|Several Bridges Too Far - The Storm Begins To Break...|
|Saturday 30/06/2012 22:34|
My first coincidence was stumbling across a mention of the Moselle River the night before I travelled. I was at my parents place, browsing on my 'phone while they watched tennis on TV, and the curious tale of this tributary thrice removed of the Thames popped up. Finding a picture of it surfacing in Tottenham Cemetery I tracked it's course back. It wasn't easy - it appeared to take all kinds of odd turns - but finally I had a couple of sections of above-ground route. I planned no more, distracted by reading around the area, but left it until this morning. Bleary-eyed and slightly bemused, poring over an A to Z on the train, and hoping for sunshine as I'd left my coat at home. As we thundered through slate gray Oxfordshire and drizzly Berkshire I feared the worst. I descended onto the Circle Line at Paddington wondering what I'd face on surfacing at Kings Cross. In fact, once I'd negotiated the seemingly circuitous route to the departures side via the new ticket hall, and found my way onto a stopper for Stevenage, the sun was riding high in the sky, with clouds drifting speedily by. I alighted at Hornsey and crossed the bridge, distracted by a view into the rail depot. Immediately after the bridge, a stub of road crossed the New River. I spent a while taking pictures and getting my bearings, before plunging across the street, near a bored parent and his smirking child, and into Harringey. I'd crossed the 'Ladder' once before - further south, and I expected the mix of terraces and town houses. The recycling scheme here seemed as complex as at home, but the result was that the front gardens of every home were jammed with various receptacles for waste. Where a house was divided into flats, the bins jostled for space and supremacy. It was a tawdry sight in an otherwise pleasant area.
I left the ladder, crossing Duckett's Common and passing near to the wonderful art-deco shell of Turnpike Lane underground station. Dodging around the bus depot, I made my way back into the suburban hinterland, the quiet street punctured by distant crying babies and piano practice, then cutting through the narrow band of Mannock Road Allotments and into the hazily defined Belmont area which stretches along Downhills Park Road. This passes a fine old school and it's pretty caretaker's cottage, now converted mostly into a Professional Development Centre for Harringey Children's Services. The difficult associations that brings aren't lost as I shuffle towards the mini-roundabout at Downhills Way. This broad, suburban avenue is typical of many link roads, and is oddly quiet as I cross and note the land rising towards the lip of the Moselle Valley. I follow the hill right to it's peak, but find the views obscured by buildings, so backtrack far enough to find the entrance to Lordship Lane Recreation Ground. I realise I'm worrying a woman walking her dog who thinks I've doubled back to follow her - so I hang back as she heads into the strip of preserved woodland, fearfully checking if I'm following. I'm not, its getting hot and I've spied my first goal where a pathway from Walpole Road marks the culverted entry of the Moselle. As I head for this part of the park I realise something isn't right. Most of the area is fenced off, and there is a major Lottery funded redevelopment of the park underway. I get to the east-west path where the culvert of the Moselle crossed and find an unexpected scene. Beside me, a sluice opens out into a broad artificial river meadow. The channel curves and divides, solid wooden bridges criss-crossing them. At the eastern end, water fills a broad lagoon where it's filtered of its debris and pollution. The real Moselle feeds it here when in flood, the water running off the culvert and entering the channels. I pause to take a picture of the towers of Broadwater Farm reflected in the pool. Beyond here, the channel is a damp bed, aquatic plants just beginning to take hold. I follow along the broad path which has been built over the culvert of the river. It was originally planned to open this out, but the flood risk was too great. At the end of the path a temporary bridge connects the as yet unimproved northern part of the park, and another concrete sluice takes the new channel back into the culverted Moselle as it disappears under the looming bulk of Broadwater Farm. It's impossible not to feel awestruck by these buildings. Their own grim associations echo back from the last great recession and period of civil unrest, and the odd mish-mash of designs and types of housing has only one thing in common - they all stand on stilts above the threat of the Moselle in flood. I find a way in, and note that there is no official walking space. In the ground level carparks I feel vulnerable, and out on the grassy square I feel even more exposed. There's no real threat - the crime rate here is excellent nowadays, the community has taken back it's home turf. But it's an alien culture for a white, middle-class Somerset boy. On the edge of the estate as I leave a white van stops and asks the way to Tangmere - one of the blocks, all named for Battle of Britain airfields. The cockney driver is effortlessly rude, calling me a "Fat fucker" before I've even had a chance to answer him. He explains triumphantly: "I'm asking YOU because you're the first white face I've seen around here". Having a rare chance to respond to his insult I say "Sorry, I'm not from round here. Ask a black face." and leave him cursing me and still lost. I cut along a cycle path through a decent development of old folks places, and find myself on Lordship Lane. I buy fizzy drink and drown a thirst. It's hot and dry, but I've found my walking rhythm again.
