Kerryn WoodCollections of Recollections; the UK
September 4th 2007 14:03
this is part of my travel recollections in the uk......
.....this in part, is part of a larger collection of recollections i am writing about....
..but i wanted to post this to share with the MFWC crew and others...I hope you enjoy - and everything, absolutely everything, is true, and actually happened.
No names have been changed except for Sam - cause I don't actually know what his real name was/is???? My apologies Sam - or who ever you are......
I left the Moray Firth with a heavy heart; sad to be leaving my wonderfully funny and inspiring new friends, the gorgeous Scottish boy with whom I had had a massive crush on, and the exciting and fulfilling lifestyle I had been living for the last 6 months.
So the heavy thudding in my chest, the tears welling behind my eyes and the sick feeling in my stomach could have indeed been from these reflective thoughts, or the fact that I was running like a freak, weighty back pack bouncing heavily upon my back and shoulders, and very hung over from the farewell party the night before, to catch my plane that was leaving in zero point 2 seconds….and counting………
Of course I was the last passenger to board the aircraft, and I couldn’t escape the furrowed brows and stares of resentment everyone was throwing at me above their books, behind their newspapers or between the cracks in the seats in front of them, as the pretty blonde stewardess forced professional politeness and stowed my bags in the overhead compartment. I thanked her profusely and she barred perfectly straight and snow white teeth at me, but said nothing.
The thought occurred to me and I wondered if she or any other stewardess for that matter, ever accidentally-on-purpose didn’t close those latches quite tight enough so that during take off, one’s bags would spill from the compartment above and topple all over the place; tampons, condoms, mysterious-anti-rash-cream, contraceptive pills, a syringe (for my diabetes!), and several other questionable items falling in the aisles for everyone to see - and me, (or you), stuck helplessly in the seat, the ‘fasten seatbelt’ sign glaring at you from afar, the stewardess buckled in tight in her own seat, smiling that Cheshire grin, and still, saying nothing.
The flight itself was however, completely smooth sailing, I mean flying, and no sooner had we taken off, were we landing again at Heathrow Airport. I’d made it, I’d safely and successfully flown from Scotland to London.
I had booked into a backpackers hostel in a suburb of London, which via the Underground, I arrived at easily. I had to walk to get there, and even at this late stage in my travels, I hadn’t learnt the art of packing a light backpack. My shoulders were aching, my head hurt, and the weather was unseasonably warm - of course it was, I had jeans, jumper and a heavy jacket on. I must remember to mail that jacket back to Australia tomorrow. I don’t need it now.
Once at the hostel I found my room - a rather large co-ed room filled with at least 10 bunk beds, and only three occupants within. For some incomprehensible reason, the three of us were placed right next to and on top of each other! Why, they couldn’t place us with at least a bed between for privacy, was a bit incredible and rather frustrating. Perhaps it was the hostel’s way of forcing people together, of making sure weary, exhausted, foreign speaking travellers talk to each other, befriend one another. Did they not realise that sometimes, people really enjoy their solitude, love their privacy, and aren’t interested in ‘sharing’ anything - speech, sleeping space, stories, pleasantries…. It seemed I was not alone in my thoughts either; for the two days I stayed in my hostel with my bunk buddies - none of us said a word to each other.
First morning, I was up bright and early and decided to go to the post office first and get rid of my big heavy bulky jacket and post it back to mum in Australia. Then, I would go into the city.
I found the post office quickly, bundled my jacket into a box and addressed it. I took it to the counter and nearly choked on my spit when the lady told me it would cost nearly $50 to send the jacket back. It only cost me $5 from a charity shop!!! But even more stupid, was the decision I made to go ahead with the transaction and mail the damned jacket back. On reflection, it was my inability to convert pounds to dollars, so when she said 20 pounds, I heard 20 dollars - I admit, I’m as fallible as the next idiot.
Resigned not to let the misuse and over spending of money blight my day, I went back to the Underground and headed into the city. I did a bit of sight seeing around London, visited Soho, checked out some iconic shops and then took myself out for dinner. I wanted to go to a ‘proper’ Chinese restaurant - why I thought I could find one in London and not in China, never occurred to me. Go figure? I walked around checking out the menu’s on display outside each establishment, trying to find a place that didn’t sell shark fin soup.
I was, and still am very much opposed to the needless slaughter of sharks for their fins, or for anything. Sharks, all sharks, should be protected, and not decimated needlessly so that future generations will not be able to say they’ve ever seen one in the wild.
Finally, I thought I’d found such a place, and entered, found a table and sat. I looked at the menu and half way down, saw the opposing menu item - shark fin soup. I got up disgusted and walked out. I was getting really hungry by now, but there was no compromising. I did find a nice little Chinese restaurant in the end, and after scoping the menu, I happily waited for a seat.
Another London/Chinese tradition I was not aware of, is the seating of customers who are dining alone. I love dining solo, on my own, by myself, alone - get it? So no, not impressed when I was seated at the big King Arthurian knights of the big round table, with complete strangers, all Asian, and eating with chop sticks. I have only ever one other time, felt so white and so silly. I can’t use chopsticks and there is NO WAY I am embarrassing myself further. I want a seat ON MY OWN I screamed inside - and to this date, cannot fathom why I didn’t ask to be seated somewhere else. Hindsight sucks.
Okay, so although I sat feeling like a fool, I decided the next logical thing to do was to at least try and impress my fellow hungry friends with some ordering prowess. I’d have to look like I knew what I was doing, so I had to appear confident. The waiter came, and I pointed at a few items, thinking I may as well ‘do as the Roman’s do’ - again, not realising I was in LONDON, not China, or Rome.
I sat uncomfortably for the time it took for my meals to arrive, looking around at the obviously cheap and nasty mass produced art work adorning the walls, and trying to appear comfortable and confident. I’ve never been a good actress.
The food arrived - I’d ordered a couple of small entrée sized meals so as to broaden my eating experience. I’m so glad I ordered the seaweed - yep, that was a smart move Kerryn! The dish served to me was a dish of green seaweedy seaweed. Crispy, green, crunchy seaweed. Good! Great even! So, how do I eat it? What do I eat it with? I can’t fork this can I? Do I eat it on it’s own? Was it a side dish that I was supposed to have on the side of a main meal, and not alone, by itself, like me, sitting there like a big Aussie whitey dope? I wondered if the seaweed felt as confused and alone as I did. It was times like this that I wished I had a travel buddy, and maybe an Asian one.
I couldn’t sit there staring like an idiot, I had to at least act like I knew what I was doing. Thankfully, the next two small plates of food arrived and I pretended that mixing them up was the right thing to do. One thing I have learnt in my life so far, is that if you appear to do something with supreme confidence and assurance, it doesn’t matter if it is the right or wrong thing to do - you will appear to know exactly what you are doing. And in any case, the others joining me at my round table were there for the eating of their meals alone, and nothing else. Not once did I see them look up from their meals, and once finished, they’d wipe their mouths, leave their money on the table, remove themselves from their chairs and hurriedly leave.
Once again, I was left alone, and now, never more thankful.
After dinner, I had a show to go to. Not so much a show, as a screening of one of my all time favourite movies - “The Sound of Music” on the big screen in a London movie theatre - god I was so excited!!
Gathering out the front of the theatre were a mixed crowd of both genders, all ages, and many of them in costume. I saw a couple clad in material so very closely resembling the green curtain material Maria used to make the children’s ‘play clothes’, there were several dozen nun’s, a few Nazi soldiers, a few Maria’s, and a few other variations of characters that I couldn’t quite work out. But there were many many fans, and I was among them.
We all queued patiently before filing into the theatre and filling it with energetic and loud laughter and the many impromptu chorus’s of different songs from the movie, echoed off the walls. The hills might have been alive with the sound of music, but tonight, the London Soho movie theatre was too!
After a quick prize giving ceremony for best costumes was conducted, the crowd settled back, complete with ’show bag’ of placards, a plastic piece of edelweiss, an invitation to Maria and Captain von Trapp’s wedding, and several other bits and pieces - the movie began. And so did the loud mouthed pommie gay guy in front of me. I swear he was the brother of a girl I was going to meet with in the very near future. And just like her, this guy would NOT SHUT UP!!! Sure, he was funny at first, yelling out some witty comments about nuns and cobwebs and lesbian tendencies, followed by some energetic singing and booing at the introduction of Capt. Von Trapp’s girlfriend - but then he just kept going, and going, and going…..his funny bone all but broken, his wit all dried up, his humour turned cold and yet, he kept on yelling out. Finally, someone brave yelled for him to shut the hell up - and like a berated little school boy - he shut the hell up. Thank god - the movie only had half an hour to go anyway.
