Other people keep talking to me and I can’t understand what they are saying. I am concerned that something has happened to my ears.
Today’s was a long straight walk along river dykes, though cow fields, with the two Severn bridges slowly materialising as distinct through the sunny haziness. I missed the one and only PH’s (how a Public House is shown on my map—in case I haven’t already said, and sorry if I have) opening times by about ten minutes. This is a build up of justification—the longness, the hotness, the lack of availability of other options—for why I then stopped and purchased vitals, gave money for goods … oh gosh, I can hardly bring myself to admit it I feel so guilty! I went to BP. There I said it. Call me evil, a co-conspirator. I don’t feel good about it. I would almost have been better to buy petrol off them—cherry colas and starbar chocolates are where they make all their money isn’t it. I am not sure if it was the timing of the World Cup soccer game or people really are boycotting them, but there was scant traffic there as I sat on their corporate greed green grass and ate their food.
I was so tempted to stay in the banal Travelodge next door to the BP. My feet were aching and four kilometres of Bridge in bright sunlight as well as how long it would then take me to get to town, was not encouraging me. But it was too dear. The Bridge it would have to be.
Bridges sing. At least suspension bridges do. Stone bridges are a lot quieter. It’s a melancholy song. Like a bridge is sad that although it joins places, it can never go anywhere.
The centre of Chepstow is pretty. Very up and down—like it presages what will come on the path. I found a lovely hotel in the centre, fairly reasonably priced because ‘you’re coming in late’. And it didn’t include cooked breakfast—yay! I had a curry and listened to drunk people watching more soccer, and then spent the evening on the surprisingly good free wi-fi. It sounded like a brawl happened all night and as soon as that finished, the construction work started.
Good night Chepstow, good night you.
Wednesday, June 23, 2010
Tuesday, June 22, 2010
61.3 kms: Newark Park-Wotton-under-Edge-North Nibley-Berkeley.
Wes and I woke up with squished slugs in our hair. Can I just say—eough!!! And again—eoughghgh! Yuk! Why am I doing this? Anyway. The sun was not where we were—hence the presence of dewy slugs. So I moved everything into the sun to dry—which it did do very quickly. But then people started coming past in droves. Morning. Morning. Yeah, um, just trying to dry some stuff, you know. Oh you camped here last night? Um, yeah, I guess so.
I finally got into Wotton for coffee and the world’s largest and fluffiest omelette. I planned my way and made the final decision to leave the Cotswold Way at North Nibley and head towards the Severn, then walk back to and over the Severn Bridge and to the start of Offa’s Dyke. My other option would mean going all the way to Gloucester in order to be able to get across the river—I really didn’t fancy walking into Gloucester. I got off the path and onto the road. North Nibley was after one of the craziest ups and downs I had done in my three days of walking (sarcastic essence to that sentence). But, on a serious note, the poles are really good for the descents. They also make you go faster on the ascents, but I am yet to decide if that is an asset. The bit between the up and the down was spectacularly lovely—forest, dappled with sunlight (relief for the sunburn), and speckled with iron-age forts. There was also Tyndale’s Tower. A beautiful tower on the top of the escarpment. Two very red English people sunbaking nearby advised me that it had been built in his honour two hundred years after the church realised that burning him for translating the Bible into English so all the common people could read it was possibly an over-reaction.
I had lemonade and coffee in the pub at North Nibley. One of the waitresses had enormous assets and a strapless long dress that she kept threatening to stand on and reveal all—men in the pub all held their breaths every time she came up the stairs from the kitchen. She was sweet though and thoroughly convinced that an addiction to Neighbours was better than an addiction to drugs. Who was I to set her straight—as long as she is not harming others is all I can say. Putting it on the plasma as soon as the proprietoress disappeared may fall into the harming others category though.
The castle at Berkley was open for the day. My concession to a visitation was to collapse on the grass inside the gate. I’m on the road. That doesn’t allow for coming off it—that’s how it works.
A car stopped nearby, accusing me silently of lounging within castle grounds so I moved on. A couple in the cafe on Wotton advised that there was a nice place to stay in Berkley. I couldn’t recall what the name was. I had a feeling it was the ‘Something’ Arms, so I stopped at the Berkeley Arms, enquired about the price, grumbled and asked about other places cheaper, then decided I couldn’t be bothered and agreed. I had this odd little room that had an en suite bathroom, just for my use, across the hall.
