Like a hurricane!
Can’t believe I’ve been in London five nights
already!
Can’t believe I’ve only been here four and a half
days!
Haven’t seen the queen, Big Ben, or Piccadily
Circus,
Westminister Abbey, Soho, Abbey Road or Buckingham Palace. Haven’t
really seen much at all, of the city, but I sure have been busy.
My first day in London was passed with Orla, first
riding busy streets
to Camden, then along the many canals to
Hackney. The canals were very
interesting, about the only place you can walk in the city without
running into droves of people. However, I found the fact they don’t put
guard rails between the walk and the drink a little unnerving. One
could ride along, slip into the drink, and never be seen again.
Hackney on the other hand was a little like visiting
Jane and Finch at
the north end of Toronto. The old town, which is lined with Victorian
era buildings, is augmented by hundreds of high rise apartment
buildings that have become akin to American ghettos. There are many
people of colour in Hackney, with huge black and south Asian
communities. I’m told its a rough area, one you do not walk around
alone in at night. We were there late afternoon and the place was
humming with people. It is where my friend Peelee works in a bike shop,
and where both her and Orla reside. Peelee in a nice row house, and
Orla in one of the aforementioned apartment complexes.
Camden, for its part, was little more than a big
bazaar, full of tiny
little open air shops selling every manner of souvenier, trinket,
t-shirt, CD, and other paraphenalia. It too is an old part of town,
with ancient brick work, bridges, and quirky old buildings. It reminded
me a bit of old Halifax, with barrel running ramps, catacombs, and
loading warfs along the canal. The little shops have barkers out in
front of them, and everywhere are young people earning
their keep
carrying huge store signs around. I never understood that type of
barking, it doesn't draw me into places. The area also teems with
people, and Orla and I had some difficulty manoevering our bicycles
through the masses.
Back in Hackney, I had Peelee do a little work on my
bike. She earns
her living in a bike shop called London Fields, after a nearby park.
While she was able to true my wheels, she had some difficulty with my
gears. It seems the shimano shifters I had put on don’t work so well
with the style of changer I have on the rear wheel. This has been, and
continues to cause, a problem with my ability to use my middle gears.
If I’d known of this I would have had my dealer put shimano changers on
when he switched the shifters, but he didn’t mention it so I didn’t
know about it. Really need to educate myself a little better about bike
mechanics, if I can get my left brain to pay attention long enough.
It was while visiting Hackney, and during a little
drop in at Orla’s
apartment, where she lives with her boyfriend, and another fellow, that
I sent out my last travelog. When we were done that I hooked up with
Peelee, who took me around to her house for a cup of tea, then raced me
through the streets back to the area where I’m staying. Peelee is an
expert on the London cycling routes. She’s also about six feet tall and
a good 15 years younger than me. I was like a little boy on a tricyle
trying to keep up with her as she zoomed, zigged, zagged, and generally
made short work of transversing the city with me in tow.
Once back to Harvey Road, in an area I think is
called Hornsey, where
the guest house I’m stayin
g at is located, I took a
little
walk and
bought myself some fixings at a local store, then went to the
bedsitting space I’ve been provided and cooked a little dinner of pasta
and sauce, which made me feel quite at home.
Helen, Orla’s Mom, an Irish woman of about 60 years,
whom I immediately
liked and felt endeared to, secured this space for me. It is a two room
bedsit, with a combo living and sleeping space and a large bathroom
where there is a deep soaker tub. Unfortunately, there is no hot water
to fill the tub and I find myself having to boil water to fill it.
Water is boiled in a plug-in pot, located on a little sink, fridge and
stove unit located behind the doors of what appears to be a closet. The
place has two windows, a small one of the bathroom overlooking Harvey
Road through a narrow passage between the brick walls of a little
alcove. The rear window, off the living room, looks over a patio and a
series of back yards. In the morning thousands of birds sing through
this window. This has been the biggest surprise of my visit. I have
never, despite living in the wilds, heard so many birds in my whole
life. Each yard is marked by brick or wood fencing and I’ve yet to see
any human in any of the yards, although many house cats patrol them.
