The Coronavirus (?) Diaries, 16th May 2023, Another Guildford Circular

It’s ages since I met up with my cousin Russell, so it was great to find we were both free and up for a walk on Sunday. Russell suggested a route which was for both of us a real trip down memory lane, places close to Guildford centre yet ones which I haven’t been to in literally decades.

We made our way up to Pewley Down by a route new to me but which took in the flat Russell lived in with his father, Frank in his mid and later teens. Pewley Down, like elsewhere on this walk, is a place I have walked so many times with my immediate family, and of course that included the dogs. In my mind I can see my black Labrador Tessa hobnobbing with the dogs being walked there, rushing off for a mad game for several minutes, then returning to us, her tongue lolling and her face a happy grin. Our wire haired dachshund was more reserved, and would watch, enviously I sometimes thought. Pewley Down has always been a special place to me, and that was confirmed on Sunday.

The path to Pewley Down

Still on the path

View from Pewley Down

View from Pewley Down

We continued along the narrow path of the Pilgrims’ Way. There were more people, more dogs than I remembered. Then the gradual climb to St Martha’s Chapel, a place my parents both loved. If we ever had visitors from Ireland or Canada they would always be taken to St Martha’s. The horse service, where there was always a donkey, was an annual fixture of family life.

Through the trees

Fingerpost

Spot of beauty

Path to St Martha’s

Path to St Martha’s

Path to St Martha’s

St Martha’s

View from St Martha’s

St Martha’s

View from St Martha’s

St Martha’s

We stopped there for a while. Russell was telling me about his mother-in-law, now in a care home, her body needing that care, and her mind alive and active. I ate some of my lunch. Russell, for reasons unexplained, had left his in his car.

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The Coronavirus Diaries, 4th May 2023, Guildford for Graham

Graham and I have never met, but we both used to live in Guildford, he used to visit my aunt’s pub and he follows this blog. So this post is dedicated to him.

It was a perfect day. Celia and I, suitably booted, with our lunches in our back packs along with waterproofs – just in case, and in the event totally unnecessary – took the train from Waterloo at 10.00, reaching Guildford just over half an hour later. The day was mild, the sky blue.

Up the Mount to the cemetery, along the path and onto the Downs, and greenery. We hoped for bluebells and we found them. Lots of them. Lots of other flowers too, not all of which we could identify. Down the hill which leads a sandy track and the main wooded part of the walk where there were bluebells galore.

We heard birds. Again we could not identify them, part from the woodpecker. We reached my favourite crossroads of paths and continued towards Compton. There were only four horses in the fields either side of the track when we came out of the woods. Usually we see many at this point, but there was some construction going on and maybe the horses had been moved further away. The chickweed looked wonderful. Could you eat it I wondered. Apparently you can, but frustratingly after this part of the walk we barely saw any more. We watched a bumble bee disappear into a bee hole in the bank beside the path. Lunch was in the picnic in the area of Watts Gallery, our vittles supplemented by cake from the café. A robin joined us at our table. It has obviously worked out lunchtime is a great opportunity for extra snacks.

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The Coronavirus Diaries, 28th April 2023, On the Beach

I keep thinking I should drop the coronavirus bit from these posts, but on the train to Doncaster today two women sitting behind me were talking about how they had both recently had the virus, and mentioning friends and acquaintances who are ill with it now. I thought of the man beside me on the tube this morning who sneezed, and hopes I have not been infected.

Maybe the sea air this evening will have banished any germs. I am in Bridlington in advance of Ray’s birthday celebrations tomorrow. She turned 100 a month ago, but the tea party is tomorrow. I’m staying by the seafront, and I love the view. Bridlington has evidently seen better days, and is now starting to reinvent itself, to look to a future, rather than past glories. As a result it’s a mix of run down, tired and very dilapidated buildings, and joyously restored ones, as well as a modern, confident leisure centre. The library building is an example of decayed civic pride and I rather love it. I’ll post a photo at some point. Local cuisine appears dominated by fish and chips. I was starting to wonder if anyone actually ate vegetables at all.

