious countryside on the river Exe (which I never saw). It was Thomas Whitty who invented the Axminster carpet based on a Turkish style and opened his first factory in 1755. Axminster carpets soon became the choice for wealthy English country homes and town houses, they were found in Chatsworth Hall and Brighton Pavilion and bought by King George the third and Queen Charlotte. However by 1835 Samuel Rampson Whitty, the grandson of the founder was declared bankrupt after a disastrous fire seven years earlier which destroyed the factories looms. After a gap of the best part of a hundred years a carpet maker called Harry Duffield, (after a chance meeting with a vicar on a train, who told him the story), the germ of an idea was born and in 1937 carpet making was resumed in Axminster.
We arrived at Millwater House, a former working saw mill which was hidden away at the bottom of a private driveway that it shared with a spacious bungalow. As I waved off the taxi driver and the family of Americans who had shared my cab I was greeted on the doorstep by Ruth the owner, a charming understated woman who looked a lot younger than she sounded on the phone and she showed me to my room with a shy smile.
I immediately began to relax and as I stretched my arms skyward and peered out of the window, and saw a solitary grey squirrel sat motionless beneath a bird table on the lawn outside. In fact it looked so motionless that I thought that maybe it was a little statue, but its living status was confirmed later, - by it not being there when I left for the pub.
I was suddenly in my element as I picnicked on my bed with the leftover sandwiches that I’d made for the train, a couple of bananas were dug out of the bottom of my bag and I made a cuppa with my “tea making facilities”. England cricket team were just kicking off in their opening Twenty20 one day match against New Zealand, the commentary of which seduced me from my portable radio on the bed side table, and there was football on the telly!. I’m definitely coming back here again!, I thought. Okay, the game was only Italy versus Romania, us English weren’t invited to the European Championships of course, on account of the fact we’re rubbish. This does have its up side. It means that my heart rate can stay put all summer long for one thing, although I will miss the glorious uncertainty of just who would despairingly miss from the spot, and thus knocking us out in a penalty shoot out at the quarter final stage.
What added to my serenity was that I was entirely uncontactable, although a pain in the rear end earlier with the taxis, the detached feeling from the rest of the world here in my B and B in a tranquil corner of East Devon was marvellous. My mobile phone doesn’t work properly over here and my English phone number had been cancelled in my absence by “T-Mobile”, I hadn’t had time to fix it before I came, and at this stage I’m not sure I wanted to.
I ventured out at around 8:30pm, remembering carefully the route the taxi had taken that brought me here. The only sound I could hear was my own two feet as I strolled my way up the lane in the early evening sun and into the town centre, it’s Friday night and I was expecting that there would be a few people hanging about. After wandering about for a few minutes trying to get my bearings I called into a large looking pub called The George, there was nobody in there save for a couple of Aussies chatting semi drunkenly at the bar. Shades of the cheese rolling in Brockworth, must be here for the nettle eating I surmised, I fell into line and ordered a pint of Fosters lager. A quick glance around the place revealed a television behind me, I was hoping that they would have the football on but my heart sank when I heard the broad Geordie nasal tones of that bloke who does the commentary for Big Brother.
I moseyed across to a table with newspapers and periodicals strewn across it and picked up the Daily Mirror – again, and didn’t find it much more interesting than I had done earlier on the train.
I drained my glass and set off for another little amble around town, making note of a chip shop for later use I then happened upon the “Red Lion” which advertised “All sport shown”, so in I went and ordered a pint of “Sharps Doom Bitter”. At least the place was quite full, mainly due to a wedding party, but it was another pub that has gone down the line of the Mediterranean terracotta wall look adorned with arty modern paintings (what’s wrong with looking like an English pub these days?). There was a sign above the bar which advertised “O.A.P roasts every Thursday lunch”, Hmmm, they’re probably a bit chewy I thought. The football wasn’t on here either, they’d got a music channel on so I had another swift one and set off for pastures new.
The “Axminster Arms” was the best so far, even though my pint of “Palmers Copper Ale” was presented to me with one of those fairy liquid bubble heads which has usually disappeared before you’ve got the damn thing to your lips. Even so, it felt like a nice pub to me, they had friendly bar staff and a couple of blues musicians in an adjoining room so I shimmied up the bar to get a better view. From where I was stood it appeared as though the chap sat to my right was blowing down what looked to be an electric razor, mind you, it sounded a lot better than mine, and to my untrained ear resembled a clarinet in sound. They went down well anyway and as I spun round to order a “Taunton traditional cask cider” (it must be the real stuff as it looked like second hand dishwater), the crowd showed their appreciation with warm applause.
As far as the blues is concerned, after a couple of songs, a solo on the harmonica and the odd mention of a dead relative or two, I’ve usually had enough, and so it was again here. It made for a good atmosphere though, I’d found a pub here that I really liked and I felt a warm glow (it was probably the cider) as I strolled across by the telly to watch the U.S Open Golf.
I know I risk sounding like a sports bore here but the truth is that when I’m mooching around on my own it’s handy to have something to watch, it keeps me occupied and a little less conspicuous, which in turn makes you a bit less of a target from the local pub nutter.
I made my exit just before last orders to avoid the crush at the fish shop, - I avoided the crush alright, it was shut. There was an Indian takeaway that looked as if it might have been open, but I’m not a big fan so I headed for home instead. As I gingerly made my up the darkened driveway to “Millwater House” my progress was checked by a very sociable tortoise shell cat that folded its self around my shins as I walked, and from a distance I must have appeared steaming drunk as I tripped and stumbled toward the old wooden porch. My stomach was gurgling expectantly as I crept up the staircase and into the room, but I had nothing to offer it and I put the kettle on. The milk was kept in a miniature fridge in the hallway in which were three bottles of milk each with a room number on written in black marker pen, which was very quaint I thought. I sat back on my bed and listened to a debate on the radio, about a school teacher who whipped off his shirt to flash his “man boobs” in order to get his pupils attention. They don’t throw the board rubber, or smack you on the back of the head with wooden rulers any more then?.
