I didn't mention that Julia probably has something of an entourage, as I don't think she's filming herself walking about in all those TV programmes, but as I had been fully intending to do some walking over the summer holidays, in lieu of an actual summer holiday (have you SEEN the prices of last minute package holidays these days? And who wants to go all-inclusive anyway? Doesn't that mean you're chained to the hotel and can't leave?) I decided it was time that I knocked off some more mileage on the Thames Path. After all, I've only been walking it for like, two and a half years.
I headed off to Wallingford, which is ridiculously awkward to get to. I therefore not only spent an inordinately huge amount of time sitting around at Reading Station waiting for the infrequent train that would take me into the wilds of Berkshire/Oxfordshire (I'm a bit hazy on where the borders actually lie), but the nearest I could get to was Cholsey, after which I was reliant on the local buses.
Note to self, never be reliant on local buses. Especially not in the countryside where they only arrive about once every two days.
Alas, before I had even arrived at the starting blocks, let alone been released from them, I faced a grim decision; a 45 minute wait at a bus stop with no seat and a less-than-enticing street view, or a 56 minute (thanks Google maps) walk from Cholsey to Wallingford. I could scarcely believe the audacity of the bus companies who for some reason did not appear to have timed their buses to arrive exactly five minutes after the arrival of a train bearing people who might potentially not want to stay in Cholsey (which is basically a street with a Co-Op) and might want to go somewhere marginally more interesting (Wallingford has a Waitrose). Therefore my first glimpse of life on the Thames Path in months was this:
The Cholsey-Wallingford road
Roughly 56 minutes later, I did eventually get there and was finally able to set off. Given that I had left my flat sufficiently early for it still to be regarded as the rush hour (I had to STAND UP on the train. RUDE) the fact that it was now 2pm was disappointing. Clearly I was not going to be able to cover the 74 miles (or something like that) of meandering river pathways between Oxford and wherever I was (just outside Oxford) in one day at this late hour.
I made it to Dorchester. Just. Number of Special Brew-swilling tramps seen: 0 (the joys of venturing outside the M25); Number of Local Yokels Befriended: 3 (VERY impressive. Four if you count the elderly lady in the wheelchair that two of them were pushing); Number of Times Got Trapped in Caravan Park: 2 (why the sudden proliferation of caravan parks? WHY?)
My favourite bit was the enjoyable encounters with the locals. The first of these occurred on the second occasion of entrapment in caravan park, when a jolly middle aged man on a bicycle rode past yelling "It's a dead end! I didn't know that either!" to warn me of the dangers ahead, and then enquired "Do you work in the Crazy Bear?"
The Crazy Bear sounds like a great place.
He then suggested that I visit a local village "where they film Morse and stuff." I hoped the "stuff" was Midsomer Murders. This place had "death by pitchfork in the back during midnight satanic ritual" written all over it. Not literally though. There was definitely no graffiti to be seen.
When I finally got to Dorchester (thanks again Google maps) the problem was getting out again. After two fruitless circuits of the entire village looking for the bus stop for the fabled bus to Oxford, which I had been reliably informed by the bloke in the tea shop was nearby, I collapsed, beaten, onto the grass outside the graveyard that the bus stop was allegedly near. The only bus stops were going back to Wallingford and not due for over an hour, and there was no one in sight to ask for directions. Just at that moment, an older couple came out of the graveyard pushing an elderly woman in a wheelchair. Civilisation! Human beings! I asked them if they knew of this fabled bus to Oxford. They were clueless.
"Well, we live here, but we've never seen a bus, have we?" (already this was looking promising).
I told them that I was willing to go anywhere the bus would take me, preferably a location with a train station.
"Really?" hollered the man, "well if you can do that then I think you're marvellous!"
I suddenly felt very intrepid, like Ray Mears with a live python slung over his shoulder trekking through the jungles of the Democratic Republic of Congo.
"Where are you trying to get to?" enquired the woman.
When I answered London, she looked as flabbergasted as Dick Whittington's mum when he tossed his stick over his shoulder, fastened a small pouch on the end containing all his worldly possessions and told her he was off to make his fortune where the streets were paved with gold.
"Surely you're not going to get there tonight?" she gasped. It was 5.10pm. I was still fairly hopeful that I hadn't missed the last train.
Fortunately, I managed to find a slightly more worldly local on the other side of the road five minutes later, and she told me of the correct location of the fabled bus stop which, contrary to the expectations of some, did in fact exist. And took me all the way back to Reading, from whence I managed not to miss the last train, and arrived home while it was still light. Here it is, my saving grace, some way out of the village, and I did accidentally try and flag down at least two transit vans and a coach full of schoolchildren while stood here waiting for the bus, but the main thing is I got home.
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