Broadwater Farm blocks reflected in the Moselle
Turning onto the busy A10, I pick up the end of the Roundway, a sweeping curve around a manufactured crescent shaped estate, and then to All Hallows Church. Here, a historic link with Scotland comes into the story - with nearby Bruce Castle and this church a gift from King David I in the 12th Century. It's a crumbling, appealing old building which merits exploration sometime. Instead I head north onto Church Path, a long straight procession passing All Hallows original churchyard and cutting through Tottenham Cemetery between high municipal railings. It's an odd place, and not a comfortable one. Odd scufflings and flutterings in the hot, damp air help me to realise I'm likely not the only living thing here. But I am mostly alone. The sickly smell of lime trees bears down on me as I pass on further into the mass of graves, finally coming across a truly curious thing - a tunnel underneath the Church Path linking the two sides of the cemetery. A simple junction would have sufficed, but instead steps lead down under an arch and ascend the other side. The 1883 built structure is listed, it's listing suggesting some formal role with the chapel and war memorial, but they don't align in a logical sense at all in this oddly unplanned conglomeration of burial lands. A few feet on, I find the Moselle again at last. A fast-flowing stream here, it cuts from west to east across the cemetery. Chuch Path crosses on a high concrete bridge, while a link between portions of the site crosses on an older bridge further upstream. Despite a slightly off-colour smell and a proliferation of insects, it's a pleasant scene and a relief from the sea of graves. Picking my way to the lower bridge to take pictures I see part of a monument to 'Dad' lying in the river bed. I try to follow the river now towards the edge of the site, but it's not easy. The ground is rough, and tends down towards the river running in a brick trough. Graves slip crazily towards it, monuments leaning unsafely. Eventually I find my way to the corner of the field, and pushing through a gap in the trees, find a strange corner clearly frequented by rough-sleepers. The soft, mossy ground slopes down to the river where it disappears under White Hart Lane, not to be seen again. I don't trust the ground enough to get closer, and I don't want to be in this oddly silent little haven any longer. I crash out into the air, and find the nearby gate locked. Instead I trudge to the main entrance and the gatehouse chapel. I'm not sorry to be leaving Tottenham Cemetery. I recuperate on a long bus journey through Stamford Hill, with the orthodox Jews pouring out of synagogues in their shtreimel. The bus is packed, hot and noisy - but I'm glad of the company of the living.
