25May1997

25/05/97
My dear folks

It’s a glorious Sunday afternoon. Mavis lies pensive in a patch of sunlight on the study carpet. There’s a Grieg nocturne to accompany my thoughts. They are full of flowers & birds & rural scenes. Did you see those “alliance” troops tramping their weary way into Kinshasa a few days ago at the end of a 2,000 mile trek across then Zaire (now the Democratic Republic of Congo)? I think I know how they felt, or at least how their legs felt. For I have had a walking weekend, a very walking weekend indeed.

It began at 9 a.m. yest when knapsack & I set out for Victoria Station to catch the 10.08 to East Croydon en route to the home of nephew Bevan Jones in the village of Balcombe. I’d meant to get away sooner but got caught up with things as one inevitably does. Now it takes 75 mins to walk to Victoria & trying to do it in 65 forces you first into an anxious trot & finally into a desperate canter. Thus I found myself breathless & ticketless trying to make sense of the huge electronic departure board with three minutes to spare when Bevan tapped me on the arm. He’d needed to come into town to buy a book. I was very pleased to see him, especially as I discovered that my notional train didn’t exist. So we walked up to the Economist Bookshop a mile away & then we walked back & made light work of large coffees.

Balcombe is a small village two stops south of Gatwick airport. A pub, a news-agent, a tea-room, a unisex hairdresser & a clothes shop cluster around the crossroads at its heart. You might add a church & a bowling green to a few score houses & you’ve done Balcombe. Bevan has an apartment in a large, sub-divided house, 10 mins from the station. It’s a very neat apartment, reflecting both the Jones genes & Bevan’s naval inheritance. The bathroom utensils line up as immaculately for inspection as the contents of the grocery cupboard. Everything knows its place & keeps it. Bevan made smoked salmon sandwiches to accompany us on our planned walk through the countryside. Mercifully we passed the village pub on the way & I dragged him in for a quick pint, the first I’ve had in some months. Tasted wonderful.

Thence down the road, across the fields, to a large reservoir where we ate the sandwiches & watched sail-boarders skimming over the water – or falling into it – before I fell asleep myself on the bank. Occasional parties of walkers passed by. An ageing Labrador detached himself from his owners to inspect our food bag. It clearly appealed to him & they had to drag him reluctantly away. To our amusement he trailed them for just a few yards before sprinting back to us. It was several minutes before they missed him & returned to claim him a second time. Next we came upon some small boys throwing stones at ducks & we lectured them severely on ducks’ rights. Such are the adventures of the English countryside.

It was a further full hour down country lanes & across green meadows – invisible trains whooshing past & Saturday p.m. music blaring from occasional windows – before the village pub hove back in sight. Not before time. We sat back in the evening sunshine, quaffed beers & talked of barmaids & Porsches & trading steel between third countries, which is what Bevan does for a living.

For supper we caught a train 20 mins down the line to Brighton where we joined the crowds seeking a night out. Brighton is a place that bops, especially on a Saturday evening. The streets were filled with eager crowds. A chill wind swirled down from the hills, bringing a shiver to your more foolish maidens in their summer frocks. Indeed, it was one of those days when it’s hard to be dressed just warmly enough. Either the sun would come out & cook you in a jacket or the wind would sidle up behind you & mug you with a wintry blast.

We found ourselves a fish restaurant that served us a reasonable supper although I don’t think I’d take anyone there again. Just a bit too pedestrian, especially when one has tasted the grilled fish served up at O Muralho in Loule. The return train was packed. There were loudly giggling girls, couples lost in each other’s arms, groups of gays caught up in their world & the odd oldies (just about anything over 40) looking rather out of place. I’ve never taken a train to supper before. A novel experience!

I spent the night at Bevan’s flat. Can’t remember when I did so much sleeping. Once or twice, I woke to turn on the news & remember hearing with dismay that the Taliban had overrun Mazar-i-Sharif, (stronghold of the Uzbek warlord, General Dostum &) the last real obstacle to their total control of the country. Poor Afghans. Heartening then to see that Iran’s ayatollahs have got a clear message from their electorate over the weekend – and it’s not for any more Islamic impositions. I can’t see the Taliban seeking any such mandate from the people of Afghanistan.

And so to my last train of the weekend. In the past two days I have learned a great deal about trains which, until now, have simply sped disinterestedly past me in & out of Paddington as I cycled to & from work. As you know, British Rail is no more. Instead there are any number of privatised companies, two of which work the lines south to Brighton. One uses desirable new coaches with automatic doors, the other old coaches with “slam doors”. There are no railway staff at tiny stations like Balcombe over the weekend. Passengers are meant to purchase a voucher from a machine & then pay the balance owing. But there are few conductors to enforce the system. Clearly, there’s a fine line between the costs of staffing the service & the income to be made from collecting fares. Bevan was familiar with the tricks of the trade & shared them with me. Indeed, the world of the rail commuter was opened to me & I found it quite fascinating.

Tomorrow I work. Then I’m off for a couple of days. Several new posts have now been formally advertised with BBC OnLine & I shall have another crack at it. There are lengthy application forms to be filled in, plus models of how one would cover the news on a particular day. I shall also try to impose a little more discipline on the flat, having seen exactly how it ought to be done…not too much of course. There’s nothing like the golden medium for a happy life.

Blessings
T