I found a packet of “Deans Shortbread”, cut into “petticoat tails” on my tea tray and I feverishly opened the wrapping like a six year old on Christmas morning, and flew at them, teeth first, showering crumbs to all corners.
I awoke next morning in good time for the 8 o’clock breakfast which was very nice, the few beers I’d had the night before once again tweaking my taste buds to enjoy fried food. I looked out of the window and on to the spacious gardens, I could see that once again the weather was being kind and as I spooned out another home made dollop of orange and pineapple marmalade, I promised myself that this would be the last thing that would pass my lips until I tackled my first nettle in Marshwood.
My constant companion the portable long wave radio is once again pressed into action as it accompanies me to the bathroom as England take on New Zealand, this time at rugby. We were 6-3 up when I went into the shower and 23-6 down when I came out, - talk about a shower of shite!. This doesn’t affect my good mood however and I’m whistling as I dress and I notice through my window the elderly bow-legged next door neighbour filling up his ancient looking watering can from the adjoining stream.
As I cheerily walk up the lane, this time knowing exactly where I’m heading, I can’t stop singing the song “The day we went to Bangor”, this is baffling in the extreme, I haven’t the slightest idea why I’m doing this, I don’t know if I passed a sign for Bangor whilst on the train or there were some sausage related headlines in the paper yesterday or what, but on I go belting it out all the way into the town centre. Once there I take a look round the “River cottage local produce store”, this is owned by one of the hundreds of T.V chefs on the go these days by the name of Hugh Fearnley-Whittingstall. You can’t go very far round these parts without hearing his name being mentioned, indeed when I arrived at the Bed and Breakfast Ruth the owner proudly told me that some of the production team from the programme River Cottage were going to be staying there. If you’ve never heard of him, he’s the one with the wild hair and The Good Life approach. He cooks up some pretty weird recipes grows all his own organic vegetables, and feeds his chickens on stake and chips. He has also made his own “Stinger ale” which is beer made from nettles, I wonder if he’ll be there this afternoon?.
I am drawn to the sound of music so I walk through the church yard and find myself at the “Weavers Gardens” where there is a four piece jazz ensemble playing away in the sunshine to an audience politely watching and clapping sat in rows on fold down chairs.
I took a couple of photos and then a leisurely walk around the tiny museum which was situated next door to this and had a good chat with the very pleasant woman who’d accosted me has I’d walked in.
It was now nearing mid day, and I’d already booked a cab in advance to take me the six miles to Marshwood and so I made my way to the taxi rank.
I was dropped off at the “Bottle Inn” pub at around 12:30, in good time I thought to see the lay of the land and get my name down for the competition. I poked my head round the door to find,………absolutely no one, not a soul, not even behind the bar!. After a short while the young bar maid breezed over. “Am I a bit early for the nettle eating competition then?”, I inquired sheepishly
“Yes, by exactly a week”, was the short and to the point answer that had me falling off my stool.
“What!???, you’re joking, I’ve come a long way for this!”.
“No, it’s next week alright, and funnily enough you’re not the only one to get the date wrong”. I mentioned that that was probably because today’s date was listed in every piece of literature I could find for this event, it had been in the country magazine that I had read at the breakfast table at the guest house that very morning and it was listed for today on the pub’s own website!. But it was next week and that was that. I took a few snaps of the empty pub to prove that I’d been here and forlornly traipsed around the huge beer garden morosely sucking on my pint of “Otter Bitter” (The brewery’s slogan being, “relax with an Otter”).
What a bloody farce, I’d just spent £15 on a taxi to get here and now I had to get back again, there certainly didn’t seem much point in staying here. It was obviously going to be throbbing next week, not only nettle eating but four guest beers and a gorgeous looking girl behind the bar I was promised, but today, nothing. I wasted a few more pounds coins on the telephone in the bar, every time I got through to the taxi rank I could hear them but they couldn’t hear me, but luckily they’d put two and two together and phoned me back. They couldn’t do anything for an hour so I ordered a pint of “Murphys” stout and then an “Isle of Purbeck Fossil Fuel” bitter.
Whilst I was at the bar waiting for my taxi one of the newly arrived customers came up to order some food and called the bar maid over, “Excuse me, could I have “Curry of the day”.
“Yes, of course. – do you want me to tell you what curry it is?”
“No thank you”, and with that he sat down again.
I cheered up a little bit when I recalled that there was a beer festival this afternoon on the outskirts of Axminster so I asked the driver to drop me off there to see if I could salvage this operation.
It was around 1:30pm when I arrived at the “Axminster beer, music and cider festival”. It was a huge marquee that could probably house thousands, It was £6 to get in and an extra pound if you wanted to purchase your own glass, otherwise you were stuck with one of those horrible plastic jobs. I purchased my own glass and was greeted with a scene not unlike the one that I’d just left. It was sparsely populated to say the least but it was early doors I was assured. I tackled a glass (the glasses were approximately half a pint) of “Old Knobbly”, the official description said “brown, malty and complete best bitter”, and caught the arse end of “Angelina with Keith Nelson”. They said that they always finished with the same song that they start with, so they did, and came off to the sound of the grass growing.
This sent my “Old Knobbly” a bit flat and I sat there with what looked like a glass of coffee for the next ten minutes.
It was now time for my first visit to the portaloos, which involved washing your hands with skin sanitiser, a strange substance which resembles spittle and acts like metholated spirits, evaporating into thin air after a couple of lusty rubs. By the third and fourth time I’d taken to sniffing it.
Next up it was Steve somebody or other and Al Richardson, and on closer inspection it was our old blues friends from the “Axminster Inn” the night before, and it wasn’t too long before the old “Phillishave” was out again. They didn’t sound quite as good second time round, but that could have been down to the “No Angel Bitter” – “4% - a bitter with a dry hop finish, well balanced and full of flavour with hints of fruit and hops” (tasted like bonfire toffee). I actually devoured a couple of these in quick succession as Al (or is it Steve) had now started on the jokes which resulted in much scratching of heads and puffing out of cheeks.