After recuperating with coffee, I find myself drawn eastwards again. I board a train for Stratford, keen just to see the environs I explored recently again from above. Once again, there's no plan - and on arriving I haven't thought about what to do when an announcement suggests that the new, northern ticket hall is closed due to an "incident in Westfield" and suggesting we use the link bridge instead. I decide to have a look at the bridge, and find myself swept into a tide of people climbing the stairs onto a rust coloured, broad span crossing the station. The mass of humanity is impressive, and there's little hope of stopping to look across at the Olympic Park - but I notice people wandering along Montfichet Way below and wonder about getting down there. Once near the entrance to Westfield I pause. Police are turning people back from 'The Street', an avenue of sportswear and mobile 'phone shops which leads to the Olympic Park entrance. A little listening indicates that there has been a murder - a broad daylight knife-fight involving five men. The shoppers seem only mildly inconvenienced, most of them pushing for a place in the main mall. Some are redirected by pink tabard wearing "Olympic Park" representatives. The space is confusing - who does it really belong to? Finding stairs I head down and find the northern station entrance now open, tatters of Police tape still fluttering. The taxi-rank is closed until September, and so from tomorrow are most of the roads here it seems. Dodging the "LOCOG exclusion zone" of the taxi drop-off, I start to wander along the new, concrete sided bridge. There are small knots of other people walking and even cycling. A tour party cycles by, the leader claiming that "well, it wasn't exactly a wilderness here, but it was somewhere you'd never go". It soon became apparent why all the activity was occuring - this was the last chance to walk the route pre-Games. As of tomorrow, the exclusion would be complete. I took in the view across the complex of railway curves, then to the Aquatics Centre and the inexplicably silly Arcelor-Mittal Orbit sculpture which I'd watched slowly take shape over the past few months. I was filled with an odd amalgam of revulsion and occasion. This senseless waste was about to explode into life, and the hope was it would drag economic benefits in it's wake. Looking across the still unfinished expanses of concrete, dry dust still drifting on the breeze, I doubted it. Pressing on, the road dipped and the forbidding fence climbed into view. At the bottom of the hill a gateway provided access to the National Grid cable tunnel into the site. It was guarded by a security operative, and a man in a deckchair who's main task was to depress a button which lowered a barrier and let the parade of BT Openreach vans and expensively new Olympic-liveried BMWs in and out of the site. The road takes a right angle here at a mini-roundabout, and a family sat on the barriers enjoying the sunshine. The father climbed the grassy bank to look into the site. The security guard wandered over but didn't engage. As I left though, a black car crawled up beside him. I didn't dare watch and headed under the railway bridge, passing the Olympic Park Vehicle Emissions Testing Plaza on my way to the High Street. On the corner, a bit of incomplete planning gain is rising in the form of a high block of dwellings with a Tesco Express at it's foot. The signs urgently claimed to be "Opening before the Olympics!". I was tired, I'd had a lungful of dust and my boots burned on my feet. Slogging along the road I found the Greenway open south of the new bridge and climbed up to it. I sat for awhile, watching people walking and cycling, the minarets of Abbey Mills in the background. I felt oddly content here, and was sorry to leave. As I made the final push for the bus stop at Bow Church, a caterpillar-tracked miltary vehicle passed me at the Interchange.
Thinking over my walk as I dozed my way back to Paddington, completing a probably ill-advised full-length trip on the 205 bus route in the process, I was pleased I'd come back despite my promises. The series of coincidences was odd - being here on the last day I'd be able to walk some of these routes, the day after the terrible events at Westfield. I have this habit of turning up at the best - or indeed the worst moments. I was heading home to the sleepy West Country, and our own set of development and planning issues. The next time I saw these places would likely be on the television - a sanitised, dust-free version, all healthy bodies and shining structures. But, six miles north, hidden in its cemetery ditch the little Moselle would be flowing - into Pymme's Brook, then in turn the Lea, and right back here to Bow Creek. The links were unavoidable, as I fear, the Games will be.
You can see more pictures from the walk here. As an experiment, you can also follow the route on the map below - the blue line is the walking route, the red line the rail and bus journeys.
View Moselle Walk in a larger map
|Nick Papadimitriou - Scarp|
|Tuesday 26/06/2012 06:45|
Nick Papadimitriou- Scarp
Papadimitriou describes his work as deep topography and sets himself a little apart from the Psychogeographer. I was sceptical about the need to do so at first, but now I think I accept it a little more. He takes a sort of amalgam of old Ordnance Survey atlas, decommissioned guide book prose and personal recollection, and rewalks the landscape with no preconception. He accepts its stories, often it's casualties without judgement and most importantly without recourse to human sciences or politics to justify the links he makes. The prose is sometimes edgy, fast-paced and visceral - but is equally prone to longer passages of lush descriptive work - not least when Papadimitriou strays from a well-worn personal path and finds a new vista just feet from his more routine walks. The thrill of this is palpable in his writing, and having felt this same heart-leap at a sudden turn of a corner and never quite expressed it, it gave me huge pleasure to see it described in print.