Aside: As I sit here in Montpellier Gardens writing this up from copious notes, I look up and see butt crack. Gentleman, do you find this attractive when you see it? Please realise that low riding jeans also ride low when you are sitting and, I don’t know, I think I like the round, curvy bottom of bottoms rather than the tops of bottoms. Showing that pelvic bone s-curve on the front is one hundred percent okay, but when it comes to the rear, please fill the cracks.
Sorry about that. En suite. Doesn’t that mean in the suite? It was nice though. Did washing and sequin sewing and diary writing. Spent quite a bit of time looking at two seemingly identical paintings of the castle that hung on the walls of the room. Surely it must be some weird game of spot-the-difference: why else would someone hang two identical pictures. Do you have two identical photos of loved ones on the mantelpiece? Odd. Couldn’t find any differences. Had dinner. Salmon, overcooked with some weird orange and ginger sauce. Veggies and bubble-and-squeak were really yummy though. After dinner I had a walk around town, looking over walls at the castle, wondering though the church yard, staring into people’s front rooms (I love how the Brits don’t worry about curtains). Then I found the Mariner’s Arms. Oh my goodness! Was I encased in the arms of the wrong establishment. I’ll never know.
Good night Berkley, good night you.
I finally got into Wotton for coffee and the world’s largest and fluffiest omelette. I planned my way and made the final decision to leave the Cotswold Way at North Nibley and head towards the Severn, then walk back to and over the Severn Bridge and to the start of Offa’s Dyke. My other option would mean going all the way to Gloucester in order to be able to get across the river—I really didn’t fancy walking into Gloucester. I got off the path and onto the road. North Nibley was after one of the craziest ups and downs I had done in my three days of walking (sarcastic essence to that sentence). But, on a serious note, the poles are really good for the descents. They also make you go faster on the ascents, but I am yet to decide if that is an asset. The bit between the up and the down was spectacularly lovely—forest, dappled with sunlight (relief for the sunburn), and speckled with iron-age forts. There was also Tyndale’s Tower. A beautiful tower on the top of the escarpment. Two very red English people sunbaking nearby advised me that it had been built in his honour two hundred years after the church realised that burning him for translating the Bible into English so all the common people could read it was possibly an over-reaction.
I had lemonade and coffee in the pub at North Nibley. One of the waitresses had enormous assets and a strapless long dress that she kept threatening to stand on and reveal all—men in the pub all held their breaths every time she came up the stairs from the kitchen. She was sweet though and thoroughly convinced that an addiction to Neighbours was better than an addiction to drugs. Who was I to set her straight—as long as she is not harming others is all I can say. Putting it on the plasma as soon as the proprietoress disappeared may fall into the harming others category though.
The castle at Berkley was open for the day. My concession to a visitation was to collapse on the grass inside the gate. I’m on the road. That doesn’t allow for coming off it—that’s how it works.
A car stopped nearby, accusing me silently of lounging within castle grounds so I moved on. A couple in the cafe on Wotton advised that there was a nice place to stay in Berkley. I couldn’t recall what the name was. I had a feeling it was the ‘Something’ Arms, so I stopped at the Berkeley Arms, enquired about the price, grumbled and asked about other places cheaper, then decided I couldn’t be bothered and agreed. I had this odd little room that had an en suite bathroom, just for my use, across the hall.
Aside: As I sit here in Montpellier Gardens writing this up from copious notes, I look up and see butt crack. Gentleman, do you find this attractive when you see it? Please realise that low riding jeans also ride low when you are sitting and, I don’t know, I think I like the round, curvy bottom of bottoms rather than the tops of bottoms. Showing that pelvic bone s-curve on the front is one hundred percent okay, but when it comes to the rear, please fill the cracks.
Sorry about that. En suite. Doesn’t that mean in the suite? It was nice though. Did washing and sequin sewing and diary writing. Spent quite a bit of time looking at two seemingly identical paintings of the castle that hung on the walls of the room. Surely it must be some weird game of spot-the-difference: why else would someone hang two identical pictures. Do you have two identical photos of loved ones on the mantelpiece? Odd. Couldn’t find any differences. Had dinner. Salmon, overcooked with some weird orange and ginger sauce. Veggies and bubble-and-squeak were really yummy though. After dinner I had a walk around town, looking over walls at the castle, wondering though the church yard, staring into people’s front rooms (I love how the Brits don’t worry about curtains). Then I found the Mariner’s Arms. Oh my goodness! Was I encased in the arms of the wrong establishment. I’ll never know.