Despite reasonably-funny-but-way-too- loud-mouthed-school-boy, the movie experience was brilliant. One of the funniest thing I saw that night, was upon coming out at midnight from the show. The next movie coming on to the big screen, was The Rocky Horror Picture Show. And, like The Sound of Music, it was also a costume party. Talk about Little House on the Prairie meets The X Files, or Spice Girls meets AC/DC!
As I walked around Soho after midnight, checking out the sex shops, daring to go into one where I was the only female amid a seedy trio of men scattered throughout the store, their heads buried deep into ‘reading matter’; and as I caught the train back to my hostel; and as I walked along the street alone, after midnight; a real sense of renewed and refreshed purpose filled me. I had somewhere along the journey of the nights events, gathered to me a heady scent of confidence and it was oozing from my pours - it was obvious in my walk, my head held high, the grin on my face. I felt alive.
I was in a strange city on my own, feeling like a tourist and loving that I was. When I got back to the hostel, I wasn’t going to give a crap about waking up my bunk buddies, bugger that, I was in London! - the place The Clash and numerous others had sung about, the place where Dr Who’s tardis really was on every street corner, where double Decker buses existed and where the Queen lived and Princess Diana married that doot with the big ears. Tomorrow I would venture out again and live the life I was lucky to be breathing in, in all it’s fate and fortune, in all it’s garishness and it’s glory.
And so I did my London tourist bit, did the double Decker bus tour, visited Westminster Abbey, checked out Buckingham Palace, drove over the Thames, and loved every bit of it; and then I moved on.
I had always wanted to go to Bath, further south of the UK’s bustling capital city. I went to the bus depot, and bought a book of tickets that would allow me to travel on several bus trips at no extra cost than the hundred pounds I had just paid. It was a good deal - well, it would have been, if I’d actually used them.
The first ticket from my ticket book, I used to go to Bath. When I arrived it was wet and windy, rainy and cold - and the weather never got any better. But I didn’t care, I loved Bath the minute I arrived, and that sense of feeling alive stayed with me for the duration. I had found a place to stay while in London, and now caught the shuttle bus up the never-ever-ever-ending steep hill to the rather beautiful and picturesque hostel I was to stay in.
The hostels very presence excited me and I was instantly drawn back to my childhood days that were filled with fantasies of castles and dragons and princesses and a life less busy. I stood in awe of the building in front of me, feeling a little sad for the fact that it had been converted into a place for weary, smelly foreign travellers to lay their grotty heads, eat two-minute noodles and re-coup and re-group before venturing off the next day into pastures unknown and unseen. Perhaps though, I consoled, the building rather enjoyed this, perhaps it revelled in the fact that is was still a well used piece of architecture, providing warmth and comfort to a host of different people from all over the world - like me?!
I booked in and was shown to my room and around the place. I had a full room, all girls - my first uni sex room, and I must admit I was pretty happy about this. In a uni sex room you can get changed right next to your bed instead of going to the bathroom down the hall, and you can take off your bra and slip into your pj’s. You can just be more of yourself in a same sex room I think - well, I could.
This room of girls seemed a little friendlier too, and I found myself saying hi to everyone. Two cute little Japanese girls giggled their friendly hello’s in broken English to me, and continued on conversing rapidly to each other; “That Aussie girl pee-jarmers are SO ugwee!” giggle giggle - well, maybe that’s what they were saying. In any case, I went to bed and to sleep, and in the morning, the-not-so-cute-anymore Japanese girls woke me up.
I have a few pet hates in my life already. After any and all of the possible types of environmental vandalism, comes people eating with their mouths open, this probably rates at the top. Following, are certain smells, certain sights, and certain sounds - in particular, are two sounds. These are plastic bags rustling, and zips on bags being done up, and undone, and done up again, and undone again - the repetitive action of the latter drives me absolutely bonkers! When the two are combined, I become a furious mess - and if I’m pre-menstrual, murder isn’t completely unthinkable. Luckily for the Japanese girls, it ‘wasn’t my time’ - and therefore, nor was it theirs….
However, after beginning the night in restless sleep, I had finally fallen into a heavy sleep. So to be awoken by the combination of two of my pet hated sounds, and two girls giggling, in Japanese (it wouldn’t have mattered what language they were speaking, they were just talking and giggling and talking and giggling….), set my angry stick motion.
I figured the girls were packing to leave, as they were both putting things into their backpacks, and then taking them out, and then putting them in again. Why they hadn’t organised themselves the night before…….sheesh. Anyway, I tried very hard to ignore them at first, but one of the girls consistently continued to unzip her bag all the way open, and then started fussing with something in a plastic bag. She fussed and fussed and the plastic bag rustled and rustled. The plastic bag got pushed into the backpack, and then the zip got ziiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiii iiiiiiiped up again. The girls met and giggled, and went into the bathroom - which was in the hall, and which you had to go past my bed, and open the door, which squeaked. Silence.
Not for long. Plastic bag girl was back. And she unziiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiii iiiiiiiped her bag again……..more rustling………….shoving, rustling, the backpack ziiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiip ed up again. I swear, with no embellishment whatsoever, this went on for a good, solid, 15 minutes. Now that might not sound like long, but early morning, early enough to be still dark outside, two giggling girls, the relentless rustling of a plastic bag, and the constant ziiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiii iping up and down of a zip - would drive anyone to at least think about committing a crime punishable perhaps by death itself. But, being the softie I am, and a bit of a scaredy cat, and not knowing any Japanese, I thought it best to wait it out and seek solace in the idea that soon, they would be gone, wouldn’t they?
They did. And I vowed to learn to say “shut the hell up please” - in Japanese, just in case.
One of the main reasons I went to Bath was that it was central to a lot of the places I had only ever dreamed of visiting. These included such places as The Cotswolds, in particular Stonehenge, Avebury Circle, and many of the white chalk hill drawings, burial mounds and crop circles scattered around the place. All of these sights and indeed more, could be seen all on the one day, with the help from a little bus tour that I booked and went on one chilly Thursday morning.
The bus was full and I was the last to get on. My consolation for 12 other pair of eyes staring at me was that the only seat left to sit on was next to a very cute fellow Aussie guy, who we will call Matt. We will call him Matt, because that was his name. Matt was both good looking, had a nice body, was obviously well educated and was polite enough to engage in conversation with me. This had to be a good sign for the days events didn’t it?
The bus tour was great. There was a mix of Aussies, Canadians, an American couple, and some European girls - from somewhere in Europe; they had accents, that’s all I can remember.
Our friendly well versed tour guide and bus driver pointed out many of the lesser known sights for us, filled our heads with a wealth of information, and stopped at the major locations for us to look at. We drove past many of the white chalk hill side carvings, had pointed out to us many of the burial mounds, and drove past some ‘crop circles’. Now, I admit, I am a massive sceptic as to the origins of the now famous crop circles that adorn our earth’s surface. I have my own theories, but I don’t subscribe to the thought that they are caused by ‘aliens’ - nope, sorry, you just aren’t going to win me on that one. But apparently, I was the only one on the bus who thought that.
As we drove past our first crop circle (and I must point out, they weren’t all circles per say, but the shapes were all different and too difficult for me to say; crop circle with round bits, crop circles with heaps of other circles and bits sticking out, crop NOT-circle, rather cylindrical spherical type shape etc etc…..so I shall generalise…okay?).
So we drove past our first crop circle and our driver pointed it out, made a few comments giving us it’s history and what the scientists had said, and off we drove past another, and later, another. At the fourth or fifth one, the woman of the American couple spoke up rather loudly, making this comment. “Isn’t it amazing’ just how exact those aliens are with their crop circles?” Well, I burst into a very, very loud burst of haughty laughter, and expected for everyone else to join in. But I was wrong. Evidentially, I was the only one who laughed. The bus was dead silent but for my rather stupendous outburst. Either no one else heard the ladies comment, or, to my horror, no one else buy me, was in disbelief at her comment. My lust for Matt drained away rather rapidly.
Which was quickly resumed, because we soon found ourselves in a potentially tight situation together. At lunch time, the bus group was free to do as we liked with the township we were stopped at. I bought a sandwich and ate it as I ventured quickly through the town, being too frightened to enter into the house where apparently the ghost of a young girl lived, (yeah yeah, I know, don’t believe in crop circles and aliens, but I do in ghosts…..whatever!) - I headed back to the apparently oldest pub in the UK for an ale. The pub was gorgeous; dark and dimly lit, a fire roaring in one corner, regulars at the tables, the smell of stale beer and warm food emanating throughout. The atmosphere was friendly, but at the same time it was weary - you could tell we were the tourists and the locals didn’t mind us being there, just don’t get too comfortable.
