Two On Tour

Back in Blighty to visit family and friends before our next adventure.

Wednesday 6 August

We leave Poland mid-afternoon from Gdansk’s Lech Walesa Airport. Unfortunately, we’re unable to wave a last goodbye to Poland as we climb into the sky—our seats are in the back row and have no window. There’s a brisk change of planes in a wet Copenhagen and before we know it, we’re through Heathrow in the blink of an eye.

Ian’s bought a couple of supermarket pizzas, which he’s just popping in the oven when we arrive mid-evening. With a sprinkling of spring onions and baby spinach leaves, they’re perfect for a quick meal. We all sit chatting until it’s time to turn in.

Thursday 7 August

Our first day in England involves a list of errands, mostly involving replacing old equipment and clothes, and sorting out banking issues. Ian’s leaned why the Tube gets so hot in the summer (the clay into which the Tube is bored has gradually been heating up since the first train ran 150-plus years ago, fuelled by the energy of passing trains and millions of scuttling humans). On what’s already a hot day, we bear this in mind and make our way to the West End by bus, sitting upstairs at the front as we swish through the north London streets.

After replacing our Bluetooth speaker in John Lewis on Oxford Street, we retire to the store cafe for lunch. Sitting next to us is a lady of about 80, who insists on striking up a conversation by asking if we’re from London. I say ‘conversation’, but this is really the monologue of a lonely lady who just wants to talk. Over the next thirty minutes we learn that she’d lived in London all her life until last year, when she moved to Woking to care for her sister, who’s since died; that she used to work as a nurse and is a huge admier of Edith Cavell; and that she’s a trained singer and loves the opera, which is why she’s in the West End today. But most memorably, we learn that she knows the daughter of celebrated Special Operations Executive Violet Szabo (I later check this on Wikipedia—her daugher is indeed called Tania). Although we fail to get a word in ourselves other than to gently steer her monologue with carefully chosen questions, we leave the cafe just a little richer for having crossed her. We never did ask her name.

We fall into another extended conversation while replacing my ageing iPad on Regent Street. Bruno, our Apple sales assistant, is about my age and has been about a bit. We hit it off immediately. He worked as an EFL teacher in Estonia in the early 1990s and has recently visited the Cape Verde islands. By the time we leave an hour later with a fully set up new iPad, we’re new best mates and we’re considering adding Cape Verde to the Word Tour itiniery.

Back at Ian and Rose’s, K rustles up a wok full of something approximating Singapore noodles for the four of us.

Friday 8 August

It’s a perfect summer day in London—an opportunity to make the most of being in the capital. K’s keen to see the Yoshitomo Nara exhibition at the South Bank Centre, so we get off the Tube at Embankment and walk across an almost sparkling Thames to reach it. The exhibition effortlessly exceeds my expectations. In fact, K struggles to drag me away from the pre-exhibition-proper collage of some of Mr Nara’s favourite albums:

The exhibition is busy without feeling overcrowded and keeps us happily diverted for an hour or two:

I’ve realised that my new iPad doesn’t have a headphone socket, and I’m not keen on buying new bluetooth headphones. After failing to locate a headphone jack adaptor at nearby Waterloo station, we pop back to the Apple store on Regent Street. Back in Tufnell Park, it’s my turn to cook. I opt for a big bowl of pasta with pesto, veggies, toasted walnuts, and lashings of cracked black pepper.

Saturday 9 August

The four of us head to Hampstead Heath to walk Winter…

…stopping for a lunch of Turkish mezes on the way home:

Later, Ian, K and I jump on the Tube to the West End leaving Rose to dogsit. After a quick refuelling stop at a new indoor food market near Seven Dials, we wander over to the 100 Club on Oxford Street to catch R.E.M. tribute band R.E.M. by Stipe. Arriving on stage, they certainly look the part in their tasteful paisley shirts. The lead guitarist has a vague Peter Buck air about him, and the singer manages to physically channel Michael Stipe despite any lack of physical resemblance besides a lack of hair:

Musically, they’re outstanding. Like The Smyths, who I saw here in the same venue six years ago, they’re no covers band; they’re a fasimile of R.E.M.. It’s a deep, deep joy to hear these songs played to a small crowd in an intimate atmosphere—an atmosphere I was never able to experience on any of the three occasions that I saw the real R.E.M. in big impersonal venues. The band play a surprising number of deep cuts, among them Cuyahoga, King of Birds, Fall on Me, Talk About the Passion, Country Feedback and Pretty Persuasion (by the end of the evening, they’ve played a full half of Reckoning). I’ve never been a great fan of many of the big crowd pleasers, but there’s a special sense of camaraderie in such a small venue as they deliver The One I Love, Everybody Hurts, and Losing My Religion.