Good night Berkley, good night you.
Monday, June 21, 2010
48.3 kms: Tormarton-Old Sodbury-Little Sodbury-Horton-Outside Hawkesbury Upton-Hillesley-Newark Park.
I started the day ignoring good advice. It didn’t adversely affect me. My landlord was of the opinion that if things got too hard, you should just go round. He stated that was the philosophy of another Le Jogger who had also passed this way—shame on them! So he suggested taking the road and meeting the path at the junction, thus avoiding five stone stiles. When I saw the first stile, I succame. [For all the grammarians: I know that is not the past tense of succumb, I just think it ought to be.] I figured they would make me stronger. They were all actually quite easy to get over and I wasn’t sorry.
There was a petrol station and a cold drink in Old Sodbury and then nothing but walking. I got off the path to come into Hillesley because I was panicking about running out of water—an so absolutely parched because my panic stopped me drinking. I was going to wait out the pub’s lock down time—the pubs all close between about two and about six or seven. I figured I would fill up on food and water and then walk until I found a nice field outside of Wotton-under-Edge. Then I would go in there in the morning for brekky. I couldn’t see what time the pub opened again and was probably looking a bit dazed in an attempt to work out where the alleged shop was instead when a lady came to my questioning aid. I told her I was after water so she invited me back to hers and I filled my bottles and drank copious amounts of water. I sat in her back yard and chatted for a while, while her oblivious husband listened to the soccer on a sunlounge. Their names were Helen and David. They had a son who lived in Sydney for a while before his Australian wife broke his heart. They had visited a couple of times. She loved the birds but hated all the things that could kill or seriously maim you. I complained back about the horrible brown machete-mouthed flies, but she had never heard of such a thing. Yet another person who doesn’t believe me about this nasty creature—is it a kind of national denial?
Out of Hillesley was up and up and up. Through forest. There was ne’er a nice field and so I walked for ages and ended up on something called the ‘Circular’ Cotswold Way Path. It took me to a National Trust house called Newark Park, but I didn’t feel right sleeping in their field. I ended up on a patch of long grass that I squashed down about three feet from the foot path and only hidden by a tiny bit of long grass. In the evening, only one person went by but the morning would be a different thing (see tomorrow). I had already covered my back pack with disguising grasses, so when the person or tractor or similar drove passed, I just flung the khaki bivvy bag over me and the seemingly predominantly red things that surrounded me. If he saw I have no idea. This time the roll mat stayed out and I put on more clothing. I was definitely warmer, but I am not sure how much more sleep I got. It still seemed very little.
There was a petrol station and a cold drink in Old Sodbury and then nothing but walking. I got off the path to come into Hillesley because I was panicking about running out of water—an so absolutely parched because my panic stopped me drinking. I was going to wait out the pub’s lock down time—the pubs all close between about two and about six or seven. I figured I would fill up on food and water and then walk until I found a nice field outside of Wotton-under-Edge. Then I would go in there in the morning for brekky. I couldn’t see what time the pub opened again and was probably looking a bit dazed in an attempt to work out where the alleged shop was instead when a lady came to my questioning aid. I told her I was after water so she invited me back to hers and I filled my bottles and drank copious amounts of water. I sat in her back yard and chatted for a while, while her oblivious husband listened to the soccer on a sunlounge. Their names were Helen and David. They had a son who lived in Sydney for a while before his Australian wife broke his heart. They had visited a couple of times. She loved the birds but hated all the things that could kill or seriously maim you. I complained back about the horrible brown machete-mouthed flies, but she had never heard of such a thing. Yet another person who doesn’t believe me about this nasty creature—is it a kind of national denial?
Out of Hillesley was up and up and up. Through forest. There was ne’er a nice field and so I walked for ages and ended up on something called the ‘Circular’ Cotswold Way Path. It took me to a National Trust house called Newark Park, but I didn’t feel right sleeping in their field. I ended up on a patch of long grass that I squashed down about three feet from the foot path and only hidden by a tiny bit of long grass. In the evening, only one person went by but the morning would be a different thing (see tomorrow). I had already covered my back pack with disguising grasses, so when the person or tractor or similar drove passed, I just flung the khaki bivvy bag over me and the seemingly predominantly red things that surrounded me. If he saw I have no idea. This time the roll mat stayed out and I put on more clothing. I was definitely warmer, but I am not sure how much more sleep I got. It still seemed very little.