Half of the bus tour sat together enjoying a beer and jovial conversation. I finished my beer and went to the toilet. I wasn’t in a hurry, I knew we had plenty of time before the bus was to leave for our next destination, Stonehenge! I flushed the loo, got dressed, washed my hands and walked out from behind the door marked Ladies. At the same time, Matt walked out from behind the door marked Men’s. I smiled, he smiled back and reached for the main door to the bar to open it for me - my lust was quickly renewed.
He reached for the door, and pulled. Nothing happened. He pulled harder, still, nothing happened. We looked quizzically at each other. He tried again. We looked again. Little did either of us know, but some pubs in the UK, still traditionally shut at 1pm till 2 - it was 1pm. We were locked in! We were stuck! Finally realising what had happened, we both banged on the door and began to yell. Matt went into the men’s and the ladies looking for a possible way out, but to no avail. I went into the ladies and tried to open up the little window above the toilet - wishing for possibly the millionth time in my life, that I had longer legs. I managed to get my face up to the window and started to yell, “Helloooooo??? Is anyone there???? We’re locked in the toilet!!!! Helllooooooo???”
Luckily, although I’m not entirely sure it was a good thing, Matt and I were set free from our captivity and out into the light once again, in a matter of minutes. Thankfully, one of our fellow bus crew heard our pleas for help and after laughing her ass off at us, alerted the bar lady who was still inside the building. She freed us, but scowled and told us off. We returned to our bus red faced but giggling, the rest of us thinking it was the most hilarious thing to have happened all day - buggers!
Stonehenge, Avebury Circle and some of the other standing stones, stone circles and burial mounds we spent the rest of the day visiting were absolutely remarkable, spectacular and made many of my dreams come true. While at Stonehenge, I put on the self guided touring headphones and listened carefully to the description of it history and heritage. At one point, you are asked to stand on a particular spot, and slowly turn around in a full 360 degree circle. While doing this, it is pointed out to you all of the burial grounds in both the foreground, and the distance of your view - the sheer number and size of these quite surprised and overwhelmed me. It was my ‘moment’ with Stonehenge - one I will never forget - that and realising that I was quite possibly standing where Dr Who once did when he filmed a series here back in the 70’s!
The entire day was brilliant, but for the two exceptions of public humiliation, and the non-kissing activities between Matt and I, it will be a trip that rates highly of my experiences in the UK.
When I finally got back to my hostel, and into bed that night, the only thing I could do was giggle as I heard the thunderous noise of at least six noisy and very drunk men, German men, thud past the girls dorm door, thud and topple and trip up the stairs, giggling and guffawing and loudly whispering in German, all the way to their rooms. What fun they sounded like they were having! What fun it must be to travel around with a group of mates. What fun to go out and get completely tanked in a foreign country on foreign beer! Ahhhh………Now, please, shut up and go to sleep, and for god’s sake, if any one has a plastic bag in their back pack, I’m going to kill them!!!!!!
I was sad to be saying goodbye to Bath. I had really loved visiting such a city steeped in rich and colourful history, it’s beautiful and impressive architecture, streets and gardens; the Roman Baths, the galleries and museums; my first ever experience of Starbuck’s, her historical figures of importance - William Herschel, William Beckford and Jane Austen. The surrounds of Bath included the Cotswolds, Stonehenge and Salisbury to name but a few - and I had had the absolute pleasure of experiencing many of her attractions…… .
I had decided to use another of my travel tickets and head back to Edinburgh. My visa was due to run out in three days, and I wanted to spend the last of my trip in a place I really considered my favourite. I booked the bus by phone the night before, checked out of the hostel early the next morning and headed to the bus depot. I had mucked up the times and grossly miscalculated my waiting period - it wasn’t “half an hour“, it was “half four” - must have been the accent. So, at 10am, I had the day to kill. I dumped my backpack in the bus depot bag dumping area, was told what time they shut and to be sure I was back ready to pick it up, or I’d have to wait till the morning - well, NO WAY was I going to be dumb enough to let that happen! Was I?????
I spent the day wandering around. I didn’t have a lot of money to spend willy nilly, so I bought an over priced book, an expensive lunch and dropped the rest into the Avon river. It was very wet and cold, and I spotted the local library. I could read, so I figured this would be a good way to spend the afternoon. Which is exactly what I did. I spent the afternoon in the library. After I had read every single book in there, I thought it must be about time to head back to pick up my bag and head finally, if not reluctantly out of Bath.
I walked casually to the depot, over to the bag place, and found the door was locked, the lights were off and no one was there! I panicked. I looked around everywhere and knocked on doors and asked people and had a little mini panic attack right there and then - and amidst all my panic, an angel in the form of the bag storing lady, walked past me on her way to her car to go home. I begged with her, and I think she took pity on my bedraggled look and possibly too the fury lighting up in my blood red eyes, for she opened the door and let me get my bag. I was very lucky. Later I wondered if it was Bath’s way of telling me she wanted me to stay, perhaps she had unfinished business with me, perhaps I had unfinished business with her? Perhaps Matt was looking for me?
The bus arrived and I boarded her for the short hour trip to Bristol where I would be catching an overnight 11 hour trip back to Edinburgh. I figured I could handle such a long trip if I caught the night time bus, as hopefully I would sleep most of the night. Hopefully - perhaps the biggest understatement of my life.
I arrived in Bristol right on time and headed for the main bus depot, slightly apprehensive about the long hours I was about to spend on the road. I stood around with others, all waiting, at 4pm, the air getting colder and the sky getting darker, ready and waiting, and waiting, and still, at 5pm, the bus now late, waiting. Already there was dissention in the ranks and I overheard one young woman, loud and brash, in a thick heavy Bristol accent, complaining about the bus’s tardiness - she was right of course, but something in her voice and her manner made me instantly wary of her - and I had no idea just how much so.
A voice came over the loud speaker of the terminal, breaking the hushed tones of indignant passengers who were swapping travel woes of being late to their destinations - informing us that indeed, the bus was running late, but it would arrive imminently - actually, the voice on the loud speaker didn’t use the word imminently, he said ‘very soon’ - for I doubt the loud mouthed opinionated young Bristol woman would have understood.
The bus finally arrived to a loud and relived chorus of hurrah’s and soon we were all aboard and not long after on the road. We were on the road, literally, for maybe, two minutes, when loud mouthed Bristol babe turned on her mobile phone and made her first, of many, calls. Bristol babe sat opposite me - boy, was I ever glad about THAT!
BB talked a little to one friend, and then hung up and talked a little more to another. She then spent a good half hour keying in phone numbers into her new mobile that her mum had given her - I knew this, because BB talked loudly on the bus, and so I think we ALL KNEW that her mum had given her her new phone.
Now, even though I have a somewhat limited and inferior knowledge of mobile phones, my understanding is that they all have the ability to make noises, be it the ring tone type, the keypad, the text indicator and whatever other useful and or not so useful functions the mobile has to offer. These phones, also have the ability to have their bells, whistles, rings and tones all turned DOWN, or even, dare I suggest it, OFF!
Apparently, Bristol babe knew nothing of the latter. Beep, beep, beepbeepbeep, beep, beep, beep - this went on for a good solid half an hour. The time was nearing 9pm.
She rang another friend…laughed, chatted…hung up, and then opened a foil package of something that she swiftly proceeded to snort up her nose. Then she got back on the phone - beep beep beepity fucking beep beep beep - rang a friend, and told her how she’d just done a line, and WAS GOING TO BE UP ALL NIGHT SO LET’S TALK!!!!!!!!!!! I think I started to cry at this point.
I forget how long it was, but she did eventually stop talking - thank god - and consequently lit up a cigarette - THE NERVE OF THE WOMAN!! It was the year 2000 - smoking had been banned on public transport for ten thousand years by then, she was outrageous. Did she not realise that everyone on the bus could smell the smoke wafting around? In her defence, she had just done a line of something, so smoking a cigarette probably seemed of little to absolutely no consequence to her.
At 10 pm we stopped for a dinner break. I was tired and cranky, but glad to get off the bus and stretch my legs. I noticed that BB was making fast friends with the young and rather cute and gullible relief bus driver - excellent tactic BB, brilliant in fact!