After an hour there was still not much sign of it taking off and I sat at a large round table on my own reading the beer list (you’ve probably noticed) and the order of acts. On the table to my right sits a middle aged couple, him with a rucksack on his back and a baseball cap, and her looking quite normal – they don’t speak a word to each other.
On the table in front there sits three men of varying ages that look like they’re from the campaign for real ale group, they take turns to go to the bar, like me, trying as many different concoctions as they can. Each time they expertly lift their glass to their noses and take a slow sip, and then either nod or give a shake of the head. They don’t speak either. I’m in full “people watching” mode now and there’s a bloke two tables away with spiky grey hair, mutton chop whiskers and an Elvis tattoo on his upper arm and looks a bit of a sad loner. He probably thinks the same about me.
The crowd is now slowly growing but they pay little or no attention to the show being put on for their benefit, a fact highlighted when they blindly clapped the C.D put on between acts!. To be fair it was a live C.D and there was applause after one of the tracks and they just sort of joined in.
It’s now 3pm and it’s time for Siophan (pronounced Shivon) Park. She begins. “This next song is called “Too much to ask” (think she’d been at the “Old Knobbly”). This was followed with “A bit less guitar and a little bit more vocals please”. A catchy little title. And then. “No, a little bit less guitar” (probably the follow up single). Apart from her run in with sound technician she was a fair singer, from Ireland I think she was, and I was dying to sing along, but the truth was I’d been in there for two and a half hours and I’d yet to hear a song I’d heard of.
It was time for another drink “Stairway to heaven” – “4.2% - a golden bitter, a perfectly balanced beer. The malty and hoppy leads to a hoppy body with some astringency”.
The three real ale experts in front of me are obviously running short of funds and are down to buying one glass of ale and passing it round, each snootily sniffing and sipping as they went. It was now 3:55pm and Miss Park sang Will you still love me tomorrow- hang on, I know this!. I don’t think anyone else did though, and as I peered down to the front of the marquee I counted three people actually facing the stage. As she finished her set to restrained applause the Willie Nelson type compere shouted “Do you want more!?”, this was quickly followed up with “Don’t look so bloody miserable!”. This comment was actually aimed at the singer!.
My table, which had been solely mine up until now is now infiltrated by a bunch of students adopting Australian accents, I’m not sure if they do this intentionally though, the truth is that most youngsters sound vaguely antipodean to me, it’s that bit whereby the inflexion of the voice goes up at the end, where did that come from?, - Neighbours, Sons and Daughters, Prisoner Cell Block H, old repeats of Skippy?.
At 4pm the tone of the thing changed dramatically when a guy called Andy Strickland got up with an electric guitar and let rip with some Bryan Adams, Pink Floyd and The Police’s Message In A Bottle – weh hey!, it’s what was required and the swelling numbers appreciated it.
It was about now that I decided to take time out for a bit and after a brief visit back at the guest house I revisited the “Axminster Inn” where they were watching local hero Hugh Fearnley-Whittingstall on the box in his latest venture of inviting guests round for dinner and feeding them tree bark sandwiches, Bat’s ears and lentils in seawater and lime juice, Pigs cheeks in batter and a hedgehogs bum for desert.
I later returned to the beer festival, complete with my beer glass in my coat pocket at round about half past nine just in time to catch blues duet Steve and Al Richardson – for the third time in less than 24 hours!. I had a glass of “Yellow Hammer”. I’m pretty sure that’s what it was anyway. I usually have a pad and pen in my pocket to remind me of what went on (especially if I’ve been drinking), but reading back my notes after this point is a bit taxing. They resemble the “after” signature of Guy Fawkes that I once saw on a programme that showed you his autograph before and after he was tortured for being a very, very naughty boy.
The place was pretty much packed by now, I had no chance of a seat and I stood there like a lemon constantly lifting my glass to the air and suddenly turning my body at ninety degrees to avoid revelers heading for the portaloos.
I briefly tried to engage in conversation with a tall bloke with a Mohican hair cut that I’d seen previously in the “Axminster Inn”, but when the conversation turned to what I do for a living I inwardly groan. Trying to explain this is always a bit of a trial, especially so when you happen to be stood in the middle of a field in a tent with a background of mandolins, acoustic guitars and people in beards blowing down electric razors whilst being barged from pillar to post by drunken young farmers.
I left shortly before midnight for the pleasant three quarters of an hour long walk back to Millwater House, which took about an hour and a half.
Slightly disheveled, I made my way down the stairs and to breakfast. The two from the production team from River Cottage were there soon after I got to the table, we never got into conversation though, and anyway, I didn’t fancy letting it slip that I’d come all the way here from Spain a week early by mistake. The owners Ruth and Keith gave the game away though, breezing in and announcing “We were at the beer festival last night and somebody said that the nettle eating is next week”.
“Indeed so, but I’ll be back, not next week, next year”. And so it shall be.
They waved me off, very kindly offering to give me a lift to the train station, which I declined.
As I stood on the platform observing a British Railways employee sat waiting for the train wearing a solitary rubber glove – security must be getting pretty keen I thought, I reflected on another enjoyable trip, I didn’t think it would be as good on my own, but I had enjoyed my visit and was glad that I’d have to come back again.
The train rolled up, all six carriages of it, which was approximately one each which seemed a bit extravagant for a Sunday. You trying getting a train during the rush hour through the week from Leeds and you’ll find yourself stood nose to nose with some stranger on one of the packed two carriages clinging on to a pole or a solitary strap, and not being able to breathe out until you reach Sheffield.