Sunday, June 20, 2010
27.2 kms: Lower Hamswell-Cold Ashton-Pennsylvania-Dyrham-Tormarton.
I think I slept all of about two hours and they were from six-thirty to eight-thirty a.m. I had put the roll mat in the bivvy bag thinking that that way I wouldn’t slip off it all night. What ensued was that the bivvy bag was stretched tight against the sleeping bag—especially when you sleep on your side like I do—and so it was both claustrophobic and cold. The roll mat worked very well regarding cold though—it was just top and sides that suffered. Marry that with old hips that get sore sleeping on the floor, a beanie that kept moving all over my head, and the magical disappearing Wes, and it was a disaster. I watched the light finally disappear at about eleven-thirty, and reappear like fairy floss on the horizon at two-thirty. What sleep I did get was dotted with bizarre dreams. But, morning comes, you pack up, move on and determine to keep the roll mat on the outside and a B&B as an option tonight.
The walking today was a little more like what I experienced last year—fields, crops, and thistles. I got my first thistle burns yesterday when attempting a sly bathroom stop: one to the hand, which agitated me all day, one to the butt cheek, eek! There are far fewer places to stop along the way though. I had muesli bars for breakfast from my storage cellars, a chicken and bacon sandwich, crisps and (thank god) coffee for morning tea from a service station, and sugarless (eek) coffee and jaffa cakes for lunch at five-thirty at the pub I am staying in tonight—the Major’s Retreat in Tormarton.
I lay down for a lovely lie (no nap or snooze) in a field that turned out to be a wrong turn and which, through traversing and cutting back onto the path, meant I missed the largest nettle forest of the day. My legs are spotty all over though and the giant biting fly things have got me twice. I am totally okay with a fly that bites and sucks out all your blood as long as it anaesthetises first. These have mouths the equivalent of a tiny machete, and machete is the weapon I least fancy being faced with.
I wasn’t taking chances with B&Bs today and so when I caught the proprietor of the Major’s Retreat just before four and found he had a reasonably priced, if old looking and slightly fusty smelling, room available I took it. It meant more lying. I washed some socks and jocks and then took the jaffa cakes, coffee, socks, spotty dress and sequins out to the back yard and tried to get a tan on my toes. Once the sequins were done (thirteen), I lay and listened to the sounds of small English village life: the banging of farm-machinery repairs, the grug-grug-grug of an engine that won’t start, neighbours greeting each other in the street, tyres on gravel, and birdsong—including an amorous blackbird wooing what he thought was four potential mates in the breezy trees, but turned out to be my socks drying.
Result of all that lying: sunburn! I applied. I re-applied. No avail.
I had dinner—most of an enormous plate of roast lamb, roast and new potatoes, peas, carrots, cauliflower and Yorkshire pudding—with a lemonade and a Pig’s Ear local ale, sweet, nice. And now I am ready for a night of actual sleep with the remonstrance that breakfast doesn’t get served early here: fine with me!
Good night Tormarton. Good night you.
The walking today was a little more like what I experienced last year—fields, crops, and thistles. I got my first thistle burns yesterday when attempting a sly bathroom stop: one to the hand, which agitated me all day, one to the butt cheek, eek! There are far fewer places to stop along the way though. I had muesli bars for breakfast from my storage cellars, a chicken and bacon sandwich, crisps and (thank god) coffee for morning tea from a service station, and sugarless (eek) coffee and jaffa cakes for lunch at five-thirty at the pub I am staying in tonight—the Major’s Retreat in Tormarton.
I lay down for a lovely lie (no nap or snooze) in a field that turned out to be a wrong turn and which, through traversing and cutting back onto the path, meant I missed the largest nettle forest of the day. My legs are spotty all over though and the giant biting fly things have got me twice. I am totally okay with a fly that bites and sucks out all your blood as long as it anaesthetises first. These have mouths the equivalent of a tiny machete, and machete is the weapon I least fancy being faced with.