11pm, back on the bus. Surely she’d be too tired to beep on again and sleep like the rest of us - but oooohhhh noooo, I had forgotten, she’d snorted something to keep her well wired and awake - oh the joy of drugs! And the beeping started up again, and she had another cigarette, and she flirted with the relief. I wished I was a local with the courage to speak my mind, but instead, I covered myself up with my sleeping bag and desperately hoped she would get a clue any moment soon and GO THE HELL TO SLEEP.
Midnight. I must have been asleep because I was suddenly woken but a loud noise and the bus suddenly swerving. We pulled over to the side of the rode - we’d been hit in the windscreen by a rock flying up from the road - well, at least that’s what we’d been told. After some rather exasperatingly long phone calls between the bus driver and perhaps his superiors back at headquarters, he came back onto the bus and reluctantly informed his weary passengers what had happened, and what was about to happen.
The groans were unanimous, and the driver apologised profusely. Of course no body blamed him personally, but it was obvious from the look on his face that he blamed himself.
The plan was to take us and the bus back to a depot - about a half an hours drive - BACK in the direction we’d just come. When we arrived back at the depot, there were two choices we as passengers could make: 1. We could wait for another bus coming from down south, which would arrive in about 20 minutes and hop on board that one. Or, 2. Wait for an hour till the new bus came to pick us up. I looked immediately at Bristol Babe and decided straight away, that I was NOT going to be on the same bus as her. I watched her closely, and when she got off our bus, I stayed right where I was.
I even stood up and said aloud to anyone listening - “I’m going on whatever bus SHE IS NOT” - there was laughter and I felt appeased.
So for an hour we waited on the damaged window bus for the new one to arrive, and it was silent for the first time since a very brief period back at the bus stop in Bristol. I did notice though, with a great sense of pity, that Bristol babe had befriended another girl on the bus, and was talking at great length to her, no, AT her. I watched her talking to this poor girl from the moment the bus stopped at the depot, as they walked down the aisle, she was still talking, through a cigarette outside while getting luggage, and continued on talking as they disappeared up the steps onto the new bus. Oh man, Bristol babe was wired, there was NO WAY she was sleeping tonight; that poor poor other girl was going to have her ears chewed well and truly off by the time they’d reached Edinburgh.
Finally our new bus arrived - correction, our two mini busses arrived. Mini busses??? What the…? Okay, so how were we all going to fit? And where was our luggage, oh, that’s where, AT OUR FEET….. And not necessarily our own luggage, but just any luggage - it was at this moment, that for the first time I was truly glad to be short and NOT have long legs.
Packed into two mini busses, cases and backpacks in ordered disarray, we headed back onto the road and toward Edinburgh - well at least I trusted that’s where we were headed. But not before we drove right through the middle of a busy city intersection, where we had to stop at the lights outside a nightclub. At 2am, closing time, the street was packed, with absolutely hideously drunken human beings who had been out having a riot of a time - bastards. There were boys and girls slobbering and staggering and even vomiting all over the place; they were yelling out drunken warbled hello’s as our mini bus convoy tried to carefully drive through the masses of boozed up babes and boys - many of whom were locked in a passionate and sloppy lip embrace, hands and arms fondling right there on the sidewalk for us bus dwellers to gawk at. I guess it made for yet another exciting chapter of the already action packed story quickly emerging from this experience.
We got through the tirade of the inebriated, and resumed with a steady pace, to our destination. The mini bus was uncomfortable and the seats small, but I did manage some sleep, as when I awoke we had arrived at the Glasgow bus stop and some of us were getting off. I bet they were relieved. Looking around, a curious sight greeted me.
I saw the ’other’ bus that had taken the first lot of passengers from our broken window mishap. Standing outside on the pavement, smoke in hand, was Bristol Babe, and she was still talking to that poor poor girl she had sequestered some 5 hours earlier. My god!! Had she stopped talking at all???? Somehow, I suspected not. Momentarily the mini bus became the most comfortable source of travel I’d ever encountered.
Back on the road, the passengers now filtered to half, we set a direct course for Edinburgh, our eta, 7am - ironically, that was the time we were due right from the start.
At exactly 7am, we arrived in Edinburgh. I got off the bus with a massive sense of relief even though I ached in every part of my being, I was tired beyond comprehension, and I was bloody hungry. And it was only 7am. Where the hell was I going to go and what was I going to do at 7 am in the morning. There were no shops open, and I had no idea what to do about accommodation. I walked towards the Information bureau and took a seat along with a few other bedraggled looking backpackers - they hadn’t been on my bus, but they all sure looked like they’d been on some other bus trip from hell. Hey, maybe they shared the same journey with Bristol babe - I should have asked.
The info centre wasn’t due to open for another two hours, surely I couldn’t sit on the step and wait for that long could I? Perhaps I had to. I had already spent a hellish 11 hour ride on several busses, another two outside in the fresh chilled air of Scotland wasn’t going to make too much difference now was it. I succumbed to the cold and I prepared myself for the wait. And then along came Sam.
I don’t actually know if he’s name was Sam, but Sam is a cheery name, and this lad was a cheery lad. He bounced up to me and in a friendly, warm and familiar Australian accent, he greeted me, “G’day!”. His smile melted away any memory of the last 11 hours and I was putty in his hands.
Sure I would love to come stay at your hostel!
Sure, I would love a nice warm bed and a share kitchen and what’s that? We can walk there?
And you’ll take me?….fantastic, yep, great….lead the way Sam, lead the way.
Sam, I discovered later on was from Lismore in Northern NSW, the same town I had been living in when I left for the UK. He was paying for his accommodation in lieu of recruiting guests for the hostel - he picked me well! We had lots to talk about, which we did all the way to the hostel. It’s amazing how your life can be refuelled with just a spattering of friendly banter.
Sam handed me over to the young receptionist, another Aussie backpacker working her way around the country, who took my money, showed me around, told me the rules, and showed me to my room. Ahhhhh, finally, a bed.
The room contained 6 bunk beds, all crammed together with enough room between each to stand. Together with day packs, towels were hung over the ends of beds, and more bags were stuffed under the beds. It was still only early, and if I knew my backpackers well enough, you could pretty well count on the beds still being filled with bodies.
My assumptions were correct - I must be in a room full of late night party goers and drinkers, rather than the ‘keen to get up and have a look around’ type of traveller - I had already met those sort.
So I tip toed in, desperately aware of how precious sleep was, and knowing how absolutely bloody inconsiderate the newbie to the group can be - I didn’t want this label on my first day. So I was extra cautious of being quite. I went to the loo in the bathroom out in the hall, came back into my room and found the only way up to the top bunk, and began to climb. I wasn’t even going to change into my pj’s as that would involve unzipping zippers, getting undressed and re dressed and no, way too much possibility for noise damage.
I got up and over the railing with great ease - my body was driving me with a determined force and will to lay down and sleep. I could see the pillow up the other end, I heard it beckon me forth.
Up and over the railing I went and attempted, oh how I so attempted, to lay quietly down on my bed. But I’ve got one word for you - PLASTIC SHEETS!!!!!
I could NOT believe it. My bed was made, with thick, noisy plastic mattress protector thingies akin to the one’s ( I now know) you put on the bed of a child bed wetter! Plastic, crinkly loud hard plastic sheets!! As I made my attempt to stifle the sound, I made it worse. I cringed, the sheets crinkled and hissed beneath me. Bodies moved in their early morning slumber, I detected their thoughts - they knew an enemy was within. I stopped moving but the need to sleep took hold and mechanically I made for under the blankets and quickly lay my head down on the pillow. Once I stopped moving into a comfy position the room fell into a deafening silence, I waited for someone to come up from under me with a sharp knife or a heavy blunt object. I waited, but no one came. I was sooooo embarrassed, plastic bloody sheets??
What, had someone phoned through earlier? Had they done a childhood check via my parents? Did someone at the Moray Wildlife centre say something about me? Why the hell have I got plastic sheets??? I agonised over the quandary for a little longer before finally, sleep took hold and I drifted off.
I was awoken in half an hour. Everybody there in the room with me, decided it was time to get up, get dressed and leave. They must have all had work down the mines to get to, cause they were up and outa there in a flash. Still, the noise and flurry of activity came and went, and after I finished realising that I was actually in a shared room FULL of men, I went back to sleep. At least now the room was empty I could roll around in my plastic sheets and make as much noise as I wanted. And to think, it hadn’t even been 24 hours since I’d left Bath.
To be continued…..