The train was in fact so long, that to get off at some of the lesser stations, which I presumed must have included Axminster, you had to disembark from the front two carriages only. After about five minutes the chap I had seen outside with the rubber glove passed me tidying up the table in front, he was a rubbish collector, which was a relief. So I zipped up my trousers and wished him well.
On arrival at Leeds I had a bit of time before my connection to Guiseley where I was to visit my parents, so I took time out to visit my favourite pub in Leeds “The Duncan”. There’s usually a whole batch of characters to be found in here, and just one short stint at the bar you can observe the full range of human emotions from hysterical laughter to crocodile tears of despair. I ordered a pint of “Sammuel Smiths” bitter. “Well, you can have one but I’ve got no pennies”, says the landlady. This puzzled me somewhat, but it became immediately clear, when she asked me for £1.39, I’ll repeat that, £1.39!, it’s about £2 for a pint of bitter in working men’s clubs!.
Sure enough there had been some sort of argument in the far corner and a middle aged woman was slyly sobbing. The landlady, not even looking over in her direction as she pulled a pint of lager says “Oi, don’t be crying in your beer in here, there’s enough water in there already!”. A conversation started about men and women’s roles in the world, the landlady says, “You earn the money and we spend it”, a grizzled pensioner takes a toke of his pint and says “Aye, and you’re doing a grand job of it, if I may say so”. He went on, “You take advantage of us an all, every time I fall asleep the wife’s got her hands down me underpants!”, she shouts back.
“She’s after yer money, yer silly old bugger”
I had an interesting time coming through security at Alicante airport yesterday. Apart from the usual shenanigans trying to get my belt off, (the metal tip of which snares the loops of my jeans rather like a fish hook in the mouth of a startled Chub), I managed to set off the alarm. During the ensuing frisk, the gentleman found a lump on my leg, - it didn’t worry me, it was my money, it worried him though, and he passed me on to the head of security.
The offending envelope was placed on a desk, the officer looked at me and then asked me how much money I had in there (of course all this is going on in Spanish so I was never really sure at any point what was being said exactly, to whom and why). I’d been to the bank the previous day to draw a few quid out, and this money I had; I then pooled it with the money I had left hanging around in the house, so in truth I didn’t know exactly how much I had at all. I told him this, - or at least I think I did. I was suddenly feeling rather vulnerable and just a mite flustered and my pidgin Spanish was baffling the best of em. I was using words I’d never heard of before, and at one point, thinking that I was being accused of theft or of being a drug baron, I produced my bank book showing at least where some of the cash had come from. He must have asked me if I was travelling alone half a dozen times, before shaking his head and producing a tiny piece of laminated card with a table of numbers on it.
The conclusion of this little one way argument was that I had heinously broken the law by taking more than my allotted number of bank notes out of Spain. Let’s get this right though, I could understand it when they had the peseta, but the euro isn’t strictly theirs is it? Think there’s about another forty countries laying claim to it up to press.
Anyway, I was quite chuffed really, it’s probably the only time in my life that I’ve been accused of having too much money.
Leeds train station is bustling as usual and I settle down for the long journey with only empty cans of Heineken and Strongbow in the seat pocket in front for company, also there were plastic glasses filled with lager (hopefully) in the main luggage rack and several Tetley’s bitter cans rolling about on the floor, and this is 11:00am!. A chap with a plastic bin liner came round just outside Derby and did a half hearted clear up but still left me with my empty ale cans, which was good of him.
It’s amazing how fast these journeys can go if you have something good to read, I’d polished off the newspaper in ten minutes flat as usual, mainly because I only ever read the “Man flushes dentures down the toilet” type headlines and the sport. However at the moment I am reading a quite brilliant book by Harry Thompson called Penguins stopped Play. Harry who? I hear you ask, and I’d never heard of him either, but it turns out that I should have done. The Observer newspaper voted him one of the funniest and most influential people in British comedy. Not surprising really when he was the producer of such programmes as Harry Enfield and Chums, Have I got News For You and They Think It’s All Over, and many, many more. He also was instrumental in creating the Ali G character and did much to further the careers of Ricky Gervais, Nick Hancock and Paul Whitehouse. The book is essentially about his cricket team “The Captain Scott Invitation X1” (so called because Scott was an heroic runner up), whereby he assembles a team of players who have never actually played the game before!. His accounts of these games and the subsequent world tour are absolutely superb and I didn’t look up again until Birmingham New Street station, and even then it was only because a cleaner finally relieved me of the empty Heineken and Strongbow tins, which was a bit of a shame in the end, we’d formed a bond.
At the arrival at each station a scratchy voice comes over the intercom announcing where we are and usually apologizing for it’s late arrival. More often than not this is delivered in stop start mode, a la Norman Collier, either that or the volume is equal to that to a knackered portable radio with flat batteries. This usually results in startled recently awoken passengers croaking “what did he say”, before frantically craning their heads desperately scouring the platform looking for a clue.
While we’re on the subject of craning your head desperately looking for a clue, why the hell are destinations put on the front of trains?, we embark from the side don’t we?. Unless you happen to be in the privileged position of being on the platforms edge when the train arrives, and just happen to be looking in the right direction to see the two inch high letters through the grime, then you’ve got to take a guess and mumble to someone, “This the Exeter train?”. They’ll invariably reply “I think so”, nobody is ever really sure on British railways, talk about magical mystery tour.
In actual fact the intercom had been working fine at the start of the journey, and some bloke by the name of Chris announced himself to us, rattling off our stopping off points and telling us we could get tea, coffee and sandwiches but this wasn’t recommended unless you were earning at least fifty grand a year.
I think that maybe our friend Chris had left his microphone switched on by mistake in between stations, as I distinctly heard a sneeze, a cough, and most bizarrely of all a wolf whistle!. (A couple of hours later I realized that it wasn’t the intercom at all, but a young student type behind me playing some strange game on his mobile phone). He then announced that unfortunately the display screens that tell you what carriage you’re on weren’t working so all those people who had reserved a seat (these were on coach C), didn’t have a clue where coach C was and drifted up and down looking for the conductor. Actually, I’ve got a reserved seat somewhere on this train, but I’m quite happy where I am thank you, whatever carriage I’m on.