Ultimately, "Scarp" is unresolved. We never get the end of the autobiographical thread which winds through the book, explaining perhaps why the author took to the edgelands and the streambeds - nor do we get to achieve the idea of "Scarp" as a whole. But that's because Papadimitriou hasn't yet managed that either. And it's likely he never will. There is both a luxury and a a risk in writing about such a specific and rarely trodden area. The post-cultural tourists who follow in the footsteps of the more famous psychogeographers probably won't stray this far up the Piccadilly Line, and this is perhaps a bit too redolent of the pylon, sewer outfall and business park to get the semi-professional walking set interested. But "Scarp" is a life's work, a labour of intense love for the landscape and a tribute to the land which sustains us, which we walk in difficult times, which links up homes, prisons, hospitals and bus stops. This is the landscape challenged and personified, but described in the loving detail of a botanist's catalogue. It's nothing short of a remarkable piece of work in that respect.
|The Kernow Explorer IV|
|Saturday 23/06/2012 22:57|
The journey was relatively uneventful - decent company, civilised drinks and lots of catching up. Just like the previous recent tour to Cornwall, the times left us very much ahead by Exeter, and we had an unexpected half-hour break in Plymouth which allowed for a photo stop and an opportunity to get coffee. Back on board, and over the Royal Albert Bridge - currently shrouded for repairs - and into Cornwall. The train sadly wasn't particularly full given some uncertainty about the traction - or indeed whether it would run given the loss of it's 'sister' trip from Eastleigh. But here we began to set down for the various usual options - Eden Project, Lost Gardens of Heligan, Bodmin and Wenford Railway etc. I'd even toyed with a trip to Lands End myself to avoid drunkenness, but hadn't seen this through!
37676 and 37516 await departure from Penzance
The return was the usual, sleepy affair with lots of well fed and watered passengers on board. I admit to snoozing myself, but woke for the assault on the Devon Banks and the fast run through Taunton and Exeter which saw us reclaim most of the time lost due to following a stopping train out of Cornwall. Having chased the rain north, it was gloomy at Bristol as I watched the train head north for Birgminham and headed over to catch the usual train home. It had been a relaxing end to a week of successful and varied travel - and the continuation of a tradition which we thought may have ended too.
|Something Oldham, Something New...|
|Saturday 16/06/2012 19:39|
But it almost cost a lot more than planned. From the moment I woke, it was pretty clear the 05:48 wasn't going to run. This train is pretty reliable in fairness, and I was surprised when it wasn't reinstated before departure - but in the end it stayed cancelled and I was forced to travel on the 06:55. The guard did some enquiring and found out a member of staff had failed to show. He was sure my reservation on the 07:00 would be honoured later though, even after I described issues with CrossCountry I'd experienced. The CrossCountry guy at the Bristol Temple Meads gateline was equally sure. Get the ticket endorsed with the cancellation details, he'd seen my Season and knew why I'd booked from Bristol. Onto the 08:00, strangely enough into my booked seat too. Couldn't settle until I'd been gripped though... Eventually the train manager arrived. She listened to my tale and looked dubiously at the ticket, and my season. I told her that her colleague had advised this approach as she said "Well, he shouldn't - this is from Bristol". I reminded her about the combination rules for Seasons in the conditions of carriage, and asked why on earth I would double-pay the section of route my season covered. She still insisted she should charge me for a new ticket. At this point I lost my cool and pointed out that it wasn't my fault that the first train was cancelled, and that it was the railway's current ticketing practice which was making people split journeys anyway. She looked rather taken aback at this but backed down slightly. After working her way up the train issuing a few Penalty Fares here and there for people who were obviously trying it on, often with Railcards, she'd been forced to think about this one. Eventually she passed me to travel, but not before I'd managed to get seriously rattled.