Once I’d had my dinner, I went out to local internet
station to check
my email and send out messages to people I know in these parts.
Basically I was announcing my safe arrival and urging folks to send me
thier phone numbers. Then I came back to the suite and put myself to
sleep for the night. It was a fitful sleep.
The next morning, Friday, I rose early, performed a
light pack job on
my bike, then headed out to meet Peelee. She’d invited me to join her
for a two day cycle to the south of England. So off we went, first to
Kings Cross Station, where the bombings were last year. We weren’t able
to catch our train from there due to some sort of mechanical problem,
so we had to cycle deeper into the city, over London Bridge, not to be
confused with Tower Bridge, to London Bridge Station, where we caught a
train to Crawley, south of the city. It was quite something for me,
weaving and bobbing through traffic in pursuit of the fleet-wheeled
Peelee, between double decker busses, along narrow cavernous streets
that seemed to go in circles, emerging finally on the bridge over the
Thames, which I’ve been reminded umpteen times is pronounced “temms.”
Our train was brand spanking new, equipped with
washrooms that have
electronic doors that resemble the transporter chamber on the Starship
Enterprise. It seems the British really love their loos. Even on the
trains the loo is big enough to set up housekeeping in.
After an uneventful one hour train ride, we
disembarked, just north of
Crawley, and followed a cycle path that led us off the road into a
wooded area along a decomissioned rail line. The trail was similar to
some cycle paths we have in Canada, but much better kept with a much
more solid surface. These trails, which apparently stretch the length
and breadth of England, are used by walkers, cyclists and horseriders.
Despite being shared by horses, the builders have been careful to lay
down a surface that does not crumble and turn to sand and bump. We in
Canada could learn much from the Brits when it comes to trail
maintainence. From what I was able to gather these trails are designed
to link the towns and cities so folks can commute using sustainable
transport.
Much of our day was passed riding these off road
trails, with the
occassional foray into a village or hamlet along busy and not so busy
streets. It was a real treat for me after becoming totally intimidated
by the not so nice cycling lanes through the busy streets of London.
Late in our day we emerged on a paved country lane.
It was hilly,
narrow, and wound like a snake through the rolling hill country. I must
admit this part of the ride was a little scary. There does not seem to
be any speed limit on these roads, and people whiz along quite fast.
The roads themselves are only wide enough to accomodate one of our
North American SUVs. Mercifully, there are very few of those beasts
over here, although there are some much thinner and condensed versions
of them. This part of the trip really took it out of me. My gears were
slipping, I was having some issues with riding on the wrong side of the
road, Peelee was getting a little concerned with my willingness to just
let cars pass me, rather than ride my buns, and I was still a little
jet lagged.
Eventually, about 7 pm, we darted up a small hill
and emerged in the
village of Rutherfield, home to ten pubs and one grocery. Peelee
tells me all the villages are like that, and the British get most of
their carbs from beer, which, from what I can tell, is the main staple
food here, along with fish and something called mash.
After grabbing the healthiest food we could find,
which amounted to
some beans and a few anemic veggies, we set out again to find a
campsite. There were no legitimate ones in the area, so we knew we were
going to have to rough it. We pulled down a muddy right of way, went
down a steep hill, across a small stream, half way up another little
hill, then over a farmer's fence into a large muddy field that reminded
me of Yasgur’s farm in upstate New York.
There, in a fallow field that was quite muddy, which
we later found out
was the result of a five inch snow fall over Easter, we set camp. I
cooked us a large bean dinner, while Peelee set up her tent. When I’d
got dinner going, I put our bikes together in a tripod, strung a
tarp, and rolled out my bivy beneath it. After dinner we made tea then
sat around talking until the sun was well down. As Peelee went to bed
the stars emerged. It was the first clear sky I’d seen since my
arrival, so I sat out counting the stars, and talking to Peelee through
her tent, until I was just too tired to keep my eyes open. Then I
crawled into my bivy and finally got a good night’s sleep, one that
seemed to finally cure my jetlag. Nothing like sleeping on the ground
to bring this wilderness boy back to himself.