There was then another announcement which said “Can I remind you that there is no smoking whatsoever anywhere on this train, including the toilets. And if anybody is found doing so they will be put out on the next platform, regardless of if it’s their stop or not!”. Just who exactly was going to put them out on the platform I don’t know, the conductor was about seven stone wet through and the driver was a bit tied up.
The first leg of my journey complete, I arrive at Exeter St. David’s station and in direct contrast to my other visits this year thus far the weather is fine and warm and I can feel a good mood coming on. I approach a middle aged lady, with a bright yellow waistcoat that says “customer services” on the back.
“Excuse me, I’m after the train for Axminster, do you know when the next one is please?”. She slowly produced her timetable.
“Ooh, yeah, roight, Aaarksminster you say, roight, oil just check thart for yer. Humm, now then, let’s see. Aaarksminster, that would be the London Waterloo train, or at least it is usually”. With that she pulled the piece of paper closer to her nose and with a slight nod of the head. “No, I’m wrong there I think, now let’s see, we are at Exeter St. David’s and you want to get to Aaaarksminster, that would be the London Waterloo train, - which is what I thort it was in the first place. Yes, definitely, that would be the London Waterloo train leaving in twenty minutes from platform number, er, three. No, er, - yes, platform number three in twenty minutes, - definitely”. She was my first contact with people in Devon since I worked in Devon in 1986, and I liked her.
Whilst I was waiting on platform three I heard another strange announcement, “Can we remind all passengers, not to board a train unless you intend to travel on it – thank you”. Fair enough, they must have terrible trouble with passengers purposely getting on the wrong train round these parts.
I arrived at Axminster station (on time!), which is a delightfully small single track station which reminded me of Walmington-on-sea. The place where I’m staying is only about twenty minutes walk from here apparently so I thought I’d just hop into a taxi as I haven’t a clue which direction it is. There were no taxis to be seen anywhere so I made for the call box and picked up one of the business cards that had been left in there. I lift the receiver and put my twenty pence in, nothing, - dead as a Dodo. What’s this? Minimum charge forty pence!, since when?. I phone the number whilst simultaneously rummaging through my pockets looking for the piece of paper with the address of my bed and breakfast accommodation written on it. As I got through I realized that I couldn’t find it. “Er, could I have a taxi please, I’m going to Stoney Lane”, said with a certain relief that I could suddenly recall the name of the road. “Is thart in Seaton then?”.
“I’m sorry, where?”
“Seaton, that’s where we are you see, Seaton”.
“Actually, no, I’m at Axminster train station, I’ve just found one of your cards in here”.
“Well, you’d probably be better off with a local firm, goodbye”.
I then pick up one of the other cards left in there and try again. “Hello, could I have a taxi to Stoney Lane please”.
“Stoney Lane, where’s thart then?, that’s in Seaton is it?, Oym not sure oive ever heard of thart”.
“No, I’m in Axminster one of your cards is in this telephone box, and I just thought that maybe you were a local firm, - sorry, I’ll try another number”.
My third attempt. “Can I have a taxi to Stoney Lane please, the name’s Holt”.
“Stoney Lane, tharts in Aaarksminster isn’t it?.
“Er, yes, yes it is”, I said excitedly.
“Well” (this word was dragged out so long that I just knew there was a “but” coming up in the sentence somewhere).
“We caan do et, but it’ll cost you abowt fifteen pownd – because thess firm is baysed in Seaton you see”.
“Yes, I have heard of it, thank you”.
I had run out of fifty and twenty pences at an early stage and had been shoveling pound coins in for a while and I wasted another on a number I picked up in the train station for “Cheap, local and reliable Taxis”. They weren’t that reliable at answering their phones though and I gave the box a resounding thwack with my palm as I was diverted to an answer phone and winced as my penultimate coin plopped down with rest of my beer money.
I celebrated getting through to a local firm with my last coin with a silent clenched fist celebration, they went up further in my estimations when the driver turned up on time and guessed the name of my Bed and Breakfast from my vague description of “Mill something”.
As we drove through the town centre it struck me that Axminster was smaller by far than I had imagined. I don’t know why, but I had pictured a large bustling town with a dirty great big carpet factory in the middle with a huge steaming chimney sticking out of the top it.
It has it’s origins back in the Celtic times of around 300 B.C, and is set among some glorious countryside on the river Exe (which I never saw). It was Thomas Whitty who invented the Axminster carpet based on a Turkish style and opened his first factory in 1755. Axminster carpets soon became the choice for wealthy English country homes and town houses, they were found in Chatsworth Hall and Brighton Pavilion and bought by King George the third and Queen Charlotte. However by 1835 Samuel Rampson Whitty, the grandson of the founder was declared bankrupt after a disastrous fire seven years earlier which destroyed the factories looms. After a gap of the best part of a hundred years a carpet maker called Harry Duffield, (after a chance meeting with a vicar on a train, who told him the story), the germ of an idea was born and in 1937 carpet making was resumed in Axminster.
We arrived at Millwater House, a former working saw mill which was hidden away at the bottom of a private driveway that it shared with a spacious bungalow. As I waved off the taxi driver and the family of Americans who had shared my cab I was greeted on the doorstep by Ruth the owner, a charming understated woman who looked a lot younger than she sounded on the phone and she showed me to my room with a shy smile.
I immediately began to relax and as I stretched my arms skyward and peered out of the window, and saw a solitary grey squirrel sat motionless beneath a bird table on the lawn outside. In fact it looked so motionless that I thought that maybe it was a little statue, but its living status was confirmed later, - by it not being there when I left for the pub.