I didn't really settle for the rest of the trip, expecting trouble with the new TM from Birmingham, but he really wasn't too interested in tickets from down south. So, I managed to settle a little into the journey via Stoke and Stockport despite my frustration. Even with an hour lopped off my time here, I'd still have time to spare - so losing only my planned coffee stop I headed down to the Metrolink. The plan was to get a Bury tram to Victoria then travel on to Oldham Mumps, using the former rail line which closed back in 2009 in a flurry of tour activity. But, no Bury tram arrived. The platform filled, endless Altrincham and Media City services passed, but no Bury tram. Eventually over 30 minutes later it arrived and the punters piled on. Lots of them! More squeezed in at Piccadilly Gardens. It was a warm morning, and none too pleasant on the tram, so I elected to hop off at Market Street - the first potential change point. I'm not keen on this stop, set in the middle of a busy shopping street, looking over the crowds of shoppers - but it would serve today. Extracted myself and let the tram leave - followed by three out-of-course Bury trams which were all but empty! Finally an Oldham Mumps service arrived and I joined, covering the familiar route to Victoria and the Bury lines, before curving away using a former railway alignment around Monsall. Running on this section was swift and sure, with the impressive Central Park station with it's slanted disc of a roof the only major feature. Leaping over the heavy rail lines, the tram tracks descended beside Newton Heath Depot, giving excellent views of the DMUs stabled. The left-hand line of the pair here is still a heavy rail access to Dean Lane Waste Transfer station and it's run-around loop, meaning trams bottleneck into a single line here. It didn't slow things much and we were soon onto the route of the former Oldham Loop line proper. Nearly all trace of the former rail line is gone - signal boxes demolished and tell-tale signs removed. This was particularly true of the temporary station at Oldham Mumps - a vast swathe of concrete occupying the site of the former platforms. It's temporary because eventually the tram will veer off before Werneth Tunnel, running through the streets of Oldham before regaining the rail corridor to Rochdale further north. The concrete pad for the turnouts onto the street are already laid - it's only a matter of times before the rails leave this bit of Oldham forever.
Retraced my steps to Victoria on the same tram, and made it in time for the 13:22. Once an Adelante, this Blackpool service is not a rather tired Northern Class 150 - but it was at least fairly lightly loaded. The run out to Preston was sleepy, and I noted the rain closing in as we headed into Lancashire. I ended up making a dash through the heavy, slanting downpour to my hotel for the night - watching the bluff northern blokes strutting around in t-shirts, pretending it wasn't raining. Preston is an odd place, and it had been a pretty strange day.
|Saturday 09/06/2012 23:25|
37609 and 37606 at Plymouth
We headed back along the branch and onto the mainline, pausing briefly to collect stocks of excellent pasties from Pearns of Par. Then, a little short of Bodmin we began to slip and stutter. With just the front loco hauling ten coaches and a dead Class 37, the greasily damp rails were proving a challenge. The driver coaxed the train as far as he could, but with time slipping by, the decision was taken to fire up the rear loco. We were soon away and heading back into a damp Plymouth for more loco changes. Here, the 37s both returned to the front, and 66156 which had come up from St.Blazey was tagged on the back. This would draw us back from Heathfield, and ensured that the vast majority of the tour was still 37 hauled despite the lack of a third loco. The run over the South Devon Banks was swift and sure, and only about 14 late we crept into a much sunnier Newton Abbot. Here, after a bit of a wait, we took the branch curving north around the racecourse. The bed of a former canal owned by the GWR appeared immediately beside the railway - with evidence of locks, long since dry but still to be seen. The branch reminded me of the Buckfastleigh line - a near neighbour - with its tree-lined climb towards the moors. The log loading area was very evident - with piles of freshly cut trees waiting for next week's train. Teigngrace station followed, and then more evidence of the canal which petered out before the platforms at Heathfield. Clearly substantial and mostly intact, the recent First Great Western charter allowed passengers out here! Almost unheard of on a modern-day railtour, but perhaps the reward for enduring those Class 142s on the trip? We pressed on though, through the station and onto the run-round loop used by the timber train empties. We came to a halt at a point where the driver reported the remaining rails disappeared under water! It was pretty close to the end of this once very well used line, and an excellent result.