I was up bright eyed, bushy tailed and ready to roll
at 5:30 the next
morning! I wrote four pages in my journal that morning, made two cups
of the coffee I imported from Vernon, Voet’s Dark French, and made
myself a whopping bowl of porridge. Peelee satisfied herself with fruit
and tea, explaining that despite the fact she’s a Scot, she cannot
stomach porridge.
About 9:30 we set off, back up the muddy right of
way. The English
countryside is full of these right of ways, designed to allow walkers
and hikers to move freely through privately owned land. We continued
along the hilly paved country road, that wasn’t quite as busy as it had
been the night previous. Still, Peelee numerous times expressed concern
about the way I was riding, well over, and willing to let the cars just
zoom around me. For her part, Peelee gets out in the middle and slows
the cars down, which I admit, works most of the time. At times she
would ride on my tail, and if cars approached on a bend, she would ease
out into the middle and slow them up. Methinks it will take me some
time to learn to do that. I don’t trust drivers enough to pull out in
front of them. Do that in Canada and you’re likely to get hit!
A half hour after we set out our route took us off
the road and
back into a wood. This was the most difficult part of our ride, leading
us up a steep incline along a horse trail that was quite choppy. We
climbed for another half hour before emerging in a little village where
we were able to get some water from some folks who lived along the
trail. Dipping into the village on a main road, we soon found ourselves
back on a converted rail line, where we remained for a good part of the
morning.
A while before noon we stopped at a bench and had a
light lunch. I ate
an orange, some bread and drank water. Peelee ate some salt smoked
Mackerel. Then we continued.
It wasn’t long after lunch I began to notice a stark
change in Peelee’s
mood. I’d wondered, she seemed to be eating a lot of fruit, then some
protein, but wasn’t giving herself any carbs. From my experience
cycling, that’s not a good plan. One needs carbs to burn when one is
doing constant exercise. I grew concerned that she might have some
health issues as a result. I’m no physician, but I do understand the
concept of fuel. Fruit is good for some energy, protien for rebuilding
tissue, but carbs are needed to burn, like gas in a car.
As the day wore on my pal seemed to become more and
more disorientated,
several times wanting to turn in wrong directions. She seemed to be
having trouble reading the maps, trusting the trail signs (which I
found quite right-on) and generally losing her good humour. I began to
quiz her a bit, about diet, and about her health. I was concerned.
She’s plannning to ride across Norway in a few weeks and doesn’t seem
quite physically prepared for it. However, my prying only seemed to
aggravate her so I did my best to back off.
Near the town of Polegate we veered off the path we
were on, NO#21, and
onto another, NO#2, which led us to the sea on the south coast of
England. Here we ducked onto another horse trail, then back out onto a
winding, though less busy, country lane that eventually led us to the
village of Arlington, where we stopped at a pub for juice.
While we were there a bunch of folks rolled in on
bicycles. They were
wearing funny red and white costumes with bells attached to their legs.
Peelee told me they were traditional dancers of some sort. I would have
liked to have seen their dance, but we still had a lot of miles to go,
so we took off.
Our path led us further along the country road, out
onto a major
thouroughfare, then back onto a side road through some little ancient
villages. On this stretch I tried to take Peelee’s advice and move out
into the middle when a car approached too fast from behind on a curve.
Unfortunately, I picked the wrong driver to do this with and he nearly
ran me over. I let out a bellow, and quite nearly got hit. The fellow
did the same to Peelee, and she rewarded him with a big gob on his
windshield.
The ride got a little hair raising after that, when
the route popped us
out on another busy thoroughfare, which was narrow and had cars bombing
both ways. Mercifully, we were only on that stretch about a half hour
before it dumped us into a town that had wide streets. It was a
fairly new town, although there were many old buildings. It had a
quaint downtown district, which I wandered through with my laptop open
until I found a wireless signal in front of a store. There I downloaded
my mail, which was mostly spam, but included a dear John letter from an
old chum I knew in Nelson but who now lives back here in England.