I was suddenly in my element as I picnicked on my bed with the leftover sandwiches that I’d made for the train, a couple of bananas were dug out of the bottom of my bag and I made a cuppa with my “tea making facilities”. England cricket team were just kicking off in their opening Twenty20 one day match against New Zealand, the commentary of which seduced me from my portable radio on the bed side table, and there was football on the telly!. I’m definitely coming back here again!, I thought. Okay, the game was only Italy versus Romania, us English weren’t invited to the European Championships of course, on account of the fact we’re rubbish. This does have its up side. It means that my heart rate can stay put all summer long for one thing, although I will miss the glorious uncertainty of just who would despairingly miss from the spot, and thus knocking us out in a penalty shoot out at the quarter final stage.
What added to my serenity was that I was entirely uncontactable, although a pain in the rear end earlier with the taxis, the detached feeling from the rest of the world here in my B and B in a tranquil corner of East Devon was marvellous. My mobile phone doesn’t work properly over here and my English phone number had been cancelled in my absence by “T-Mobile”, I hadn’t had time to fix it before I came, and at this stage I’m not sure I wanted to.
I ventured out at around 8:30pm, remembering carefully the route the taxi had taken that brought me here. The only sound I could hear was my own two feet as I strolled my way up the lane in the early evening sun and into the town centre, it’s Friday night and I was expecting that there would be a few people hanging about. After wandering about for a few minutes trying to get my bearings I called into a large looking pub called The George, there was nobody in there save for a couple of Aussies chatting semi drunkenly at the bar. Shades of the cheese rolling in Brockworth, must be here for the nettle eating I surmised, I fell into line and ordered a pint of Fosters lager. A quick glance around the place revealed a television behind me, I was hoping that they would have the football on but my heart sank when I heard the broad Geordie nasal tones of that bloke who does the commentary for Big Brother.
I moseyed across to a table with newspapers and periodicals strewn across it and picked up the Daily Mirror – again, and didn’t find it much more interesting than I had done earlier on the train.
I drained my glass and set off for another little amble around town, making note of a chip shop for later use I then happened upon the “Red Lion” which advertised “All sport shown”, so in I went and ordered a pint of “Sharps Doom Bitter”. At least the place was quite full, mainly due to a wedding party, but it was another pub that has gone down the line of the Mediterranean terracotta wall look adorned with arty modern paintings (what’s wrong with looking like an English pub these days?). There was a sign above the bar which advertised “O.A.P roasts every Thursday lunch”, Hmmm, they’re probably a bit chewy I thought. The football wasn’t on here either, they’d got a music channel on so I had another swift one and set off for pastures new.
The “Axminster Arms” was the best so far, even though my pint of “Palmers Copper Ale” was presented to me with one of those fairy liquid bubble heads which has usually disappeared before you’ve got the damn thing to your lips. Even so, it felt like a nice pub to me, they had friendly bar staff and a couple of blues musicians in an adjoining room so I shimmied up the bar to get a better view. From where I was stood it appeared as though the chap sat to my right was blowing down what looked to be an electric razor, mind you, it sounded a lot better than mine, and to my untrained ear resembled a clarinet in sound. They went down well anyway and as I spun round to order a “Taunton traditional cask cider” (it must be the real stuff as it looked like second hand dishwater), the crowd showed their appreciation with warm applause.
As far as the blues is concerned, after a couple of songs, a solo on the harmonica and the odd mention of a dead relative or two, I’ve usually had enough, and so it was again here. It made for a good atmosphere though, I’d found a pub here that I really liked and I felt a warm glow (it was probably the cider) as I strolled across by the telly to watch the U.S Open Golf.
I know I risk sounding like a sports bore here but the truth is that when I’m mooching around on my own it’s handy to have something to watch, it keeps me occupied and a little less conspicuous, which in turn makes you a bit less of a target from the local pub nutter.
I made my exit just before last orders to avoid the crush at the fish shop, - I avoided the crush alright, it was shut. There was an Indian takeaway that looked as if it might have been open, but I’m not a big fan so I headed for home instead. As I gingerly made my up the darkened driveway to “Millwater House” my progress was checked by a very sociable tortoise shell cat that folded its self around my shins as I walked, and from a distance I must have appeared steaming drunk as I tripped and stumbled toward the old wooden porch. My stomach was gurgling expectantly as I crept up the staircase and into the room, but I had nothing to offer it and I put the kettle on. The milk was kept in a miniature fridge in the hallway in which were three bottles of milk each with a room number on written in black marker pen, which was very quaint I thought. I sat back on my bed and listened to a debate on the radio, about a school teacher who whipped off his shirt to flash his “man boobs” in order to get his pupils attention. They don’t throw the board rubber, or smack you on the back of the head with wooden rulers any more then?.
I found a packet of “Deans Shortbread”, cut into “petticoat tails” on my tea tray and I feverishly opened the wrapping like a six year old on Christmas morning, and flew at them, teeth first, showering crumbs to all corners.
I awoke next morning in good time for the 8 o’clock breakfast which was very nice, the few beers I’d had the night before once again tweaking my taste buds to enjoy fried food. I looked out of the window and on to the spacious gardens, I could see that once again the weather was being kind and as I spooned out another home made dollop of orange and pineapple marmalade, I promised myself that this would be the last thing that would pass my lips until I tackled my first nettle in Marshwood.
My constant companion the portable long wave radio is once again pressed into action as it accompanies me to the bathroom as England take on New Zealand, this time at rugby. We were 6-3 up when I went into the shower and 23-6 down when I came out, - talk about a shower of shite!. This doesn’t affect my good mood however and I’m whistling as I dress and I notice through my window the elderly bow-legged next door neighbour filling up his ancient looking watering can from the adjoining stream.