A Cornish Pisky adorns 37606 for its journey into Kernow
Returning south, several folks disembarked at Newton Abbot for London-bound services, and left us to have a quiet and very speedy non-stop run to Bristol in the evening sunshine. We halted at Parson Street Junction to allow 66105 and 001 to take the High Output Ballast Cleaning train onto the Portbury Branch, the possession being opened and closed for the works train to pass. Then we slipped into Temple Meads where I hopped off. Some folks dashed for the late-running 19:53 home, but I'd planned to linger for my usual 1C27 which meant I got to watch the storming departure of our train northwards for Crewe, roughly at its booked time. I settled down for a coffee and a peaceful run home. It had been a successful day, and despite the changes to the plan I'd got new track, an unexpected new Class 66 and had an interesting and relaxing day out. That, after all, is what it's all about.
|Playing With Loaded Dice|
|Tuesday 05/06/2012 00:30|
The whole situation hinges on the wretched, unloved Highbridge Hotel once again. It's become an unwelcome bargaining chip in a bigger game which stretches right from the River Parrett shoreline to the meadows which sit alongside the River Brue. In a nutshell, the Planning Committee is being asked to consider an application for parts of the former boatyard site on the basis that the developer will provide flood defence improvements which will unlock the ability to build on the other sites. This huge commitment of cash will effectively exempt them from any Section 106 contribution for the more traditional issues such as schools, transport and so on. So, the Planning Committee is being asked to take a 'double or quits' style gamble. Give the go ahead to the Boatyard, get the sea defences for free, and bank on the 'unlocked' development sites providing the infrastructure for the whole set of separately developed sites. We now enter a sort of quantum world of chicken-and-egg causality. The defences are needed because of the development, but the development can't be built without them. The relationship of the defences to the rest of the site is far less clear, and indeed there is no easy way of considering them together. Right in the centre of this maelstrom sits the Hotel. Still collapsing, still shaming our sister town up the road, still echoing a community's growing disconnection from the democracy which represents it.
Simple words, complex answer?
For starters this breaches all sorts of rules and regulations, and is technically illegal. When the Committee considers an application it is required to do so on the individual merits of the case, with some consideration of how it fits with the strategic plan for the area. And that is captured in the Local Development Framework. This captures how the Council thinks the whole district should develop over the coming years, and has been subject to a ton of expensive consultation too. But its been largely discarded in this case. So, we've got a bunch of officers who are reluctant to talk to the public because they fear reprisals for their inaction, a group of councillors who (save for a notable couple) are intent on getting the deal through to rid them of an issue and cement relationships with developers, and a population which - although divided on what should happen, are increasingly alarmed by what actually is (or indeed isn't) happening on the ground.
Sometime last week, the graffiti above appeared on the hotel, complete with painted jubilee bunting. Its innocent, childlike curves beg for an answer from those who have it in their power to offer it. Is a once proud build making a pathetic bid for it's own survival? Can you put a value on collective memory and shared ideas of space when they're pretty much all a community has to use as foundations for it's future? This simple message speaks louder and clearer than most others who've considered the Hotel site in recent times - and certainly improves on the planned, heavily corporately influenced plan to put a mural on the boards. The fate of the hotel, of the last historic building standing in the old centre of the town lies in the hands of a political gamble.
I only wish I had some confidence in the steadfastness of the players...