The Coronavirus Diaries, 17th February 2023, Goodbye Belfast, See You Again Soon

A lift to the city is not to be sniffed at, especially where a suitcase, however small is involved. Kathryn needed to get to work, and Johnny who could have opened for a well earned lie in, kindly drove the pair of us down. Buttons came for the ride, sitting on my knee most of the way, alternately watching out of the window, licking the back of the front passenger seat, or looking me in the eye. She is a very sweet dog, very affectionate and loving. I should have got up half an hour earlier and then she could have the walk she so clearly thought I was going to give her. However, Johnny plans to take her out later so she’ll be happy. I’d say she’s a daddy’s girl, but then she’s also a mummy’s girl, the boys’ girl. In short, the perfect family dog.

The lift into town meant I got an earlier bus out to the airport than anticipated. So I shall be hanging around departure for a while. It meant no worry about getting through security in time for my flight, or filling my water bottle at the unbelievably slow water dispenser. My main fear is getting too relaxed and missing the announcement that the gate has opened.

After a wet and noisily windy night, the day is beautiful, blue skies and sunshine on the fields about. Before I came the forecast was a week of unrelenting rain, but other than a light spattering yesterday evening, the rain has been at night.
I spent much of yesterday at cultural pursuits. In 2017 I saw Girl From the North Country during its first run in London. If memory serves correctly, I saw it a second time during that run. I see a lot of theatre, but much of it becomes a blur. Not the case with Girl From the North Country. So when I realised it was on at the Grand Opera House during my stay in Belfast, I treated myself to a ticket at the matinee. It was also a treat to get inside the opera house whose exterior I have long admired. Arriving some time in advance of the performance, I was able to explore and study some of the displays. There was a photograph of a very young James Nesbitt sporting lots of curly hair. Without the caption, I am not sure I’d have recognised him. All the greats have played there, everyone from Charlie Chaplin, Laurel and Hardy, through Laurence Olivier and Morecombe and Wise, to Kenneth Branagh with then wife Emma Thompson in a production directed by Judi Dench. On Wednesday night I was at the Lyric theatre for a performance of Romeo and Juliet, a production based on an adaptation by my Johnny’s sister Anne. Portraits, both paintings and photographs, adorned the public areas. There was Adrian Dunbar with locks to rival those of young Nesbitt; Brian Friel looking serious, Liam Neeson looking craggy, Stella McCusker looking serene.

The Coronavirus Diaries, 4th January 2023, Quiet Times

Unplanned, I seem to have started January dry. Octavia does Dry January which is not quite the same thing. The Nozeco opened on Christmas Day morning is still in the fridge. Yes, there’s very little alcohol in Nozeco, very little in Becks Blue, and I have several bottles of that, I just don’t fancy anything alcoholic or even approaching the idea of alcoholic. Benilyn continues to be my tipple of choice, which is odd because it tastes disgusting. I couldn’t get Benilyn original, so have Benilyn Non-Drowsy after the pharmacist assured me it didn’t contain any ingredients which would keep me awake. It’s also red, but a brighter red than Original. Just as unpalatable though.

Still my cough has definitely lessened. It’s not yet gone, but it’s in departure. hanging around the duty free section perhaps, or in the bookshop, flicking through books it has no intention of buying. I hope its flight is called soon. I feel as though I have been coughing for ever. Work continued all last week and then into the weekend. I was up in the morning, out and about, doing my stuff, home and eating good healthy food washed down by water, and then to bed with a Lemsip around half past eight.

I’ve not worked today, and the diary is gloriously empty until next week. That’s how I feel now, but by Saturday I shall probably be fretting and worrying about my income. Well, being freelance and self employed was my choice. It can be precarious, but I don’t have many extravagances, so I get through. Also January and February are always quiet and a chance to recharge batteries, and as I didn’t do a jigsaw over Christmas this may be my chance.