As I cheerily walk up the lane, this time knowing exactly where I’m heading, I can’t stop singing the song “The day we went to Bangor”, this is baffling in the extreme, I haven’t the slightest idea why I’m doing this, I don’t know if I passed a sign for Bangor whilst on the train or there were some sausage related headlines in the paper yesterday or what, but on I go belting it out all the way into the town centre. Once there I take a look round the “River cottage local produce store”, this is owned by one of the hundreds of T.V chefs on the go these days by the name of Hugh Fearnley-Whittingstall. You can’t go very far round these parts without hearing his name being mentioned, indeed when I arrived at the Bed and Breakfast Ruth the owner proudly told me that some of the production team from the programme River Cottage were going to be staying there. If you’ve never heard of him, he’s the one with the wild hair and The Good Life approach. He cooks up some pretty weird recipes grows all his own organic vegetables, and feeds his chickens on stake and chips. He has also made his own “Stinger ale” which is beer made from nettles, I wonder if he’ll be there this afternoon?.
I am drawn to the sound of music so I walk through the church yard and find myself at the “Weavers Gardens” where there is a four piece jazz ensemble playing away in the sunshine to an audience politely watching and clapping sat in rows on fold down chairs.
I took a couple of photos and then a leisurely walk around the tiny museum which was situated next door to this and had a good chat with the very pleasant woman who’d accosted me has I’d walked in.
It was now nearing mid day, and I’d already booked a cab in advance to take me the six miles to Marshwood and so I made my way to the taxi rank.
I was dropped off at the “Bottle Inn” pub at around 12:30, in good time I thought to see the lay of the land and get my name down for the competition. I poked my head round the door to find,………absolutely no one, not a soul, not even behind the bar!. After a short while the young bar maid breezed over. “Am I a bit early for the nettle eating competition then?”, I inquired sheepishly
“Yes, by exactly a week”, was the short and to the point answer that had me falling off my stool.
“What!???, you’re joking, I’ve come a long way for this!”.
“No, it’s next week alright, and funnily enough you’re not the only one to get the date wrong”. I mentioned that that was probably because today’s date was listed in every piece of literature I could find for this event, it had been in the country magazine that I had read at the breakfast table at the guest house that very morning and it was listed for today on the pub’s own website!. But it was next week and that was that. I took a few snaps of the empty pub to prove that I’d been here and forlornly traipsed around the huge beer garden morosely sucking on my pint of “Otter Bitter” (The brewery’s slogan being, “relax with an Otter”).
What a bloody farce, I’d just spent £15 on a taxi to get here and now I had to get back again, there certainly didn’t seem much point in staying here. It was obviously going to be throbbing next week, not only nettle eating but four guest beers and a gorgeous looking girl behind the bar I was promised, but today, nothing. I wasted a few more pounds coins on the telephone in the bar, every time I got through to the taxi rank I could hear them but they couldn’t hear me, but luckily they’d put two and two together and phoned me back. They couldn’t do anything for an hour so I ordered a pint of “Murphys” stout and then an “Isle of Purbeck Fossil Fuel” bitter.
Whilst I was at the bar waiting for my taxi one of the newly arrived customers came up to order some food and called the bar maid over, “Excuse me, could I have “Curry of the day”.
“Yes, of course. – do you want me to tell you what curry it is?”
“No thank you”, and with that he sat down again.
I cheered up a little bit when I recalled that there was a beer festival this afternoon on the outskirts of Axminster so I asked the driver to drop me off there to see if I could salvage this operation.
It was around 1:30pm when I arrived at the “Axminster beer, music and cider festival”. It was a huge marquee that could probably house thousands, It was £6 to get in and an extra pound if you wanted to purchase your own glass, otherwise you were stuck with one of those horrible plastic jobs. I purchased my own glass and was greeted with a scene not unlike the one that I’d just left. It was sparsely populated to say the least but it was early doors I was assured. I tackled a glass (the glasses were approximately half a pint) of “Old Knobbly”, the official description said “brown, malty and complete best bitter”, and caught the arse end of “Angelina with Keith Nelson”. They said that they always finished with the same song that they start with, so they did, and came off to the sound of the grass growing.
This sent my “Old Knobbly” a bit flat and I sat there with what looked like a glass of coffee for the next ten minutes.
It was now time for my first visit to the portaloos, which involved washing your hands with skin sanitiser, a strange substance which resembles spittle and acts like metholated spirits, evaporating into thin air after a couple of lusty rubs. By the third and fourth time I’d taken to sniffing it.
Next up it was Steve somebody or other and Al Richardson, and on closer inspection it was our old blues friends from the “Axminster Inn” the night before, and it wasn’t too long before the old “Phillishave” was out again. They didn’t sound quite as good second time round, but that could have been down to the “No Angel Bitter” – “4% - a bitter with a dry hop finish, well balanced and full of flavour with hints of fruit and hops” (tasted like bonfire toffee). I actually devoured a couple of these in quick succession as Al (or is it Steve) had now started on the jokes which resulted in much scratching of heads and puffing out of cheeks.
After an hour there was still not much sign of it taking off and I sat at a large round table on my own reading the beer list (you’ve probably noticed) and the order of acts. On the table to my right sits a middle aged couple, him with a rucksack on his back and a baseball cap, and her looking quite normal – they don’t speak a word to each other.
On the table in front there sits three men of varying ages that look like they’re from the campaign for real ale group, they take turns to go to the bar, like me, trying as many different concoctions as they can. Each time they expertly lift their glass to their noses and take a slow sip, and then either nod or give a shake of the head. They don’t speak either. I’m in full “people watching” mode now and there’s a bloke two tables away with spiky grey hair, mutton chop whiskers and an Elvis tattoo on his upper arm and looks a bit of a sad loner. He probably thinks the same about me.
The crowd is now slowly growing but they pay little or no attention to the show being put on for their benefit, a fact highlighted when they blindly clapped the C.D put on between acts!. To be fair it was a live C.D and there was applause after one of the tracks and they just sort of joined in.