|In The Year Of Jubilee|
|Saturday 02/06/2012 23:30|
And so I arrived at Eastbourne's rather grand terminus. I'd been this far before, on a train which called and reversed for Brighton, but had never wandered onto the interesting concourse - an odd lozenge-shaped building nestled into a road junction. It was clean, spacious and had a pleasant feel to it. I was tempted to linger for coffee but remembered the challenge, and pressed on into the town. I was immediately struck by the 'onion skin' effect here - Eastbourne has been built in layers around the station it seems. Beyond is the Old Town, mostly residential and unvisited now - so I headed along Terminus Road which cuts through the various layers of the town. The retail area is frankly depressing - it's only redeeming feature being a range of small, local traders still clinging on by their nicotine-yellowed fingertips among the national traders. The pedestrianised areas are cramped, illogical and seem to cause people to cannon into each other. Several times I stepped aside to let a pram or a wheelchair through, and was shoved hard from behind and sworn at. It seems here showing any sort of respect is to show weakness in the struggle. The older people were worst - like the other south coast excursions I've made, the volume of their voices struck me. They crowed and shouted at each other, expletives dotted their regular speech. The younger generation just seemed depressed and downtrodden, fake tan and ludicrously comic breast enhancements featured, males gripped females like they owned them. Meanwhile a foul smelling Wimpy Bar poured greasily sated young people onto the street. This was a grim, demoralising place.
Eastbourne in the mist
The next layer of Eastbourne was more sinister. A curved ring of huge victorian villas and town houses surrounds the town, with Terminus Road cutting across it. It was quiet here, and the architecture was stunningly original seaside chic. I explored a little but soon realised that despite being a few yards from town I was in fact alone. The reason soon became clear. These huge sprawling properties, once guest houses or private dwellings had been divided into hundreds of flats, some of them were dry houses or supported accommodation, all of them looked decrepit and run down. Especially those which were still clinging on as guest houses despite the change in tone of the neighbourhood. This area felt dangerous, it's silence oppressive. I headed back to the crossing and turned towards the seafront at last. Here I encountered an odd avenue of restaurants and tat shops which led the short way to the sea. It was a little after 11am, and the restaurants - competing in the size or price of their breakfasts - disgorged tourist families, still picking rind from their teeth and wondering as in one half-captured conversation "what the fuck we're going to do until lunchtime?". Their weekend a procession of meals with empty, bored oblivion between them. I called into a shop and grabbed some lunch, the assistant smiled pleasantly and wished me a nice day - she seemed world-weary and turning to see the queue of men behind me with one can of Special Brew each, I sort of understood. The jewel in Eastbourne's crown should of course be it's seafront - and in many ways it is. Dominated by a sweep of white stuccoed houses and hotels, it's tidy and clean, and seems well used. The shingle beach is not swept by huge tides, so there is no need for sea defences, and instead there is a wide, tarmaced cycling and walking path alongside the beach. I found a spot to eat and rather liked the view - a slightly forlorn pier in the distance, decaying groynes and a churn of atmospheric sea mist. I realised here how important the sea was to me, whether I was home or in the far reaches of Fife or Strathclyde, it always called me. I noted a woman passing by, eyeing me with distrust. She did so once or twice and clearly didn't like the look of me. Clutching her sandwich, I expected her to move off and sit elsewhere, but clearly I was in her spot as she sat down feet away, and with every slowly chewed, deliberate mouthful she glared at me. This was now a battle of wills and I was determined to outstay her. Eventually, she finished the sandwich and left. I think I might, inadvertently, have ruined her day? I made my way back to the station as fast as I could. Eastbourne was just as it had been described to me, and I didn't like it at all.
My ride back via Brighton was colourful, with all manner of weird and wonderful folk arriving at the terminus for the Fat Boy Slim concert that evening. Having found myself there a couple of times lately, it was interesting to see the station respond to events in town calmly and efficiently. My own plans didn't quite work out as some sort of diagramming change saw the pair of Wessex Electrics I'd hoped to catch on the 14:49 disappear north on the 14:19, leaving me with a meagre six coach Electrostar back to Victoria. I cowered in First Class, listening to a coach full of gleeful middle-class monarchists enjoying their picnic and mid-priced Tesco wine. London had brightened up when I arrived, and I waited in the sun for a No.36 bus back to Paddington happily enough. Hyde Park was a mass of humanity, a huge screen erected and a concert of some sort going on. I was moved to think of George Gissing's novel set in the Jubilee year of 1897 - he railed against commercialism and advertising, and foretold much of what I could see from the window of the bus. I'm pretty sure he also spent some time in Eastbourne. I wonder what he'd make of it today?