by It isn’t that far from Poole to St Ives – in the bottom half of the UK, nothing is that far – but I had to change coaches twice, at Victoria Station and Stansted, so the whole thing took an age. It was a typically British grey day; not a bad day for such a journey. The trip had its moments, such as at the beginning when a mother and daughter, who were both mad in a good way, were making their way to London to see a show. The daughter lived in Aberdeen, while her mum was a serious jam maker. She marketed her produce as the pleasingly alliterative Jurassic Jam after the Jurassic Coast on which she lives. She talked about the logo, which obviously involved a dinosaur, and the cloth top on the jars which was designed for maximum tweeness. Victoria Station looked very tired; the loos had a level of cleanliness I’m more accustomed to in Romania. We went past the great sights: the Albert Hall, Westminster Abbey, Big Ben and the Tower of London. Luckily we arrived in Cambridge five minutes early, so I could jump straight on the bus to St Ives. After getting into the flat at close to 6pm, I grabbed a takeaway lamb satay and didn’t do much in the evening.
I’d earmarked Easter Monday for seeing my aunt in her home in Cottenham. In the past, there was a bumper market on these bank holidays, but we now live in the age of Ali Express and Temu – or at least some of us do – so now we just get the normal Monday market. I took Dad’s old bike and cycled along by the busway. That seemed the easiest way. It was a ten-mile ride each way; I turned left at a village called Westwick which I hadn’t even heard of, and it was another 2½ miles from there. At the home I was shown to my aunt’s room; she was in a deep sleep and she only stirred when I prodded her. She rarely gets out of bed. I gave her some Easter chocolates and we had a good chat – better than when everything was soaked in alcohol and she didn’t talk to you but through you. I stayed for 50 minutes and then went back the same way to St Ives where I bought some focaccia bread from the market.
Later in the afternoon I met some family friends – the ones who came to Romania in 2017. I always enjoy spending time at their place with their vegetable garden and assorted knick-knacks and rather groovy wall patterns. They were overrun with forget-me-nots which they put outside the front gate for sale. After a chat, we went to Wetherspoons for dinner. Wetherspoons gets a bad rap, partly because of their chairman Tim Martin who’s a raving Brexit supporter, but if like me you just want to be fed and watered – cheaply if possible – you can’t go wrong there. They also tend to set themselves up in architecturally nice buildings. I had a steak and kidney pie, and tried to convince them to come back to Romania now that I have a car. Covid and his severe illness, which he has bounced back from remarkably well, have made that sort of travel harder, psychologically as much as anything. Blues won 1-0 at home to Preston that day – it was a lucky goal – and though that win (their first in ages) is huge, they’re far from safe. That game didn’t feature a single corner; that’s an exceedingly rare event. They held a UB40 concert after the game.
On Tuesday I had another early start. My bus into Cambridge left at half-six; my train to Birmingham left at eight. I’d bought what they call a split ticket and imagined I’d have to change at Melton Mowbray but no, I could stay on the same train. (I had visions of buying a pork pie there; Melton Mowbray is where they originate.) I met my friend at New Street and we wandered along the canal, stopping for a coffee in the quite extensive Jewellery Quarter. Along the way there was a park where you could play table tennis for free, so we rallied for a few minutes. We walked through the lovely St Paul’s Square where my friend introduced me to a birdsong app – basically it’s Shazam for birds. We then meandered through the Gun Quarter and stopped in a pub where we met his girlfriend. She is still recovering from cancer which she got at only 33. She was in good spirits; her life is gradually getting back to normal after being extremely compromised. I had bangers and mash – when in Rome – and we mostly just chatted before going to their flat in the centre of town which they had recently renovated. Visitors gradually dribbled in; they were playing a Lord of the Rings board game that evening. I left just before the game got under way. I stepped out into the rain, looked around the centre for a bit, then boarded my train. I got back to the St Ives flat at 11:20.
