A Tour of the South

Earlier this summer I went to the South of France on holiday. If I was to summarise the break, I would say imagine the three-minute opening of Sexy Beast played out over eight days.  With temperatures regularly hitting Gas Mark 6, I roasted until I turned a lovely golden brown. For someone who has the hairline of Alan Shearer and the waistline of the breadline, I returned reborn. I looked as good as I’m going to get. I looked my age.

Me in my tanned glory.

 Now all of that has changed.

The tan that I once knew is gone. Like a physiological retelling of Sunset Boulevard my glitter has faded. The healthy glow now a funeral pallor. Litheness has been forgotten for lank despair. With back to school around the corner, the carefree face of Mr. July replaced by careworn Mr. Late August. Work has left a missed call and there’s only so long I can go before I’m obliged to answer.  

Oh to reclaim that feeling of late July. When six weeks didn’t feel finite, but an eternal span of possibilities. I’ll learn a language. I’ll teach the language I’ve learnt. I’ll see the world. Palin did it in 80 days and that was in the late 80’s when they used penny-farthings to get places; surely we millennials can do it in 42. I’ll start a novel. I’ll finish a novel. I’ll draw up plans for a house. I’ll build a house. I’ll get Kevin McCloud round to congratulate me on it. There really is no better feeling in the world than that feeling of being free from the sound of bells and the ticking clock of deadlines.

Aware that the holidays are drawing to a close I thought another hurrah would be in order. This week away though would be in England and Wales: the return fixture on the away leg if you will. I knew this wouldn’t be a holiday for the body  – there would be no sun to glisten, no pool to rejuvenate – instead this would be one for the soul; because in Hay-on-Wye there would be books; in Bristol, friends and in Dorset and the New Forest, memories.

Friday, Hay-On-Wye

As a bibliophile I’ve wanted to go to Hay-on-Wye for a while now. Every year Hay has a literature festival that is effectively the Glastonbury of books. Hay’s love affair with books started in the 1960’s when a cupid called Richard Booth fired the first arrow. He was a local man concerned by the flight of graduates to the city, fearful that this exodus would affect the financial and cultural backbone of small rural communities. Noting that America was closing down libraries, he went with a team of men to appropriate their literature for his own bookshop. It wasn’t long before his three-floor shop was seen as the best place to buy secondhand reads. Seizing on Booth’s success, other retailers set up shop and ‘a book mile’ of thirty shops was born. Although the rise in Kindles has precipitated the closure of some, the town still has a reputation as being a world leader in literature.

Me and The Girl enjoyed our day here. It really is a wonderful town: all the best parts of Britain (tea rooms, pubs and book shops) consolidated into one affordable strip. Contrary to popular belief, I didn’t go all Supermarket Sweep and blitz around the store, leaving a trail of empty shelves in my wake. Instead I went with a list of books I desired- which was a fool’s errand really. It is no judgment on Hay that I couldn’t find a few books I wanted; after all the owners sell mainly second-hand books so it was impossible for these Genies to grant all my wishes. I should have done what my girlfriend did: read the blurb and let nature take its fancy. But I’m a creature of painstaking preparation; I’m not one for spontaneity. So I left with a few books when I could have left with more.

Look at the banner: they really hate Kindles here.

Saturday, Bristol

After a one-night stay in an ecolodge- a wooden cabin- we were on the road to Bristol. Hay-on-Wye to Bristol is as easy as going from A to B. What I mean by that is for an 80-mile route it takes a bloody long time because you have to get on every A and B road in the country. You do go through some lovely villages though so it’s not all bad.

We woke up here. Pic. by PG

We were in Bristol because that’s where I went to university, and a group of us were getting together to see our friend Phil. Phil, having lived in Spain for three years, is practically Spanish now, so I’m never insulted when he nods off during my anecdotes – I know he’s just missing his siesta. Although my girlfriend and Fi’s husband weren’t students of Bristol, we decided against sacrificing these interlopers in a Wicker Man ceremony; instead we shook the tourists hands and took them around our kingdom.

During our regular reunions, we feel it beholden to relive our vanquished youth and go on pub-crawls – this reunion was no different. In the first watering hole I had a beer that was 11%. In the week where Pep Guardialo dropped club servant Joe Hart, mine was the true statement of intent. Everyone was like, “Ryan, you’re playing with fire.” And I was like, “Yeah, but my liver is a fire blanket. You can roll me in ethanol and I’ll still come up smelling of roses, motherfuckers.” After I mistakenly chose this beer from the confusing menu, I went for weaker ales hereafter.

I drink these between, 'my usual,' absinthe to avoid headaches in the morning.

Our night ended at the Thali Café in Bristol. If you ever go West make sure you visit one of these establishments. The food is properly delicious. Thali is an Indian meal that consists of an assortment of dishes, meaning on service you’re handed the kind of plate a prisoner might receive- divided into sections- within it though are tastes antithetical of ‘doing porridge.’ Good times dudes.