I wasn’t taking chances with B&Bs today and so when I caught the proprietor of the Major’s Retreat just before four and found he had a reasonably priced, if old looking and slightly fusty smelling, room available I took it. It meant more lying. I washed some socks and jocks and then took the jaffa cakes, coffee, socks, spotty dress and sequins out to the back yard and tried to get a tan on my toes. Once the sequins were done (thirteen), I lay and listened to the sounds of small English village life: the banging of farm-machinery repairs, the grug-grug-grug of an engine that won’t start, neighbours greeting each other in the street, tyres on gravel, and birdsong—including an amorous blackbird wooing what he thought was four potential mates in the breezy trees, but turned out to be my socks drying.
Result of all that lying: sunburn! I applied. I re-applied. No avail.
I had dinner—most of an enormous plate of roast lamb, roast and new potatoes, peas, carrots, cauliflower and Yorkshire pudding—with a lemonade and a Pig’s Ear local ale, sweet, nice. And now I am ready for a night of actual sleep with the remonstrance that breakfast doesn’t get served early here: fine with me!
Good night Tormarton. Good night you.
Saturday, June 19, 2010
14.3 kms: Bath-Weston-Prospect Stile-(vicinity) Lower Hamswell.
I’m fairly impressed by that effort. Keep in mind I took the train to Bath today, faffed around in there, and only started walking at three pm. I am currently waiting for my inflatable mattress to inflate and watching the sun go down from a field nervously close to the path (I keep having to quiet down when people walk past—only a hedge separates them and my frantic, chilly typing), overlooking the valley of Lower Hamswell.
Up was the trend of the start of the walk; getting us out of Bath’s valley. From there the path went fairly evenly with some ups and downs. We skirted Bath’s millionaire’s row (remember that’s in pounds and it sounds even more impressive—absolutely stunningly cute houses). I stopped in a pub in Weston, which seems just an outskirt of Bath, for a lemonade and bathroom break. Some very intelligent and pleasant people made jokes about the state of my beaver. It’s a beaver people! It’s Wesley. It’s a damn comfy pillow. But it is not a vagina. For a similar crowd in the future I think I will go with ‘otter’.
There are lots of people on the walk which is nice. It always facilitates a rest stop to compare notes—although at this stage I seem quite insignificant compared to everyone who is on the last bit into Bath. The Le Jog story seems harder to explain this year. ‘Where’re you headed?’ ‘John O’Groats.’ ‘Oh my goodness, isn’t that amazing! Phil, she’s going to JOGs.’ ‘Really? All on your own? Bev, this girls walking to JOGs all on her own except for that beaver.’ ‘Really? How far have you gone?’ ‘Umm, fourteen kilometres.’ Stunned silence. ‘This time, you see …’
With no impending prospect of PHs (Public Houses) on the map, not even towns, I started looking for camping spaces at about eight. I had been spewing, for want of a better word, about an hour before as I was walking past a golf course with fabulous lawns whose manicuredness seemed to extend into the copses of trees that were scattered through it. I would have bunked down there. But, with the typically fabulous long summer days, there were still heaps of people actually playing golf. There was not a chance. Plus, my best laid plans of waking early enough to clear out before the next round of golfers would never have eventuated. I know me. Instead I have this field, the edge of which curves away from the path that goes through it so I can pop back on the path with ease tomorrow but won’t be seen today. There are houses across the valley, but they are too far away and wouldn’t see me without binoculars.
I have sewn on my fourteen sequins, carried the point three of a sequin over until tomorrow and we are now here together waiting for the mattress to inflate. Turns out waiting for the surprise of reading in situ is not as exciting for instructions as it is for a book. I was supposed to do this at home before heading out to prime the thing apparently. Oh well—there is a mouth piece for inflate and a whistle and a light to attract attention. Oh—that’s a lifejacket isn’t it?
Good night Lower Hamswell. Good night you.
Up was the trend of the start of the walk; getting us out of Bath’s valley. From there the path went fairly evenly with some ups and downs. We skirted Bath’s millionaire’s row (remember that’s in pounds and it sounds even more impressive—absolutely stunningly cute houses). I stopped in a pub in Weston, which seems just an outskirt of Bath, for a lemonade and bathroom break. Some very intelligent and pleasant people made jokes about the state of my beaver. It’s a beaver people! It’s Wesley. It’s a damn comfy pillow. But it is not a vagina. For a similar crowd in the future I think I will go with ‘otter’.