The highlight is Don’t Go Back to Rockville, the chorus of which I belt at the top of my lungs. Along with The Smyths here in 2019, this might be the best gig I’ve ever attended. There’s something deeply poignant and personal about gigs like this.

After a finale of It’s the End of the World As We Know It, the lights come on and the 100 Club quickly empties. Before we leave, I wander over to ‘Peter Buck’ and ‘Mike Mills’ to thank them. They’re modest and gracious. A perfect evening.

Sunday 10 August

Mum comes up to join us in London. After an enormous roast luch at The Junction Tavern in Kentish Town, the five of us jump on a bus towards Manor House and walk Winter around Woodberry Down. The blackberries are beginning to ripen and, with arms as long as mine, I manage to pick some of the juicy high-hanging fruit that’s out of reach for most.

Back at Anson Road, we sit in the garden spooning ice cream topped with fruit and nuts into our months before retreating inside for tosted crumpets and a few rounds of Fibbage.

Monday 11 August

Today marks a year since I fractured my elbow. I’ve made a 95% recovery, but my left arm still stiffens if I don’t exercise it. It’s stiffened these past few days as I’ve struggled to keep up a disciplined exercise regime since arriving in the UK. But overall I’m just pleased to have more-or-less full use of my arm again.

Leaving Ian and Rose in London, mum, K and I take a National Express coach to Fareham. Our timing is impeccable as the south of Britain is due a fierce heatwave for the next few days. The coast will be a bit more bearable.

Still, it’s hot even on the coast. Mum’s sure there’s an old fan in the loft, so after a quick cuppa I climb up and fetch it. She’s already said that she wants to get as much old junk as possible out of the loft while I’m here. I’m already up there, so I start passing whatever I can find down through the hatch. Except for a box of old theatre programmes, there’s little of interest: old duvets, old curtains, old carpet cuts, and and old packaging boxes. It’s hot, mucky work. A thick layer of grime has settled on the rubbish bags and old bedspreads that have been covering whatever half-forgotten bumpf is still up there. Some of it tumbles into the hair and onto the faces of K and mum as they reach up to grab what I pass down.

While mum pauses to hang out some laundry, I rummage around in the two trunks that I still have in the loft. I chance upon my old poolside swimming top with my old speed award patches. I toss it down onto the hall carpet and, when I’ve finished clearing out the junk, try it on. Miraculously, it still more-or-less fits:

Tuesday 12 August

Much of Britain is gasping through the peak of the latest summer heatwave. It’s hot and blisteringly bright in the sunshine, although still pleasant enough in the shade here on the coast.

I hit the ground running yesterday by clearing out the loft. Today, I keep up the pace: by mid-morning I’ve already taken an early morning stroll to Portchester Castle and back, had a haircut in the kitchen courtesy of mum’s hairdresser Dawn, and applied for a new UK driving licence. The three of us then drop off whatever little was salvagable from yesterday’s loft clear out at local charity shops, and haul in the weekly groceries from Aldi before pausing for lunch.

More errands follow after lunch: in Fareham SpecSavers, a lovely red-cheeked lady who reminds me of a young Clare Neald adjusts the frames of my spare glasses, and I order more lenses—we’ll be soaking up a lot of sunshine in the next few months and I expect to be wearing sunglasses with contacts most days. From Fareham, we pootle down to the Gosport branch of Argos to collect a new that TV mum’s ordered. She’s concerned that it will be too heavy to carry, but of course it’s as light as foam. With the TV safely stowed in the car, we wander around Gosport waterfront and enjoy an ice cream as we wander back up the almost deserted high street.

Wednesday 13 August

Mum drives us to Petworth House, a country pile in West Sussex managed by the National Trust. It’s renowed for its art collection, including the biggest collection of Turners outside the Tate. It’s all rather marvellous. The only disappointment is that a looming thunderstorm thrawts our plan to walk around the expansive grounds after we’ve finished ogling the paintings.

Thursday 14 August

Much of today is spent buying a new PC with mum and setting it up. In the meantime, mum’s happy with her new TV:

The Wicor Mill has stopped doing its pub quiz, but we learn that The Cormorant has one. It’s a perfect evening to stroll along the harbour’s edge to the old village square and join the quiz:

It will later turn out that a helicopter we saw flying in circles over Kathryn’s shoulder in the photo above was involved in a search and rescue operation: minutes before the photo was taken, two boats somehow collided in the tranquil harbour, leaving one dead and one missing presumed dead.

We score a disappointing 40 out of 80 at the pub quiz. The winners score 72, so we’re way, way off the pace. But we do at least manage to avoid walking away with the wooden spoon—a team of six sitting behind me rack up even fewer points. Still, The Cormorant is a fine location for a quiz, even if the quiz itself is lacking in atmosphere. We don’t even learn the name of the quizmaster and the other teams. Each team marks its own answers and there are no annoucements of scores until the very end. It doesn’t come close to the old Lamma pub quizzes.