Sunday, Bristol

On waking in the morning, we went to ‘The Lounge’. Jim, a fictionalised Ron Swanson made corporeal, is a fan of breakfast dining. And ‘The Lounge’ is a fan of catering for all your breakfast needs. I plumped for the full fry and told them to hold the fried egg … and crush it til it scrambled. The one blemish against this establishments name is they said, “We can’t do scrambled. We only do poached.” I would have held it against them, if it were not for the plate that came. Ron Swanson is indeed right, “There is no sadness that can’t be cured by breakfast food.” For those ten minutes of eating, I was back at the start of the holiday where everything seemed possible. Good times dudes. (I’m trying to turn this into a catchphrase).

After breakfast someone suggested we go for a walk. (I know my friends are quite behind the times, but I love them for their quaint ways. It’s not their fault. Not everyone can be born in progressive Watford. Sometimes you just have to nod, smile and go along with these olde-worlde people.) It was a fine walk that involved going across the Clifton Suspension Bridge. I was at Bristol University for three years and only went across it once on a day trip to Glastonbury. Our university tutor had organised it, alleging that it would help with our Medieval studies. We didn’t learn anything. In hindsight I think it was because he was from Dartmoor and was missing the spirits.

The 'Clifton Suspension Bridge' would be the name of my finishing move if I were a wrestler. Pic. by PG

Monday, Swanage

Early on Monday we woke up in Swanage. We did leave Bristol; we didn’t just wake up in a place a few hours away. I just didn’t think you would want all the details about the car journey. Jeez, I try to jump the narrative forward for your own benefit and you have to nitpick, picking up holes in my timeline.

Anyway, we went down to a beach hut – that my family owns. I know with the housing crisis it does seem decadent owning something with four walls and only living in it evenings and holidays, but my family have been going to that beach for generations. It’s not like we’re oligarchs moving in, erecting extra levels to compensate for our lack of penis. We have preserved the beach hut with its original 1940’s façade to ensure it’s consistent with the landscape. My uncle even lives in Swanage and is down there every night. It’s not even a fixed one: he has to take it down in the winter and store it on his mate’s farm. What I’m saying is we’re not the bad guys. We’re just a humble family with a romantic attachment to a piece of sand. We got in there before the beach hut boom as well so it’s not as if we spent thousands of pounds on it. Probably just a few grand between a group of people. I’m still part of the 99% honest.

Property tycoons.

Tuesday, Lulworth Cove and Durdle Door

As a child I went to all of these beautiful places in Dorset, but due to an increase in alcohol and birthday units I can no longer remember them. Therefore, with the girl in tow I decided to revisit the places of my youth – or visit them, given I couldn’t recall ever having been there.

These attractions really are places of wonder. However, they look even better when the sun is shining. Fortunately, this was Britain’s day to have the sun. (Blighty really got a bum deal when it came to custody rights of the old yellow ball; Australia must have got O.J.’s lawyer when it came to negotiations.) The sea looked like it sat on a diamond mine and the sky was as pure as Walt’s crystal meth. You couldn’t ask for a better picture postcard.

Better than the Wembley arch. Pic. by PG

On walking over Man of War bay, just next to Durdle Door, we sat on the pebbles and ate our packed lunch. All around us were families from all across the world, unified by sunshine and sea. Children tested their parents’ boundaries by going deeper and deeper into the water, and parents tested their vocal chords by crying louder and louder for them to come back. These mini-dramas soon dissolved into family comedies with dads splashing their returning offspring and mums photographing their approval. Good times dudes.

Wednesday, New Forest

Today was The Girl’s turn to take me to her old stomping ground. As a child, she used to camp in Brockenhurst. In tribute to her childhood I’ve vowed to go camping with her in the future under the proviso she puts the tent up and protects me from bears.

I wasn’t prepared for the New Forest to be honest. On entering Brockenhurst I saw the sign warning us of ponies. In my head I just thought small children would be out on a pony trek accompanied by an expert horse rider. What I didn’t realise was that ponies just mill about on the road discussing Brexit whilst they hold up the traffic.

I said to The Girl, “Where are their owners.”

She replied, “They don’t have owners. Not every horse has an owner.”

Jockeys, cowboys and the gypsy community came to my mind. I thought every horse had an owner. Like every dog or cat has an owner. If they can’t find an owner for it, shouldn’t they be in some kind of sanctuary?

Just roaming the streets like wild animals. An apt simile. Pic. by PG.

But that is not the case in Brockenhurst. Man and animal live alongside one another as one. Like it’s The Jungle Book or something. After having parked the car, we walked up to the corner shop where there were a couple of donkeys loitering outside, probably chewing gum and moaning about how rubbish their parents are. It is a truly bizarre sight. I’m happy that I’ve witnessed it, but I will never be like the locals and think it’s normal. I mean it’s not natural to say “excuse me” to a donkey on the pavement is it? I believe if you pass a donkey at a postbox and don't bat an eyelid, you've probably become a little jaded, not appreciating the warped magic of the world we live in.

Reflection that satirises children's TV

So there you have it: a little jaunt around Britain. I hope this travelogue taught you a lot about how historical and magical a place Britain is. Until next time kids, bye. (Presenters suffering from smilestroke wave maniacally at the screen until the director saves them from their contrived happiness by calling 'cut.')