There are lots of people on the walk which is nice. It always facilitates a rest stop to compare notes—although at this stage I seem quite insignificant compared to everyone who is on the last bit into Bath. The Le Jog story seems harder to explain this year. ‘Where’re you headed?’ ‘John O’Groats.’ ‘Oh my goodness, isn’t that amazing! Phil, she’s going to JOGs.’ ‘Really? All on your own? Bev, this girls walking to JOGs all on her own except for that beaver.’ ‘Really? How far have you gone?’ ‘Umm, fourteen kilometres.’ Stunned silence. ‘This time, you see …’
With no impending prospect of PHs (Public Houses) on the map, not even towns, I started looking for camping spaces at about eight. I had been spewing, for want of a better word, about an hour before as I was walking past a golf course with fabulous lawns whose manicuredness seemed to extend into the copses of trees that were scattered through it. I would have bunked down there. But, with the typically fabulous long summer days, there were still heaps of people actually playing golf. There was not a chance. Plus, my best laid plans of waking early enough to clear out before the next round of golfers would never have eventuated. I know me. Instead I have this field, the edge of which curves away from the path that goes through it so I can pop back on the path with ease tomorrow but won’t be seen today. There are houses across the valley, but they are too far away and wouldn’t see me without binoculars.
I have sewn on my fourteen sequins, carried the point three of a sequin over until tomorrow and we are now here together waiting for the mattress to inflate. Turns out waiting for the surprise of reading in situ is not as exciting for instructions as it is for a book. I was supposed to do this at home before heading out to prime the thing apparently. Oh well—there is a mouth piece for inflate and a whistle and a light to attract attention. Oh—that’s a lifejacket isn’t it?
Good night Lower Hamswell. Good night you.
Wednesday, June 16, 2010
76 kms: T4-Central Bus Station-Swindon-Cheltenham.
I am not hearing that tiny insignificant beep of an alarm clock that is my wristwatch—especially seeing as I have lately had my buzz alarm clock and that obnoxious car horn tone on my mobile alarm clock both being barely enough to wake me. It was no surprise then that I nearly slept in. I had figured that because it was free wi-fi, I could google an alarm clock, the ticking would keep the computer going and I’d be right mate. It seemed to be working the first couple of times I got up and checked but switched itself off by morning. So much for starting early on getting sick of full English breakfasts. I madly packed and headed for the train to T3. I managed the right train this time, but seeing as there is only one way to go, credit is not due, earned or given. I had some awful Costa version of full English brekky on a sandwich and coffee and then headed for the bus. Some blog preparation, some sewing of the last beatnik dress, and I was in Chelt.
Nothing has changed. It was like a year had never intervened. Adam has a new housemate, the fire is in and very lovely—he lit it on Friday night and I fell asleep mesmerized. They are replacing all the sash windows in the building and so Sam and Derek, the sash window men were at the flat most of the time. They were very entertaining and funny. Sam’s girlfriend’s name is Sam. Doesn’t it get confusing I said. Not to us, I know who I mean when I yell out Sam. His girlfriend has spoiled his dog, Poppy and so now she will only eat specially roasted cow’s innards.
I spent Thursday and Friday getting essentials like maps, a damn i-Pod charger because I had figured that I could charge the i-Pod on the computer but forgot that this computer is not the one with i-Tunes, and perfume—which I thought I could do without, but I thought wrong. On Friday evening I met Adam’s new friend whose a girl. She is lovely, and gives Adam a fabulously hard time which is always good to witness. We watched the soccer. Apparently it was ‘rubbish’. I was now ready to start the journey.
Nothing has changed. It was like a year had never intervened. Adam has a new housemate, the fire is in and very lovely—he lit it on Friday night and I fell asleep mesmerized. They are replacing all the sash windows in the building and so Sam and Derek, the sash window men were at the flat most of the time. They were very entertaining and funny. Sam’s girlfriend’s name is Sam. Doesn’t it get confusing I said. Not to us, I know who I mean when I yell out Sam. His girlfriend has spoiled his dog, Poppy and so now she will only eat specially roasted cow’s innards.