Friday 15 August

For the first time since arriving at mum’s, I turn to music rather than podcasts for my morning stroll. The Cure’s Head on the Door turns 40 this week—I’ll never have a better opportunity to listen to it end-to-end than on a glorious morning stroll to Postchester Castle and back.

Much of the day is given over to finishing setting up mum’s new PC and her learning to use Windows 11, plus a few simple tricks. But it’s fiercely sunny outside and spending the hottest part of the day indoors is just fine with me.

In the late afternoon, the three of us drive a few miles to Whiteley, where we manage a shaded stroll in woodland to get in some steps:

Saturday 16 August

For the first time since arriving in Portchester, my morning walk to the castle and back coincides more-or-less with high tide. Although there’s more colour when the tide’s out as the harbour floor stretches away in multiple shades of seaweed green, mud brown, and pebble grey, the harbour still looks altogether grander when it’s full of water:

We drive into Postsmouth with mum and take a there-and-back-again walk along the west side of Langstone Harbour, stopping in the Thatched House for a rather disappointing pub lunch. Driving back, Portsmouth have just lost the early match 1-2 to Norwich City. We pass knots of dejected Pompey fans making their way home.

Sunday 17 August

Sunday starts with a long chat with Sue in Auckland. She’s clearly finding her young cocker spaniel Coco quite a challenge but puts on a brave face.

Mum and I spend the rest of the morning clearing and tidying the garage. Bizarrely, I come across a small box of old Matchbox cars and a Batcopter. They must have been there for quarter of a century.

After a roast lunch, we speak to Steve Bennett in Spain and discuss Christmas plans. I haven’t spoken to Steve in 40 years, but it’s an easy and relaxed conversation:

I spend a couple of hours teaching mum how to use her new PC before we settle in for an evening of David Attenborough on TV.

Monday 18 August

I last visited Portsmouth Dockyard in the 70s and still have vague memories of exploring HMS Victory in its dry dock. Much has changed as we visit Portsmouth Historic Dockyard today. The audio guide to the Victory does everything possible to convey how terrifying it must have been to experience an early nineteeth century naval battle, with the grim prospect of being ripped apart by flying shot and splintered wood. The size of the Victory is also genuinely awesome—from the bottom of the dry dock standing at the foot of the rudder, it feels like an eighteenth century skyscraper:

The nearby Mary Rose is a revelation. I enter the museum with modest expections: the last time I paid any attention to the Mary Rose, 40 or so years ago on TV, it appeared little more than a few planks of rotting wood resting in a functional brightly-lit room under a constant shower of water to remove centuries of corroding salt. Today, I’m impressed beyond measure to see that the ship is a) far bigger than I imagined, b) standing upright, and c) complemented by the biggest collection of Tudor artefacts in the country. Far more of the ship has survived than 1980s TV seemed to show: the viewing plaform is spread over three levels to accommodate it. Although the original ship was only a tenth of the tonnage of the Victory, like the Victory it’s nevertheless a marvel of early modern engineering.

Tuesday 19 August

We join mum’s U3A group for an easy 5km stroll in the countryside around Bishop’s Waltham. I recognise a few faces from previous encounters with the U3A group and fall into easy conversation for the ninety minutes that it takes us to complete four sides of a square and return to the car park. Next, most of us are off for a pub lunch at the nearby Black Dog, where I have a good chat with Majorie, a Scottish friend of mum’s I haven’t met before. She lost her husband on New Year’s Eve. Poor lady. What an anniversary to bear for the rest of her life.

After fish and chips and a cheeky lunchtime pint, it’s a wonder I can get anything done in the afternoon. But more errands beckon: in Fareham, we buy a second-hand iPhone as a spare in the event that our upcoming adventures turn out to be less safe and secure than those to date. Also a new International Driving Permit to see me through to this time next year.

Wednesday 20 August

It’s our last full day with mum in Portchester. Since I arrived, I’ve been constantly busy with admin and helping mum around the house. As of yesterday, this is all more-or-less complete. So the arrival this morning of some straightforward editing work in my inbox couldn’t be better timed. I spend most the day sitting at the dining table tapping away. Mum and I take some of the junk we’ve cleared from the loft and garage to the tip, and for dinner we pay a visit to Portchster’s sole Indian restaurant. Despite living here for 25 years, this evening is the first time mum’s set foot inside the River Spice—a shame because the food is perfectly adequate and the waiting staff are effortlessly charming and efficient. Unfortunately, we forget to ask them to take a snapshot.