It was with some sadness I read the letter from
Siobhan, whom I’d first
met at the Dancing Bear Hostel in Nelson on Thanksgiving Day, 2000. She
eventually became an employee of the Dancing Bear, and over the years
we’d had many warm, spontaneous visits. It seemed to me we were able to
communicate, and had great talks. Because of this I’d invited her to be
part of my sound crew at Salmon Arm a couple years later, and she’d
actually rescued me from there when things got a little tense with the
organizing committee. In the year or so that followed I’d made
arrangements to meet up with her several times, but for one reason or
another she kept jamming out on our appointments. I don’t know about
other folks, but when I make arrangements with people I tend to try my
best to keep them. On the flip side, I expect them to do the same. When
they don’t, I’ve been known to get a little agravated, especially if
they don’t let me know they plan to stand me up. Three times this
happened with Siobahan, and I’d finally told her where to get off. 
Sometime after, Siobhan returned to England, where
she’d come from in
the first place. I’d heard her Dad had died and her life had changed.
Because years
had passed, things had changed, I’d left her on my
mailing lists and, when I heard from her after sending out my annual
year end message, I was happy, although somewhat reluctant to make any
firm commitment. Yes, I’d be willing to visit, but I wasn’t prepared to
make a solid arrangement because of our history of failing to show up.
I’d written back and told her so much, then said I’d be in touch when I
reached England, and perhaps we could do coffee or something. She’d
written back, using the phrase “fair dinkum” which means “straight
shooter,” and agreed to see what happened when I got here. Keeping with
that, I let her know I was in town. Now, here I was wandering around
this little seaside town with my computer out, reading a letter that
amounted to a dear john letter. She was basically saying that because
of our history the feelings would not be good so she wasn’t willing to
even meet for coffee. I found this sad, because I’d genuinely hoped to
see her and say hello, hoping maybe things had changed enough for us to
at least be friendly. I was going to respond at the time, but the
wireless connection suddenly stopped.
While all this was going on Peelee was taking a
break, a rest, while
guarding our bikes. When I got back to her after a half hour she was
talking about aborting the rest of the ride to Brighton and getting
back on the train. We talked about it a bit, decided we could
probably make Brighton within a couple hours, and should at least
complete the ride. So off we went.
A few miles along, after a misadventure off the path
when Peelee became
convinced we’d taken a wrong turn, which we compensated for by taking
another wrong turn, we emerged in another seaside town. Here we stopped
for fish and chips. It was cod and prefrozen fries. High protien, and
chips that had their carbs killed. This typical British meal seemed to
invigorate Peelee, and she blew my doors off as we got back on the path
and mounted a high bluff high above the sea, then zoomed down a long
hill to the outskirts of Brighton.
At the bottom of the hill we came in sight of a
series of white cliffs,
with a seawall walk at their base. I noticed people riding bikes on the
seawall, and wanted to go along it, while Peelee was somewhat insistant
that we follow the path we were on, which was basically a sidewalk
along a busy highway, that led up another steep incline. After a couple
minutes hagling we went down on the seawall, which was the highlight of
our ride. I spun happily along as P. got on her cell phone, called
ahead, and let some of her pals in Brighton know we were coming.
A few K down the seawall we were diverted through a
marina, then Peelee
led us in circles until we finally stopped and had a little scrap about
which way to go. I’d stopped and asked a fellow directions and was
quite sure we needed to go a certain way. Peelee finally said okay and
we headed off, but I had to call her back when she took off a little
fast, in what I thought was the wrong direction. After 36 hours
together we were begining to act like an old unhappily married couple,
bickering now and then, and getting quite short with one another. There
were no real hard feelings, but we were having some pronounced
disagreements.
Rolling into Brighton along the seawall was the
hilight of the ride.
The sun was out, it was nearly 20 degrees, and the place was throbbing
with beautiful people, scenery and environs. Between the majestic white
cliffs, the magnificently kept waterfront, the long series of pubs and
cafes along the water, the beach, and the beach bums, I was enthralled.
We met Peelee’s pals, a very nice 30-something
couple, at the warf,
then went to a pub on the beach called “The Beach” where we sat for a
couple hours and talked. It turned out Peelee’s friends knew my
friend Jim, a guitar player whose band I used to read with back in
Canada. Before I knew it, I was handed a phone number for Jim and
managed to make contact just as he was headed out to do a gig at a
local cafe called “More.”