I spent Thursday and Friday getting essentials like maps, a damn i-Pod charger because I had figured that I could charge the i-Pod on the computer but forgot that this computer is not the one with i-Tunes, and perfume—which I thought I could do without, but I thought wrong. On Friday evening I met Adam’s new friend whose a girl. She is lovely, and gives Adam a fabulously hard time which is always good to witness. We watched the soccer. Apparently it was ‘rubbish’. I was now ready to start the journey.
Tuesday, June 15, 2010
17357 kms: Melbourne-Kuala Lumpur-Dubai-London Heathrow Terminal 3-Hayes&Harlington-Terminal 4.
EK 409 Melbourne to Dubai via Kuala Lumpur scheduled for an on time departure at 0240. Me, seat 39B. I am seated next to Milduran civil engineer, I will find out as we taxi out of KL about nine hours later, heading back to his long stay in the UK—high skill visa—after a last minute decision to come home for the weekend for his father’s sixtieth birthday. He was great as he was exhausted from the mad trip and so slept the whole way and didn’t even need to use the bathroom once. The people in front and behind me were another story though.
In front: A middle age couple who did not realise anyone else in the world existed and so refused to move or allow passage when making one of the three million delves into matching his and carry-ons, and, felt that full recline of their seats at all given times, including meals, was acceptable. I had at one stage to ask the male specimen to please lift his chair so I could eat without dislocating my elbows, and he said: ‘Yeah, I know, there’s not a lot of room is there?’ No there isn’t, especially when you are reclined upon and don’t feel you can recline in return—some awful sense of politeness.
In back: A—let’s not beat about the bush—pompous Englishman, living in Asia, commuting often, working in the financial industry. He was blesséd enough to be seated next to pretty young blonde thing, naive, headed to Contiki Europe, and so he was able to rattle off useful and banal advise for hours until he, blessedly for me, fell asleep.
The Plan: A twenty-four hour movie marathon that incorporated at least ten movies (see: T.B.A. link to be attached to list-addict.blogspot as soon as there is something to link to). I managed three between home and KL, half an audio book between KL and Dubai—half on which half I slept/drooled through—and four Dubai to London. I thought I would be able to make this up in the Yotel, but I found that what I looked at to watch cost money, and the weird keyboard/remote control was too difficult to control to try to work out if there was anything free going.
Aside: I keep hearing strange beepings everywhere with no immediately accessible rationale.
Back on track: Dubai airport has these great sunlounge type seats to wait in. I lay, the short-haired heathen, and listened to the excitement of an enormous South African muslim family’s religious excitement about visiting Jeddah.The wait was short and in now time I was back on the plane. This time I had an aisle seat in the middle bank and slowly, as people piled on, I crossed more and more bits to stave them away from my spare seat and the infinite leg room options it would allow. The crossing worked but there was a slight karma pay-off where we had to wait on the plane for over an hour while they removed cargo because 'the air was too hot for a heavy plane to take off' (see: T.B.A. link to list-addict). Umm, it's a heavy plane anyway.
Arrived in London a mere three-and-seven-eighths movies later. The immigration queue was insane. I had to speak harshly to the man behind me who was oblivious of any sense of personal space and so was standing so that his stomach was touching the small of my back. It was freaking me out! I don't like having people behind me—especially if you can feel their breath in your hair. There are times and places for that sort of thing—airport immigration queues are neither.
Through the queue I rushed down to the terminal transfer train, saw the words Terminal 4 and jumped on the just about to depart train, only to end up at a tube station several stressful moments later—stressful because I thought I would actually end up in Paddington. It was one minute before midnight and didn't look like any trains would be coming past to get back to the airport, so I ended up in a taxi. So much for staying at the airport so that I didn't have to faff around with transport!
Last thing to do for the day was to find and check into the Yotel. I was so looking forward to it. Some guy, English, who I should google and get a name for, but I am not currently in a googleworthy position, was upgraded to business or first class on BA and liked it so much he decided to make Yotels. He got the business or first class designer to design them. Ultimately they are like capsule hotels. I had a ‘standard’ room: it can accommodate two but you would step on each other a lot and you would have to like each other a damn lot. It’s a bunk bed built over two rooms, so you either have to go up a bit or down a bit to access you room, and then climb or duck to get into your bed. There is a corridor (generous word for the space it is) between the bed and the monsoon shower, toilet and basin. You can lower a table and chair in the corridor. It’s all bathed in a weird purple light—not unlike anti-needle-usage-purple on buses. But the towel was soft, the shower divine and the bed comfy. I used the free wi-fi, tried in vain to finish watching The Lovely Bones and finally slept. Paranoid that I would not hear my tinsy-winsy, ting-ting wrist watch alarm (justifiable paranoia), I googled an alarm clock with the hope the ticking would keep the computer active and the sound of the alarm would wake me. The ticking doesn’t keep the computer active. It is always my fate to sleep late!