.....this in part, is part of a larger collection of recollections i am writing about....
..but i wanted to post this to share with the MFWC crew and others...I hope you enjoy - and everything, absolutely everything, is true, and actually happened.
No names have been changed except for Sam - cause I don't actually know what his real name was/is???? My apologies Sam - or who ever you are......
I left the Moray Firth with a heavy heart; sad to be leaving my wonderfully funny and inspiring new friends, the gorgeous Scottish boy with whom I had had a massive crush on, and the exciting and fulfilling lifestyle I had been living for the last 6 months.
So the heavy thudding in my chest, the tears welling behind my eyes and the sick feeling in my stomach could have indeed been from these reflective thoughts, or the fact that I was running like a freak, weighty back pack bouncing heavily upon my back and shoulders, and very hung over from the farewell party the night before, to catch my plane that was leaving in zero point 2 seconds….and counting………
Of course I was the last passenger to board the aircraft, and I couldn’t escape the furrowed brows and stares of resentment everyone was throwing at me above their books, behind their newspapers or between the cracks in the seats in front of them, as the pretty blonde stewardess forced professional politeness and stowed my bags in the overhead compartment. I thanked her profusely and she barred perfectly straight and snow white teeth at me, but said nothing.
The thought occurred to me and I wondered if she or any other stewardess for that matter, ever accidentally-on-purpose didn’t close those latches quite tight enough so that during take off, one’s bags would spill from the compartment above and topple all over the place; tampons, condoms, mysterious-anti-rash-cream, contraceptive pills, a syringe (for my diabetes!), and several other questionable items falling in the aisles for everyone to see - and me, (or you), stuck helplessly in the seat, the ‘fasten seatbelt’ sign glaring at you from afar, the stewardess buckled in tight in her own seat, smiling that Cheshire grin, and still, saying nothing.
The flight itself was however, completely smooth sailing, I mean flying, and no sooner had we taken off, were we landing again at Heathrow Airport. I’d made it, I’d safely and successfully flown from Scotland to London.
I had booked into a backpackers hostel in a suburb of London, which via the Underground, I arrived at easily. I had to walk to get there, and even at this late stage in my travels, I hadn’t learnt the art of packing a light backpack. My shoulders were aching, my head hurt, and the weather was unseasonably warm - of course it was, I had jeans, jumper and a heavy jacket on. I must remember to mail that jacket back to Australia tomorrow. I don’t need it now.
Once at the hostel I found my room - a rather large co-ed room filled with at least 10 bunk beds, and only three occupants within. For some incomprehensible reason, the three of us were placed right next to and on top of each other! Why, they couldn’t place us with at least a bed between for privacy, was a bit incredible and rather frustrating. Perhaps it was the hostel’s way of forcing people together, of making sure weary, exhausted, foreign speaking travellers talk to each other, befriend one another. Did they not realise that sometimes, people really enjoy their solitude, love their privacy, and aren’t interested in ‘sharing’ anything - speech, sleeping space, stories, pleasantries…. It seemed I was not alone in my thoughts either; for the two days I stayed in my hostel with my bunk buddies - none of us said a word to each other.
First morning, I was up bright and early and decided to go to the post office first and get rid of my big heavy bulky jacket and post it back to mum in Australia. Then, I would go into the city.
I found the post office quickly, bundled my jacket into a box and addressed it. I took it to the counter and nearly choked on my spit when the lady told me it would cost nearly $50 to send the jacket back. It only cost me $5 from a charity shop!!! But even more stupid, was the decision I made to go ahead with the transaction and mail the damned jacket back. On reflection, it was my inability to convert pounds to dollars, so when she said 20 pounds, I heard 20 dollars - I admit, I’m as fallible as the next idiot.
Resigned not to let the misuse and over spending of money blight my day, I went back to the Underground and headed into the city. I did a bit of sight seeing around London, visited Soho, checked out some iconic shops and then took myself out for dinner. I wanted to go to a ‘proper’ Chinese restaurant - why I thought I could find one in London and not in China, never occurred to me. Go figure? I walked around checking out the menu’s on display outside each establishment, trying to find a place that didn’t sell shark fin soup.
I was, and still am very much opposed to the needless slaughter of sharks for their fins, or for anything. Sharks, all sharks, should be protected, and not decimated needlessly so that future generations will not be able to say they’ve ever seen one in the wild.
Finally, I thought I’d found such a place, and entered, found a table and sat. I looked at the menu and half way down, saw the opposing menu item - shark fin soup. I got up disgusted and walked out. I was getting really hungry by now, but there was no compromising. I did find a nice little Chinese restaurant in the end, and after scoping the menu, I happily waited for a seat.
Another London/Chinese tradition I was not aware of, is the seating of customers who are dining alone. I love dining solo, on my own, by myself, alone - get it? So no, not impressed when I was seated at the big King Arthurian knights of the big round table, with complete strangers, all Asian, and eating with chop sticks. I have only ever one other time, felt so white and so silly. I can’t use chopsticks and there is NO WAY I am embarrassing myself further. I want a seat ON MY OWN I screamed inside - and to this date, cannot fathom why I didn’t ask to be seated somewhere else. Hindsight sucks.
Okay, so although I sat feeling like a fool, I decided the next logical thing to do was to at least try and impress my fellow hungry friends with some ordering prowess. I’d have to look like I knew what I was doing, so I had to appear confident. The waiter came, and I pointed at a few items, thinking I may as well ‘do as the Roman’s do’ - again, not realising I was in LONDON, not China, or Rome.
I sat uncomfortably for the time it took for my meals to arrive, looking around at the obviously cheap and nasty mass produced art work adorning the walls, and trying to appear comfortable and confident. I’ve never been a good actress.
The food arrived - I’d ordered a couple of small entrée sized meals so as to broaden my eating experience. I’m so glad I ordered the seaweed - yep, that was a smart move Kerryn! The dish served to me was a dish of green seaweedy seaweed. Crispy, green, crunchy seaweed. Good! Great even! So, how do I eat it? What do I eat it with? I can’t fork this can I? Do I eat it on it’s own? Was it a side dish that I was supposed to have on the side of a main meal, and not alone, by itself, like me, sitting there like a big Aussie whitey dope? I wondered if the seaweed felt as confused and alone as I did. It was times like this that I wished I had a travel buddy, and maybe an Asian one.
I couldn’t sit there staring like an idiot, I had to at least act like I knew what I was doing. Thankfully, the next two small plates of food arrived and I pretended that mixing them up was the right thing to do. One thing I have learnt in my life so far, is that if you appear to do something with supreme confidence and assurance, it doesn’t matter if it is the right or wrong thing to do - you will appear to know exactly what you are doing. And in any case, the others joining me at my round table were there for the eating of their meals alone, and nothing else. Not once did I see them look up from their meals, and once finished, they’d wipe their mouths, leave their money on the table, remove themselves from their chairs and hurriedly leave.
Once again, I was left alone, and now, never more thankful.
After dinner, I had a show to go to. Not so much a show, as a screening of one of my all time favourite movies - “The Sound of Music” on the big screen in a London movie theatre - god I was so excited!!
Gathering out the front of the theatre were a mixed crowd of both genders, all ages, and many of them in costume. I saw a couple clad in material so very closely resembling the green curtain material Maria used to make the children’s ‘play clothes’, there were several dozen nun’s, a few Nazi soldiers, a few Maria’s, and a few other variations of characters that I couldn’t quite work out. But there were many many fans, and I was among them.
We all queued patiently before filing into the theatre and filling it with energetic and loud laughter and the many impromptu chorus’s of different songs from the movie, echoed off the walls. The hills might have been alive with the sound of music, but tonight, the London Soho movie theatre was too!
After a quick prize giving ceremony for best costumes was conducted, the crowd settled back, complete with ’show bag’ of placards, a plastic piece of edelweiss, an invitation to Maria and Captain von Trapp’s wedding, and several other bits and pieces - the movie began. And so did the loud mouthed pommie gay guy in front of me. I swear he was the brother of a girl I was going to meet with in the very near future. And just like her, this guy would NOT SHUT UP!!! Sure, he was funny at first, yelling out some witty comments about nuns and cobwebs and lesbian tendencies, followed by some energetic singing and booing at the introduction of Capt. Von Trapp’s girlfriend - but then he just kept going, and going, and going…..his funny bone all but broken, his wit all dried up, his humour turned cold and yet, he kept on yelling out. Finally, someone brave yelled for him to shut the hell up - and like a berated little school boy - he shut the hell up. Thank god - the movie only had half an hour to go anyway.