The Coronavirus Diaries, 10th December 2022: Love and Friendship

I stumbled upon a delightful film on Film4 this evening. Finding Your Feet. I missed the first fifteen minutes or so, but the story was fairly undemanding and I think I filled in all the gaps. It’s an unassuming film, probably low budget, featuring places I recognise close to where I live, and with a gentle talented cast including Tim Spall, Celia Imrie, the late John Sessions in a minor part, and Imelda Staunton. I loved it. It was kind. Just what I needed. No car chases, no hugely dramatic showdowns, high body count or spilled blood, and somehow all the more precious and life enhancing for that. Tim Spall at the helm of a narrowboat which I know he has done many many times in his own life, particularly after his recovery from cancer.

I am finding life in this country hard. We seem to have turned into a horrible parody of ourselves; a divided divisive society, people on the edge of destitution because those elected to govern simply don’t seem to count swathes of the population as important. Horrible hateful comments about Harry and Meghan, even from people I usually respect. Maybe it was always like this. That there was a civilised veneer which was ripped away by Brexit to reveal the hideous truth beneath.

I am lucky. I have good friends who are enormously important to me. I have a beautiful, gentle cat who I love and who I dare to say loves me. Though he may love biscuits more. These are the things which make life good.

It’s suddenly Christmas. December has a habit of arriving calmly and then rushing into a mad frenzy. There are increasing numbers of people – men mostly – walking or riding bicycles dressed in Father Christmas hats or even the whole outfit -in central London. Christmas trees have been appearing for several weeks, though bizarrely not in Westminster Abbey, while in St Paul’s both Samuel Johnson and John Howard have had their statues hidden by Sandringham’s best.

The Coronavirus Diaries, 20th November 2022, Brunch, Board Games, and Big Houses

But I don’t think I can bear to do any politics, it’s too darned depressing.

Today Celia and I returned to Pipoca for lunch, the menu calls what we ate brunch, but we’d both had breakfast. I opted for the Mexican Brunch, apparently their best seller, Celia went for the Brixton Brunch. Next time I’ll follow her example unless I have the spinach and mushroom galette again. The Mexican Brunch was fine, but the Brixton one looked better: more greens, black beans rather than red kidney ones, mushrooms. Mine included tofu scramble which I often make at home. My tofu scramble is better.

We were both quite full by the time we left, so a wander about the back streets between the Brixton and Clapham Roads helped our digestion. From the Brixton Road you can see a park, and a church spire framed by trees. We started with the park. More street art. Or should that be park art?

There were people playing football, a young dog racing around the dog exercise area with a toy in its mouth while another dog sat sedately watching it. There were lovely trees, a children’s play area with an attractive train, an adventure playground, and sunshine.

Across the road the exit stood the church. A service was going on onside. The congregation was sparse. A small group of people engaged in a private ritual which meant something to them. We walked quietly away. Opposite the church there was an amazing house. It made us look at the other houses, some divided into flats, some still apparently single family dwellings. They were evidently built for the well to do. Tradespeople rather than gentry. The rising middle classes of the nineteenth century. Servants must have lived in.

We turned onto Stockwell Park Road. A blue plaque. Lilian Baylis! if you live in south London and love theatre Baylis, manager of the Old Vic and Sadlers Wells. is a legend. She was also a character. There are lots of stories about her. One of the best known is when staff asked for a pay rise they were told that Baylis would have to ask God. God’s response was always the same: ‘Sorry, dear, God says No.’ And her favourite prayer was said to be ‘Dear God, send me good actors but send them cheap.’

The Coronavirus Diaries, 21st September 2022: the Rest of the Walk in Pictures

To continue. From Feering we walked on. The directions we had printed off were somewhat scant, and we quickly realised that it would have been helpful had distances been mentioned. There was also an instruction that told us to do something just before reaching somewhere. As the notes said, this is a walk popular with local walking groups, and it seemed local knowledge was required too.