It’s now 3pm and it’s time for Siophan (pronounced Shivon) Park. She begins. “This next song is called “Too much to ask” (think she’d been at the “Old Knobbly”). This was followed with “A bit less guitar and a little bit more vocals please”. A catchy little title. And then. “No, a little bit less guitar” (probably the follow up single). Apart from her run in with sound technician she was a fair singer, from Ireland I think she was, and I was dying to sing along, but the truth was I’d been in there for two and a half hours and I’d yet to hear a song I’d heard of.
It was time for another drink “Stairway to heaven” – “4.2% - a golden bitter, a perfectly balanced beer. The malty and hoppy leads to a hoppy body with some astringency”.
The three real ale experts in front of me are obviously running short of funds and are down to buying one glass of ale and passing it round, each snootily sniffing and sipping as they went. It was now 3:55pm and Miss Park sang Will you still love me tomorrow- hang on, I know this!. I don’t think anyone else did though, and as I peered down to the front of the marquee I counted three people actually facing the stage. As she finished her set to restrained applause the Willie Nelson type compere shouted “Do you want more!?”, this was quickly followed up with “Don’t look so bloody miserable!”. This comment was actually aimed at the singer!.
My table, which had been solely mine up until now is now infiltrated by a bunch of students adopting Australian accents, I’m not sure if they do this intentionally though, the truth is that most youngsters sound vaguely antipodean to me, it’s that bit whereby the inflexion of the voice goes up at the end, where did that come from?, - Neighbours, Sons and Daughters, Prisoner Cell Block H, old repeats of Skippy?.
At 4pm the tone of the thing changed dramatically when a guy called Andy Strickland got up with an electric guitar and let rip with some Bryan Adams, Pink Floyd and The Police’s Message In A Bottle – weh hey!, it’s what was required and the swelling numbers appreciated it.
It was about now that I decided to take time out for a bit and after a brief visit back at the guest house I revisited the “Axminster Inn” where they were watching local hero Hugh Fearnley-Whittingstall on the box in his latest venture of inviting guests round for dinner and feeding them tree bark sandwiches, Bat’s ears and lentils in seawater and lime juice, Pigs cheeks in batter and a hedgehogs bum for desert.
I later returned to the beer festival, complete with my beer glass in my coat pocket at round about half past nine just in time to catch blues duet Steve and Al Richardson – for the third time in less than 24 hours!. I had a glass of “Yellow Hammer”. I’m pretty sure that’s what it was anyway. I usually have a pad and pen in my pocket to remind me of what went on (especially if I’ve been drinking), but reading back my notes after this point is a bit taxing. They resemble the “after” signature of Guy Fawkes that I once saw on a programme that showed you his autograph before and after he was tortured for being a very, very naughty boy.
The place was pretty much packed by now, I had no chance of a seat and I stood there like a lemon constantly lifting my glass to the air and suddenly turning my body at ninety degrees to avoid revelers heading for the portaloos.
I briefly tried to engage in conversation with a tall bloke with a Mohican hair cut that I’d seen previously in the “Axminster Inn”, but when the conversation turned to what I do for a living I inwardly groan. Trying to explain this is always a bit of a trial, especially so when you happen to be stood in the middle of a field in a tent with a background of mandolins, acoustic guitars and people in beards blowing down electric razors whilst being barged from pillar to post by drunken young farmers.
I left shortly before midnight for the pleasant three quarters of an hour long walk back to Millwater House, which took about an hour and a half.
Slightly disheveled, I made my way down the stairs and to breakfast. The two from the production team from River Cottage were there soon after I got to the table, we never got into conversation though, and anyway, I didn’t fancy letting it slip that I’d come all the way here from Spain a week early by mistake. The owners Ruth and Keith gave the game away though, breezing in and announcing “We were at the beer festival last night and somebody said that the nettle eating is next week”.
“Indeed so, but I’ll be back, not next week, next year”. And so it shall be.
They waved me off, very kindly offering to give me a lift to the train station, which I declined.
As I stood on the platform observing a British Railways employee sat waiting for the train wearing a solitary rubber glove – security must be getting pretty keen I thought, I reflected on another enjoyable trip, I didn’t think it would be as good on my own, but I had enjoyed my visit and was glad that I’d have to come back again.
The train rolled up, all six carriages of it, which was approximately one each which seemed a bit extravagant for a Sunday. You trying getting a train during the rush hour through the week from Leeds and you’ll find yourself stood nose to nose with some stranger on one of the packed two carriages clinging on to a pole or a solitary strap, and not being able to breathe out until you reach Sheffield.
The train was in fact so long, that to get off at some of the lesser stations, which I presumed must have included Axminster, you had to disembark from the front two carriages only. After about five minutes the chap I had seen outside with the rubber glove passed me tidying up the table in front, he was a rubbish collector, which was a relief. So I zipped up my trousers and wished him well.
On arrival at Leeds I had a bit of time before my connection to Guiseley where I was to visit my parents, so I took time out to visit my favourite pub in Leeds “The Duncan”. There’s usually a whole batch of characters to be found in here, and just one short stint at the bar you can observe the full range of human emotions from hysterical laughter to crocodile tears of despair. I ordered a pint of “Sammuel Smiths” bitter. “Well, you can have one but I’ve got no pennies”, says the landlady. This puzzled me somewhat, but it became immediately clear, when she asked me for £1.39, I’ll repeat that, £1.39!, it’s about £2 for a pint of bitter in working men’s clubs!.
Sure enough there had been some sort of argument in the far corner and a middle aged woman was slyly sobbing. The landlady, not even looking over in her direction as she pulled a pint of lager says “Oi, don’t be crying in your beer in here, there’s enough water in there already!”. A conversation started about men and women’s roles in the world, the landlady says, “You earn the money and we spend it”, a grizzled pensioner takes a toke of his pint and says “Aye, and you’re doing a grand job of it, if I may say so”. He went on, “You take advantage of us an all, every time I fall asleep the wife’s got her hands down me underpants!”, she shouts back.
“She’s after yer money, yer silly old bugger”
No comments:
Post a Comment