Despite reasonably-funny-but-way-too- loud-mouthed-school-boy, the movie experience was brilliant. One of the funniest thing I saw that night, was upon coming out at midnight from the show. The next movie coming on to the big screen, was The Rocky Horror Picture Show. And, like The Sound of Music, it was also a costume party. Talk about Little House on the Prairie meets The X Files, or Spice Girls meets AC/DC!
As I walked around Soho after midnight, checking out the sex shops, daring to go into one where I was the only female amid a seedy trio of men scattered throughout the store, their heads buried deep into ‘reading matter’; and as I caught the train back to my hostel; and as I walked along the street alone, after midnight; a real sense of renewed and refreshed purpose filled me. I had somewhere along the journey of the nights events, gathered to me a heady scent of confidence and it was oozing from my pours - it was obvious in my walk, my head held high, the grin on my face. I felt alive.
I was in a strange city on my own, feeling like a tourist and loving that I was. When I got back to the hostel, I wasn’t going to give a crap about waking up my bunk buddies, bugger that, I was in London! - the place The Clash and numerous others had sung about, the place where Dr Who’s tardis really was on every street corner, where double Decker buses existed and where the Queen lived and Princess Diana married that doot with the big ears. Tomorrow I would venture out again and live the life I was lucky to be breathing in, in all it’s fate and fortune, in all it’s garishness and it’s glory.
And so I did my London tourist bit, did the double Decker bus tour, visited Westminster Abbey, checked out Buckingham Palace, drove over the Thames, and loved every bit of it; and then I moved on.
I had always wanted to go to Bath, further south of the UK’s bustling capital city. I went to the bus depot, and bought a book of tickets that would allow me to travel on several bus trips at no extra cost than the hundred pounds I had just paid. It was a good deal - well, it would have been, if I’d actually used them.
The first ticket from my ticket book, I used to go to Bath. When I arrived it was wet and windy, rainy and cold - and the weather never got any better. But I didn’t care, I loved Bath the minute I arrived, and that sense of feeling alive stayed with me for the duration. I had found a place to stay while in London, and now caught the shuttle bus up the never-ever-ever-ending steep hill to the rather beautiful and picturesque hostel I was to stay in.
The hostels very presence excited me and I was instantly drawn back to my childhood days that were filled with fantasies of castles and dragons and princesses and a life less busy. I stood in awe of the building in front of me, feeling a little sad for the fact that it had been converted into a place for weary, smelly foreign travellers to lay their grotty heads, eat two-minute noodles and re-coup and re-group before venturing off the next day into pastures unknown and unseen. Perhaps though, I consoled, the building rather enjoyed this, perhaps it revelled in the fact that is was still a well used piece of architecture, providing warmth and comfort to a host of different people from all over the world - like me?!
I booked in and was shown to my room and around the place. I had a full room, all girls - my first uni sex room, and I must admit I was pretty happy about this. In a uni sex room you can get changed right next to your bed instead of going to the bathroom down the hall, and you can take off your bra and slip into your pj’s. You can just be more of yourself in a same sex room I think - well, I could.
This room of girls seemed a little friendlier too, and I found myself saying hi to everyone. Two cute little Japanese girls giggled their friendly hello’s in broken English to me, and continued on conversing rapidly to each other; “That Aussie girl pee-jarmers are SO ugwee!” giggle giggle - well, maybe that’s what they were saying. In any case, I went to bed and to sleep, and in the morning, the-not-so-cute-anymore Japanese girls woke me up.
I have a few pet hates in my life already. After any and all of the possible types of environmental vandalism, comes people eating with their mouths open, this probably rates at the top. Following, are certain smells, certain sights, and certain sounds - in particular, are two sounds. These are plastic bags rustling, and zips on bags being done up, and undone, and done up again, and undone again - the repetitive action of the latter drives me absolutely bonkers! When the two are combined, I become a furious mess - and if I’m pre-menstrual, murder isn’t completely unthinkable. Luckily for the Japanese girls, it ‘wasn’t my time’ - and therefore, nor was it theirs….
However, after beginning the night in restless sleep, I had finally fallen into a heavy sleep. So to be awoken by the combination of two of my pet hated sounds, and two girls giggling, in Japanese (it wouldn’t have mattered what language they were speaking, they were just talking and giggling and talking and giggling….), set my angry stick motion.
I figured the girls were packing to leave, as they were both putting things into their backpacks, and then taking them out, and then putting them in again. Why they hadn’t organised themselves the night before…….sheesh. Anyway, I tried very hard to ignore them at first, but one of the girls consistently continued to unzip her bag all the way open, and then started fussing with something in a plastic bag. She fussed and fussed and the plastic bag rustled and rustled. The plastic bag got pushed into the backpack, and then the zip got ziiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiii iiiiiiiped up again. The girls met and giggled, and went into the bathroom - which was in the hall, and which you had to go past my bed, and open the door, which squeaked. Silence.
Not for long. Plastic bag girl was back. And she unziiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiii iiiiiiiped her bag again……..more rustling………….shoving, rustling, the backpack ziiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiip ed up again. I swear, with no embellishment whatsoever, this went on for a good, solid, 15 minutes. Now that might not sound like long, but early morning, early enough to be still dark outside, two giggling girls, the relentless rustling of a plastic bag, and the constant ziiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiii iping up and down of a zip - would drive anyone to at least think about committing a crime punishable perhaps by death itself. But, being the softie I am, and a bit of a scaredy cat, and not knowing any Japanese, I thought it best to wait it out and seek solace in the idea that soon, they would be gone, wouldn’t they?
They did. And I vowed to learn to say “shut the hell up please” - in Japanese, just in case.
One of the main reasons I went to Bath was that it was central to a lot of the places I had only ever dreamed of visiting. These included such places as The Cotswolds, in particular Stonehenge, Avebury Circle, and many of the white chalk hill drawings, burial mounds and crop circles scattered around the place. All of these sights and indeed more, could be seen all on the one day, with the help from a little bus tour that I booked and went on one chilly Thursday morning.
The bus was full and I was the last to get on. My consolation for 12 other pair of eyes staring at me was that the only seat left to sit on was next to a very cute fellow Aussie guy, who we will call Matt. We will call him Matt, because that was his name. Matt was both good looking, had a nice body, was obviously well educated and was polite enough to engage in conversation with me. This had to be a good sign for the days events didn’t it?
The bus tour was great. There was a mix of Aussies, Canadians, an American couple, and some European girls - from somewhere in Europe; they had accents, that’s all I can remember.
Our friendly well versed tour guide and bus driver pointed out many of the lesser known sights for us, filled our heads with a wealth of information, and stopped at the major locations for us to look at. We drove past many of the white chalk hill side carvings, had pointed out to us many of the burial mounds, and drove past some ‘crop circles’. Now, I admit, I am a massive sceptic as to the origins of the now famous crop circles that adorn our earth’s surface. I have my own theories, but I don’t subscribe to the thought that they are caused by ‘aliens’ - nope, sorry, you just aren’t going to win me on that one. But apparently, I was the only one on the bus who thought that.
As we drove past our first crop circle (and I must point out, they weren’t all circles per say, but the shapes were all different and too difficult for me to say; crop circle with round bits, crop circles with heaps of other circles and bits sticking out, crop NOT-circle, rather cylindrical spherical type shape etc etc…..so I shall generalise…okay?).
So we drove past our first crop circle and our driver pointed it out, made a few comments giving us it’s history and what the scientists had said, and off we drove past another, and later, another. At the fourth or fifth one, the woman of the American couple spoke up rather loudly, making this comment. “Isn’t it amazing’ just how exact those aliens are with their crop circles?” Well, I burst into a very, very loud burst of haughty laughter, and expected for everyone else to join in. But I was wrong. Evidentially, I was the only one who laughed. The bus was dead silent but for my rather stupendous outburst. Either no one else heard the ladies comment, or, to my horror, no one else buy me, was in disbelief at her comment. My lust for Matt drained away rather rapidly.
Which was quickly resumed, because we soon found ourselves in a potentially tight situation together. At lunch time, the bus group was free to do as we liked with the township we were stopped at. I bought a sandwich and ate it as I ventured quickly through the town, being too frightened to enter into the house where apparently the ghost of a young girl lived, (yeah yeah, I know, don’t believe in crop circles and aliens, but I do in ghosts…..whatever!) - I headed back to the apparently oldest pub in the UK for an ale. The pub was gorgeous; dark and dimly lit, a fire roaring in one corner, regulars at the tables, the smell of stale beer and warm food emanating throughout. The atmosphere was friendly, but at the same time it was weary - you could tell we were the tourists and the locals didn’t mind us being there, just don’t get too comfortable.