As usual Celia was in charge of the notes while my job was to take photographs. There were several moments where we were not sure if we were in the right place, so to find the Plank Bridge and cross it was a relief. Fortunately the terrain was mainly easy and pleasant. The sun came and went. Likewise a stiff breeze. At one point it looked like it might rain. We were fairly sure we had missed a turning to Skye Green only to find a rather overgrown sign announcing it just after this finger post.

Across to cloud

Celia crosses the plank bridge

A sign to Coggeshall

We never did find Lees farm, but emerged in more or less the right place opposite a thatched house. It had a bench in the garden where we were tempted to eat our packed lunches, but the plastic flowers put us off, though I liked the thatcher’s sign of ducks and ducklings on the roof. Soon we were walking into Coggeshall town and getting our first sights of solid, attractive houses.

Thatched house

Duck family

Solidly attractive

I think I may have mentioned it already, but Coggeshall has, we learned, some three hundred listed buildings. We must have walked by most of them as we eventually found our way to the centre of town after the longest 0.7km ever recorded. There were very few indications of distance in the instructions and it would have been helpful if this one had been accurate. Once again we assumed we had missed our turning, or that it had been built over. But no, suddenly there was the Recreation Ground and a walled passage on the other side we walked through to the town centre.

The Coronavirus Diaries 19th September 2022: Some Photos

I did watch the funeral today, or at least parts of it. I missed the arrival of the heads of state and the ex Prime Ministers, turning on the television as the coffin reached the abbey. MasterB was confused. I never watch television in the daytime and he evidently could not get his head around this strange occurrence. He kept checking in with me, needing reassurance in the form of cuddles and affection, so I missed other bits too. He is now outside which is why I’m at the keyboard.

The music, as you’d expect, was sublime. The shots of the abbey breathtaking. Only rare and narrow glimpses of David Hockney’s window. Why was that? There didn’t seem to be camera shots from that angle. Did someone decide it was too modern? It is the Queen’s window, one celebrating spring, her favourite season. Nearly all the women wore heels of staggering height and slenderness. I cannot imagine how they stood it. They probably have their feet soaking in warm water tonight.

By one o’clock I was funeraled out. there was a lot more to come, but I switched off and had lunch. I did catch some of the Windsor part and can only marvel at Charles’ stamina. Suddenly a half hour slot at the crematorium followed by tea and sandwiches seems a much better deal.

So to photos. Not of the funeral, of yesterday’s walk. I have a lot, so maybe some tonight, some later.

We started at Kelvedon which impressed us. One attractive building after another, though some seemed neglected.

Great door knocker

Let it be Georgian

Proud village

In need of some TLC

A bit too early to visit this pub

Despite its attractive waterside position

Essex is famously Tory, so I was surprised and pleased to see Kelvedon’s councillors are Greens. The bench was a nice touch too. There were grand houses, not so grand houses and expensive cars. I don’t recall seeing any reference to food banks.

The Coronavirus Diaries, 18th September 2022: Walking, Not Queueing

While some chose to spend the day queueing along the Thames to pay their respects at Westminster Hall where the Queen in her coffin lies in state, Celia and I headed to Essex. We took the train to from Liverpool Street which meant first taking a bus which crossed London Bridge where we saw the queue snaking along. We also saw it when we returned this evening, just before eight, when an announcement on the bus reminded us that we were due to observe a one minute’s silence.

Ironically much of our day had been pretty silent as we walked paths and met very few other walkers. Liverpool Street Station this evening was a bit of a culture shock, with hoards of people milling around and the usual crowds at the bus stops, noise and a very lovely young dog with his homeless owner. He doesn’t like big bags and barked loudly each time someone passed with one. I went to speak to his owner, a young woman and give her some money. The barking dog turned into a love hound, just wanting to make friends with me and have a cuddle. Still, if I were living on the streets I’d want a dog with a loud bark like his too.