Good night Yotel T4, good night you.
In front: A middle age couple who did not realise anyone else in the world existed and so refused to move or allow passage when making one of the three million delves into matching his and carry-ons, and, felt that full recline of their seats at all given times, including meals, was acceptable. I had at one stage to ask the male specimen to please lift his chair so I could eat without dislocating my elbows, and he said: ‘Yeah, I know, there’s not a lot of room is there?’ No there isn’t, especially when you are reclined upon and don’t feel you can recline in return—some awful sense of politeness.
In back: A—let’s not beat about the bush—pompous Englishman, living in Asia, commuting often, working in the financial industry. He was blesséd enough to be seated next to pretty young blonde thing, naive, headed to Contiki Europe, and so he was able to rattle off useful and banal advise for hours until he, blessedly for me, fell asleep.
The Plan: A twenty-four hour movie marathon that incorporated at least ten movies (see: T.B.A. link to be attached to list-addict.blogspot as soon as there is something to link to). I managed three between home and KL, half an audio book between KL and Dubai—half on which half I slept/drooled through—and four Dubai to London. I thought I would be able to make this up in the Yotel, but I found that what I looked at to watch cost money, and the weird keyboard/remote control was too difficult to control to try to work out if there was anything free going.
Aside: I keep hearing strange beepings everywhere with no immediately accessible rationale.
Back on track: Dubai airport has these great sunlounge type seats to wait in. I lay, the short-haired heathen, and listened to the excitement of an enormous South African muslim family’s religious excitement about visiting Jeddah.The wait was short and in now time I was back on the plane. This time I had an aisle seat in the middle bank and slowly, as people piled on, I crossed more and more bits to stave them away from my spare seat and the infinite leg room options it would allow. The crossing worked but there was a slight karma pay-off where we had to wait on the plane for over an hour while they removed cargo because 'the air was too hot for a heavy plane to take off' (see: T.B.A. link to list-addict). Umm, it's a heavy plane anyway.
Arrived in London a mere three-and-seven-eighths movies later. The immigration queue was insane. I had to speak harshly to the man behind me who was oblivious of any sense of personal space and so was standing so that his stomach was touching the small of my back. It was freaking me out! I don't like having people behind me—especially if you can feel their breath in your hair. There are times and places for that sort of thing—airport immigration queues are neither.
Through the queue I rushed down to the terminal transfer train, saw the words Terminal 4 and jumped on the just about to depart train, only to end up at a tube station several stressful moments later—stressful because I thought I would actually end up in Paddington. It was one minute before midnight and didn't look like any trains would be coming past to get back to the airport, so I ended up in a taxi. So much for staying at the airport so that I didn't have to faff around with transport!
Last thing to do for the day was to find and check into the Yotel. I was so looking forward to it. Some guy, English, who I should google and get a name for, but I am not currently in a googleworthy position, was upgraded to business or first class on BA and liked it so much he decided to make Yotels. He got the business or first class designer to design them. Ultimately they are like capsule hotels. I had a ‘standard’ room: it can accommodate two but you would step on each other a lot and you would have to like each other a damn lot. It’s a bunk bed built over two rooms, so you either have to go up a bit or down a bit to access you room, and then climb or duck to get into your bed. There is a corridor (generous word for the space it is) between the bed and the monsoon shower, toilet and basin. You can lower a table and chair in the corridor. It’s all bathed in a weird purple light—not unlike anti-needle-usage-purple on buses. But the towel was soft, the shower divine and the bed comfy. I used the free wi-fi, tried in vain to finish watching The Lovely Bones and finally slept. Paranoid that I would not hear my tinsy-winsy, ting-ting wrist watch alarm (justifiable paranoia), I googled an alarm clock with the hope the ticking would keep the computer active and the sound of the alarm would wake me. The ticking doesn’t keep the computer active. It is always my fate to sleep late!
Good night Yotel T4, good night you.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)