With that information in tow, we set out from the
beach through the
funky and delighfully character little streets of Brighton, a place I
want to go back to real soon.
Jim is one of you, a rider on this digital coach.
I’d fully intended to
visit him while I’m over here but hadn’t expected to get to Brighton
until later in my trip. It was great to see him, and to hear him play
again. He’s one of the best guitar slingers I know, and sensitive to
things like poets who know nothing of music. Here in Brighton, where
he’s been for the past five years or so, he’s made a living playing
with many different people in many different styles. It was a pleasure
to see and hear him again. We spent a couple hours in the cafe,
visiting, listening, and talking. It turned out that he and Peelee had
mutual friends in Canada and was all quite syncronistic.
About 10 pm Peelee and I made a mad dash for the
train back to London.
It was a raucaus ride on a Saturday night, with people playing loud
noises on their cell phones and walkmans. At one point Peelee, who
spent most of the ride dozzing off, asked one of the cell phoners to
turn off his noise. Seconds later she gave me hell for doing the same.
I felt bad for her, she was so tired and worn out. Worse yet, she still
had to ride part way with me through London, so I’d be able to find my
way back to my flat without getting lost. It was a burden I did
not want to place on her but I really had no option.
At about midnight we rolled into Paddington Station
in downtown London
and got off the train, hauling our fully loaded bikes up a stairway and
out into the nightlife. There were people everywhere, most of them half
looped and partying it up. We set off along the cycle routes through
the winding streets that were alternatively quiet and bustling. After
about a half hour at a good pace, Peelee pulled over, pointed up a
hill, and said, just go straight, you’ll see Helen’s and know where you
are. I called out “thanks” as I rolled by her, too tired to stop,
afraid if I did I wouldn’t get going again.
Safely back at the flat, I loaded my bike and gear up the stairs, made
tea, had a snack, then promptly fell asleep until well after noon the
next day, Sunday.
Sunday was the first day I’ve had to myself in
England. I did some
housekeeping, wrote some pages in my journal, then wandered out into
the rainy afternoon to visit Helen, who has a wireless connection.
There I checked email, had tea, talked socialism with Helen, watched a
bit of the London Marathon on the tube, then wandered off to a Turkish
grocery store Helen put me onto. It was the first time I’d wandered the
streets alone, so I did a little exploring, then came back to the
house, cooked dinner and had an early night. It was nice to be alone
after all the social overload of the trip so far.
While I’d hoped to get up really early this morning
and go do some
exploring, I slept until nearly nine. Since I got up I’ve been working
on this travelog and jumping up every few minutes to pour another
kettle full of water into the bathtub. I’ve nearly got it deep enough
to give myself a good scrubbing and get my hair clean and my face
scraped. Once that’s done, and I have some breaky, I plan to go out,
get on a double decker bus, and go be a tourist. I also plan to find an
internet connection and send out this diatribe.
I have a few folks I know in this town who have yet
to get back to me.
I’m hoping they will soon. I’ll find out later today whether I can stay
here a couple extra days, I’m hoping until the weekend. If not, I will
likely try to get out of town on Wednesday. Not sure where I’ll go. I
have one person I know up in the Cotswolds, but I think she may be too
busy for a visit up there. I may also go back to Brighton for a few
days.
My general plan calls for me to head to Holland
around May 1, until
then I’d like to see as much of London and Britain as possible.
I’m really grateful I’ve had a day to slow down.
Felt a bit like I was
caught in a hurricane there for a bit. I’ve only been in England five
days and I’ve already toured to the south and seen an awful lot. If
this start is any sign I’m in for one hell of an adventure.
Return
to Travelog Main Page
Return to
Will the Poet's Homepage
Check out Will's
Most Recent Poetry Page
Check out Will's
Recent Poetry Page
Check out Will's
Most Recent Poetry Page
Check out Will's
Nearly Recent Poetry Page
Check out Will's
Almost Nearly Recent Poetry Page
Check out Will's
Not Nearly Recent Poetry Page
Check out Will's
Almost Ancient Poetry Page
Check out Will's
Original Poetry Page
Write to Will
All material contained herein is copyright by Will Webster.
All Rights Reserved.