Half of the bus tour sat together enjoying a beer and jovial conversation. I finished my beer and went to the toilet. I wasn’t in a hurry, I knew we had plenty of time before the bus was to leave for our next destination, Stonehenge! I flushed the loo, got dressed, washed my hands and walked out from behind the door marked Ladies. At the same time, Matt walked out from behind the door marked Men’s. I smiled, he smiled back and reached for the main door to the bar to open it for me - my lust was quickly renewed.
He reached for the door, and pulled. Nothing happened. He pulled harder, still, nothing happened. We looked quizzically at each other. He tried again. We looked again. Little did either of us know, but some pubs in the UK, still traditionally shut at 1pm till 2 - it was 1pm. We were locked in! We were stuck! Finally realising what had happened, we both banged on the door and began to yell. Matt went into the men’s and the ladies looking for a possible way out, but to no avail. I went into the ladies and tried to open up the little window above the toilet - wishing for possibly the millionth time in my life, that I had longer legs. I managed to get my face up to the window and started to yell, “Helloooooo??? Is anyone there???? We’re locked in the toilet!!!! Helllooooooo???”
Luckily, although I’m not entirely sure it was a good thing, Matt and I were set free from our captivity and out into the light once again, in a matter of minutes. Thankfully, one of our fellow bus crew heard our pleas for help and after laughing her ass off at us, alerted the bar lady who was still inside the building. She freed us, but scowled and told us off. We returned to our bus red faced but giggling, the rest of us thinking it was the most hilarious thing to have happened all day - buggers!
Stonehenge, Avebury Circle and some of the other standing stones, stone circles and burial mounds we spent the rest of the day visiting were absolutely remarkable, spectacular and made many of my dreams come true. While at Stonehenge, I put on the self guided touring headphones and listened carefully to the description of it history and heritage. At one point, you are asked to stand on a particular spot, and slowly turn around in a full 360 degree circle. While doing this, it is pointed out to you all of the burial grounds in both the foreground, and the distance of your view - the sheer number and size of these quite surprised and overwhelmed me. It was my ‘moment’ with Stonehenge - one I will never forget - that and realising that I was quite possibly standing where Dr Who once did when he filmed a series here back in the 70’s!
The entire day was brilliant, but for the two exceptions of public humiliation, and the non-kissing activities between Matt and I, it will be a trip that rates highly of my experiences in the UK.
When I finally got back to my hostel, and into bed that night, the only thing I could do was giggle as I heard the thunderous noise of at least six noisy and very drunk men, German men, thud past the girls dorm door, thud and topple and trip up the stairs, giggling and guffawing and loudly whispering in German, all the way to their rooms. What fun they sounded like they were having! What fun it must be to travel around with a group of mates. What fun to go out and get completely tanked in a foreign country on foreign beer! Ahhhh………Now, please, shut up and go to sleep, and for god’s sake, if any one has a plastic bag in their back pack, I’m going to kill them!!!!!!
I was sad to be saying goodbye to Bath. I had really loved visiting such a city steeped in rich and colourful history, it’s beautiful and impressive architecture, streets and gardens; the Roman Baths, the galleries and museums; my first ever experience of Starbuck’s, her historical figures of importance - William Herschel, William Beckford and Jane Austen. The surrounds of Bath included the Cotswolds, Stonehenge and Salisbury to name but a few - and I had had the absolute pleasure of experiencing many of her attractions…… .
I had decided to use another of my travel tickets and head back to Edinburgh. My visa was due to run out in three days, and I wanted to spend the last of my trip in a place I really considered my favourite. I booked the bus by phone the night before, checked out of the hostel early the next morning and headed to the bus depot. I had mucked up the times and grossly miscalculated my waiting period - it wasn’t “half an hour“, it was “half four” - must have been the accent. So, at 10am, I had the day to kill. I dumped my backpack in the bus depot bag dumping area, was told what time they shut and to be sure I was back ready to pick it up, or I’d have to wait till the morning - well, NO WAY was I going to be dumb enough to let that happen! Was I?????
I spent the day wandering around. I didn’t have a lot of money to spend willy nilly, so I bought an over priced book, an expensive lunch and dropped the rest into the Avon river. It was very wet and cold, and I spotted the local library. I could read, so I figured this would be a good way to spend the afternoon. Which is exactly what I did. I spent the afternoon in the library. After I had read every single book in there, I thought it must be about time to head back to pick up my bag and head finally, if not reluctantly out of Bath.
I walked casually to the depot, over to the bag place, and found the door was locked, the lights were off and no one was there! I panicked. I looked around everywhere and knocked on doors and asked people and had a little mini panic attack right there and then - and amidst all my panic, an angel in the form of the bag storing lady, walked past me on her way to her car to go home. I begged with her, and I think she took pity on my bedraggled look and possibly too the fury lighting up in my blood red eyes, for she opened the door and let me get my bag. I was very lucky. Later I wondered if it was Bath’s way of telling me she wanted me to stay, perhaps she had unfinished business with me, perhaps I had unfinished business with her? Perhaps Matt was looking for me?
The bus arrived and I boarded her for the short hour trip to Bristol where I would be catching an overnight 11 hour trip back to Edinburgh. I figured I could handle such a long trip if I caught the night time bus, as hopefully I would sleep most of the night. Hopefully - perhaps the biggest understatement of my life.
I arrived in Bristol right on time and headed for the main bus depot, slightly apprehensive about the long hours I was about to spend on the road. I stood around with others, all waiting, at 4pm, the air getting colder and the sky getting darker, ready and waiting, and waiting, and still, at 5pm, the bus now late, waiting. Already there was dissention in the ranks and I overheard one young woman, loud and brash, in a thick heavy Bristol accent, complaining about the bus’s tardiness - she was right of course, but something in her voice and her manner made me instantly wary of her - and I had no idea just how much so.
A voice came over the loud speaker of the terminal, breaking the hushed tones of indignant passengers who were swapping travel woes of being late to their destinations - informing us that indeed, the bus was running late, but it would arrive imminently - actually, the voice on the loud speaker didn’t use the word imminently, he said ‘very soon’ - for I doubt the loud mouthed opinionated young Bristol woman would have understood.
The bus finally arrived to a loud and relived chorus of hurrah’s and soon we were all aboard and not long after on the road. We were on the road, literally, for maybe, two minutes, when loud mouthed Bristol babe turned on her mobile phone and made her first, of many, calls. Bristol babe sat opposite me - boy, was I ever glad about THAT!
BB talked a little to one friend, and then hung up and talked a little more to another. She then spent a good half hour keying in phone numbers into her new mobile that her mum had given her - I knew this, because BB talked loudly on the bus, and so I think we ALL KNEW that her mum had given her her new phone.
Now, even though I have a somewhat limited and inferior knowledge of mobile phones, my understanding is that they all have the ability to make noises, be it the ring tone type, the keypad, the text indicator and whatever other useful and or not so useful functions the mobile has to offer. These phones, also have the ability to have their bells, whistles, rings and tones all turned DOWN, or even, dare I suggest it, OFF!
Apparently, Bristol babe knew nothing of the latter. Beep, beep, beepbeepbeep, beep, beep, beep - this went on for a good solid half an hour. The time was nearing 9pm.
She rang another friend…laughed, chatted…hung up, and then opened a foil package of something that she swiftly proceeded to snort up her nose. Then she got back on the phone - beep beep beepity fucking beep beep beep - rang a friend, and told her how she’d just done a line, and WAS GOING TO BE UP ALL NIGHT SO LET’S TALK!!!!!!!!!!! I think I started to cry at this point.
I forget how long it was, but she did eventually stop talking - thank god - and consequently lit up a cigarette - THE NERVE OF THE WOMAN!! It was the year 2000 - smoking had been banned on public transport for ten thousand years by then, she was outrageous. Did she not realise that everyone on the bus could smell the smoke wafting around? In her defence, she had just done a line of something, so smoking a cigarette probably seemed of little to absolutely no consequence to her.
At 10 pm we stopped for a dinner break. I was tired and cranky, but glad to get off the bus and stretch my legs. I noticed that BB was making fast friends with the young and rather cute and gullible relief bus driver - excellent tactic BB, brilliant in fact!