Thursday 21 August

Just a couple of hours before we’re due to leave mum’s, her new PC keyboard stops working. We can’t solve the mystery, so I jump in the car with mum to take the sick keyboard back to Novatech—where of course it works perfectly. I come away with instructions for updating the driver and, with minutes to spare before we need to catch the train, mum’s keyboard is reinstalled and working.

Our train to St Leonards-on-Sea is delayed by a fire somewhere on the line at Cosham. The train eventually arrives 20 minutes late and it seems we’ll miss our connection in Brighton. We say goodbye to mum on the platform and climb aboard. Things improve when the guard announces that to claw back a few minutes, the train will skip several stops. As if by magic, we arrive in Brighton comfortably in time to switch trains and continue along the coast to St Leonards, where Karen and Lee are waiting at the station.

Their brand-new home sits on a quiet estate on the edge of town, on the site of a former comprehensive school closed as demographics have shifted. The house needs a couple of years to lose its straight-out-of-the-box feel (and for the birch saplings in the cul-de-sac to grow), but it’s undeniably a comfortable place for retirement. After dropping off our luggage, Karen and Lee drive us to the pebble seafront. A bank of dark cloud hovers just inland, but on the coast at low tide the early evening sunshine bathes the beach in golden light:

Back at Karen and Lee’s, we tuck into baked salmon, roast potatoes, ratatouille and green veggies, and talk late into the evening about family, travel, and the dire state of British politics.

Friday 22 August

Karen wakes up with muscular pain, possibly a side effect of a recent shingles vaccine. She won’t be up for showing us around St Leonards and Hastings today.

While I wouldn’t wish Karen’s discomfort upon anyone, the consequence is that K and I have the afternoon to explore at our own pace. By lunchtime, Karen recovers sufficiently for the four of us to drive to a friendly seafront cafe serving South American brunches — Venezuelan for me, Ecuadorean for K. Suitably filled, we say goodbye and wander off to explore:

Behind us, fine views stretch out to the distant outline of Beachy Head at the end of the South Downs. Ahead lies a small headland topped by the crumbling ruins of Hastings Castle, built by William the Conqueror immediately before the Battle of Hastings. After a lap of Hastings Pier and a brief detour into the local mall for practicalities (I somehow come away with a Creedence Clearwater Revival t-shirt for £3.99), we climb the backstreets to explore the castle. Its appeal lies more in its views and its historical significance rather than in the structure itself, half of which collapsed into the Channel centuries ago. We hear a Chinese family speaking Hong Kong-accented Cantonese and chat, in English, long enough to establish that they left Sham Shui Po three years ago for London.

Back down in Hastings old town, we while away an hour with tea and a generous slice of Victoria sponge before meeting Lee and a somewhat recovered Karen at the Jenny Lind, a small pub that doubles as a local music venue. Every Friday, it hosts a folk sundowner, and tonight I couldn’t think of anywhere I’d rather be. It’s pleasantly busy without being packed. The customers are clearly here for the music. And it serves an excellent zero alcohol pale ale with a hint of mango.

As we arrive, the host, a Jason McNiff, kicks off with a few choice covers on an amped acoustic guitar, joined by a mandolin player who reminds me of 10,000 Maniacs’ Robert Buck—had he lived to 60 instead of drinking himself into an early grave. Jason himself, in black drainpipes, embroidered Western shirt, winklepickers, and sporting a mass of unkempt strawberry blond hair, reminds me of Julian Cope. He’s charismatic, but humble and gracious when he speaks, lacking any air of pretense. We catch only four songs, but among them are the Flying Burrito Brothers’ Sin City and an acoustic take on the Byrds’ electric arrangement of My Back Pages. He bows out and hands us over to local Americana artist, Hayley Savage.

Hayley Savage is stunning. It’s just her on stage with an amped acoustic guitar and a backing singer. For 45 minutes, I’m glued to the spot as she delivers original songs of beautifully crafted Americana. The ghost of early Cowboy Junkies albums lurks in her sad songs, full of emotional disclosure, but not unbearable. It’s as if she’s already borne the sadness herself, and her songs are badges of resilience and acceptance.

The audience—twenty-somethings to seventy-somethings, with toddlers and dogs in tow—listen in rapt silence, breaking into heartfelt applause after every song. It’s a special gig, one that reminds me of the camaraderie of Saturday nights in Yung Shue Wan watching talented friends playing in tiny venues where we all knew each other. Good times.

Before we leave, I want to thank Hayley Savage for stirring something deep in my bones, but she’s disappeared. A five minute walk brings us to The Crown, a friendly gastro pub where we finally manage to squeeze the four of us into one photo:

Back at Karen’s, we settle down to watch the Friday night match between West Ham and Chelsea. Chelsea win by a humiliating scoreline of 1-5.

Part 2 to follow, with more tales from Merry England…