11pm, back on the bus. Surely she’d be too tired to beep on again and sleep like the rest of us - but oooohhhh noooo, I had forgotten, she’d snorted something to keep her well wired and awake - oh the joy of drugs! And the beeping started up again, and she had another cigarette, and she flirted with the relief. I wished I was a local with the courage to speak my mind, but instead, I covered myself up with my sleeping bag and desperately hoped she would get a clue any moment soon and GO THE HELL TO SLEEP.
Midnight. I must have been asleep because I was suddenly woken but a loud noise and the bus suddenly swerving. We pulled over to the side of the rode - we’d been hit in the windscreen by a rock flying up from the road - well, at least that’s what we’d been told. After some rather exasperatingly long phone calls between the bus driver and perhaps his superiors back at headquarters, he came back onto the bus and reluctantly informed his weary passengers what had happened, and what was about to happen.
The groans were unanimous, and the driver apologised profusely. Of course no body blamed him personally, but it was obvious from the look on his face that he blamed himself.
The plan was to take us and the bus back to a depot - about a half an hours drive - BACK in the direction we’d just come. When we arrived back at the depot, there were two choices we as passengers could make: 1. We could wait for another bus coming from down south, which would arrive in about 20 minutes and hop on board that one. Or, 2. Wait for an hour till the new bus came to pick us up. I looked immediately at Bristol Babe and decided straight away, that I was NOT going to be on the same bus as her. I watched her closely, and when she got off our bus, I stayed right where I was.
I even stood up and said aloud to anyone listening - “I’m going on whatever bus SHE IS NOT” - there was laughter and I felt appeased.
So for an hour we waited on the damaged window bus for the new one to arrive, and it was silent for the first time since a very brief period back at the bus stop in Bristol. I did notice though, with a great sense of pity, that Bristol babe had befriended another girl on the bus, and was talking at great length to her, no, AT her. I watched her talking to this poor girl from the moment the bus stopped at the depot, as they walked down the aisle, she was still talking, through a cigarette outside while getting luggage, and continued on talking as they disappeared up the steps onto the new bus. Oh man, Bristol babe was wired, there was NO WAY she was sleeping tonight; that poor poor other girl was going to have her ears chewed well and truly off by the time they’d reached Edinburgh.
Finally our new bus arrived - correction, our two mini busses arrived. Mini busses??? What the…? Okay, so how were we all going to fit? And where was our luggage, oh, that’s where, AT OUR FEET….. And not necessarily our own luggage, but just any luggage - it was at this moment, that for the first time I was truly glad to be short and NOT have long legs.
Packed into two mini busses, cases and backpacks in ordered disarray, we headed back onto the road and toward Edinburgh - well at least I trusted that’s where we were headed. But not before we drove right through the middle of a busy city intersection, where we had to stop at the lights outside a nightclub. At 2am, closing time, the street was packed, with absolutely hideously drunken human beings who had been out having a riot of a time - bastards. There were boys and girls slobbering and staggering and even vomiting all over the place; they were yelling out drunken warbled hello’s as our mini bus convoy tried to carefully drive through the masses of boozed up babes and boys - many of whom were locked in a passionate and sloppy lip embrace, hands and arms fondling right there on the sidewalk for us bus dwellers to gawk at. I guess it made for yet another exciting chapter of the already action packed story quickly emerging from this experience.
We got through the tirade of the inebriated, and resumed with a steady pace, to our destination. The mini bus was uncomfortable and the seats small, but I did manage some sleep, as when I awoke we had arrived at the Glasgow bus stop and some of us were getting off. I bet they were relieved. Looking around, a curious sight greeted me.
I saw the ’other’ bus that had taken the first lot of passengers from our broken window mishap. Standing outside on the pavement, smoke in hand, was Bristol Babe, and she was still talking to that poor poor girl she had sequestered some 5 hours earlier. My god!! Had she stopped talking at all???? Somehow, I suspected not. Momentarily the mini bus became the most comfortable source of travel I’d ever encountered.
Back on the road, the passengers now filtered to half, we set a direct course for Edinburgh, our eta, 7am - ironically, that was the time we were due right from the start.
At exactly 7am, we arrived in Edinburgh. I got off the bus with a massive sense of relief even though I ached in every part of my being, I was tired beyond comprehension, and I was bloody hungry. And it was only 7am. Where the hell was I going to go and what was I going to do at 7 am in the morning. There were no shops open, and I had no idea what to do about accommodation. I walked towards the Information bureau and took a seat along with a few other bedraggled looking backpackers - they hadn’t been on my bus, but they all sure looked like they’d been on some other bus trip from hell. Hey, maybe they shared the same journey with Bristol babe - I should have asked.
The info centre wasn’t due to open for another two hours, surely I couldn’t sit on the step and wait for that long could I? Perhaps I had to. I had already spent a hellish 11 hour ride on several busses, another two outside in the fresh chilled air of Scotland wasn’t going to make too much difference now was it. I succumbed to the cold and I prepared myself for the wait. And then along came Sam.
I don’t actually know if he’s name was Sam, but Sam is a cheery name, and this lad was a cheery lad. He bounced up to me and in a friendly, warm and familiar Australian accent, he greeted me, “G’day!”. His smile melted away any memory of the last 11 hours and I was putty in his hands.
Sure I would love to come stay at your hostel!
Sure, I would love a nice warm bed and a share kitchen and what’s that? We can walk there?
And you’ll take me?….fantastic, yep, great….lead the way Sam, lead the way.
Sam, I discovered later on was from Lismore in Northern NSW, the same town I had been living in when I left for the UK. He was paying for his accommodation in lieu of recruiting guests for the hostel - he picked me well! We had lots to talk about, which we did all the way to the hostel. It’s amazing how your life can be refuelled with just a spattering of friendly banter.
Sam handed me over to the young receptionist, another Aussie backpacker working her way around the country, who took my money, showed me around, told me the rules, and showed me to my room. Ahhhhh, finally, a bed.
The room contained 6 bunk beds, all crammed together with enough room between each to stand. Together with day packs, towels were hung over the ends of beds, and more bags were stuffed under the beds. It was still only early, and if I knew my backpackers well enough, you could pretty well count on the beds still being filled with bodies.
My assumptions were correct - I must be in a room full of late night party goers and drinkers, rather than the ‘keen to get up and have a look around’ type of traveller - I had already met those sort.
So I tip toed in, desperately aware of how precious sleep was, and knowing how absolutely bloody inconsiderate the newbie to the group can be - I didn’t want this label on my first day. So I was extra cautious of being quite. I went to the loo in the bathroom out in the hall, came back into my room and found the only way up to the top bunk, and began to climb. I wasn’t even going to change into my pj’s as that would involve unzipping zippers, getting undressed and re dressed and no, way too much possibility for noise damage.
I got up and over the railing with great ease - my body was driving me with a determined force and will to lay down and sleep. I could see the pillow up the other end, I heard it beckon me forth.
Up and over the railing I went and attempted, oh how I so attempted, to lay quietly down on my bed. But I’ve got one word for you - PLASTIC SHEETS!!!!!
I could NOT believe it. My bed was made, with thick, noisy plastic mattress protector thingies akin to the one’s ( I now know) you put on the bed of a child bed wetter! Plastic, crinkly loud hard plastic sheets!! As I made my attempt to stifle the sound, I made it worse. I cringed, the sheets crinkled and hissed beneath me. Bodies moved in their early morning slumber, I detected their thoughts - they knew an enemy was within. I stopped moving but the need to sleep took hold and mechanically I made for under the blankets and quickly lay my head down on the pillow. Once I stopped moving into a comfy position the room fell into a deafening silence, I waited for someone to come up from under me with a sharp knife or a heavy blunt object. I waited, but no one came. I was sooooo embarrassed, plastic bloody sheets??
What, had someone phoned through earlier? Had they done a childhood check via my parents? Did someone at the Moray Wildlife centre say something about me? Why the hell have I got plastic sheets??? I agonised over the quandary for a little longer before finally, sleep took hold and I drifted off.
I was awoken in half an hour. Everybody there in the room with me, decided it was time to get up, get dressed and leave. They must have all had work down the mines to get to, cause they were up and outa there in a flash. Still, the noise and flurry of activity came and went, and after I finished realising that I was actually in a shared room FULL of men, I went back to sleep. At least now the room was empty I could roll around in my plastic sheets and make as much noise as I wanted. And to think, it hadn’t even been 24 hours since I’d left Bath.
To be continued…..
| 36 |
| Vote |
Subscribe to this blog
Comment by Anonymous
reminds me of many stories of my own