Dedicated to Kay Hickson, my secondary school English teacher.
Text and photographs copyright 2002, 2009 David Todd, except where stated. The text and photography in this blog cannot be reproduced or broadcast in any way without the expressed permission of the copyright holder.
Glad we got that out of the way. Here's the blog.
Prologue
I was in love with L. She was all I'd ever wanted. I sat in my bedroom in the spring of 1999, buzzing with the warm velvety glory of just knowing her. And her sleeping form was just the other side of my wall. Yes, in love with my housemate, of all the stupid moves. And God, did I love her. I loved her so much it turned my emotions in somersaults. I'd be grinning like an idiot one moment and crying the next.For a whole year I wriggled in her web, a web yet of my own invention. My friends smiled, but privately despaired of my miserable ways. And even when she moved out I couldn't let her go. I visited, I wrote e-mails, I plagued and tormented her. Yet she needed me too. Not in the way I needed her of course. But she needed support, a soft voice saying nice things. If only I didn’t always have to spoil it all.
Nothing that unstable could last, and in January 2000 she flew to Vienna to start anew, leaving a gaping hole in my world. I had nothing: no enthusiasm, no projects, no life. Just an overwhelming desire to leave, to get away, to follow her. But I couldn't of course.
So now I wanted to be alone – just me, out there, immersed in pain in the lonely rain. Yes, I was that self-obsessed.
Gradually the healing came, and as I saved money and counted the months, the urge to leave began to fade. The people who had suffered me so long started to see my smiling side again. But it wasn’t enough. I didn't want to be reliant on them any more. I didn't want to feel safe in anyone’s arms, for fear of that safety being snatched away. I knew I had to get out of this place and find somewhere where I could get my head together. Everything pointed to travel.
On 26th May I finally walked out of my crummy job, where my self-confidence had been smothered by accusation and spite. I was free.
Everyone gave me advice about where to go, what to do, and I blanked it all out. For once I had to make the decisions, and my decision was .... to go with the flow. Something would happen to take me away, and then I would meet someone going somewhere else, and so on.
This is the diary of my summer adventure. Some of it was written then, some a little later, and much was written from memory over the following year. It's all true. I could’ve spiced it up a bit, or made myself look a bit more of a hero. Being honest is all part of the trip though, as you’ll see.
Friday 26th May 2000
At last. It's actually over. I collapse into the armchair at 92 St Clements, my temporary home, and feel all the tension escape. I’m no longer a work slave. God, it's strange. Am I really free? I don't feel much difference, but yes, I suppose I am.
I need something to mark this change in myself. To show the new me. And what symbolises rebellion more than the right haircut? Steve comes into the house, sits me on a chair in the kitchen, and gets the clippers out. “Are you sure this is what you're after?”. “Yeah Steve, go for it”. Steve's clippers do their work and the hair quickly comes tumbling off. As agreed, he leaves a short sprouting at the front, but the rest is shorn to about a millimetre.
I rush upstairs to the mirror in the black bathroom to see what it looks like. Oh my God. What have I done? The cute me is gone. I look fatter, stranger, like a circus freak. What’s my mum going to say?
I sleep with a headful of stubble scraping the pillow, dreaming of the sky.
I need something to mark this change in myself. To show the new me. And what symbolises rebellion more than the right haircut? Steve comes into the house, sits me on a chair in the kitchen, and gets the clippers out. “Are you sure this is what you're after?”. “Yeah Steve, go for it”. Steve's clippers do their work and the hair quickly comes tumbling off. As agreed, he leaves a short sprouting at the front, but the rest is shorn to about a millimetre.
I rush upstairs to the mirror in the black bathroom to see what it looks like. Oh my God. What have I done? The cute me is gone. I look fatter, stranger, like a circus freak. What’s my mum going to say?
I sleep with a headful of stubble scraping the pillow, dreaming of the sky.
Saturday 27th May
A bright sunny day. I go over to 16 Bartlemas Close, my old home, to see Kirsty my old housemate. She’s quite surprised when she sees what I’ve done to my head, but I think she approves. She gets some wool out and winds little sprigs of colour in my hair.
When I get back to 92 nobody is in, but I notice a stream of people heading up towards South Park. I wander up. There's some sort of Irish music event in progress. There are stalls, a stage and lots of locals sipping beer and eating hotdogs. The air is scorching, reminding me of all the other wonderful times I’ve lazed here in the sun. I find the ‘alternative’ Oxford crew lounging near the stage: Dave Alien, Luke, Soosie (now very pregnant) and others. Even Groovy Su is here, plying her trade as a face-painter, making everyone look special and colourful. I rest my head on her cushion, and she sets to work.
Walking around afterwards, strangers stare at me. Go on, stare, I don’t care. I’m fed up with trying to merge with the background. I feel high and beautiful, why shouldn’t I express it? Life is so short, why not dance in it?
Then I feel a chill in the air and see the cloud. The great black cloud stalking across the sky towards us. I’m only wearing a T-shirt and shorts. Shit. I rush out of the park just as the water pours. Hello summer.
Back at the squat (yes, it's a squat) I bump into Martha. Martha is the daughter of Teresa Hayter, a Marxist author and key peg in the Campaign to Close Campsfield. Since they've been young, Martha and her sister Esme have taken their holidays at a holiday cottage on the Devon coast called Mouth Mill. Teresa is keen to gather a large ‘extended family’ of friends for a jaunt down there.
Martha is ostensibly here to invite Steve, but wants to know if I want to go down as well. This would be the perfect kick start to my adventure, so I say yes.
When Steve gets back to the house later I tell him about it, but sadly he’s too busy to go this time. He’s been before though, and tells me how wonderful it is. A sense of excitement grows in me. My intention is now clear – to discover my land and my own inner peace with tent and thumb.
When I get back to 92 nobody is in, but I notice a stream of people heading up towards South Park. I wander up. There's some sort of Irish music event in progress. There are stalls, a stage and lots of locals sipping beer and eating hotdogs. The air is scorching, reminding me of all the other wonderful times I’ve lazed here in the sun. I find the ‘alternative’ Oxford crew lounging near the stage: Dave Alien, Luke, Soosie (now very pregnant) and others. Even Groovy Su is here, plying her trade as a face-painter, making everyone look special and colourful. I rest my head on her cushion, and she sets to work.
Walking around afterwards, strangers stare at me. Go on, stare, I don’t care. I’m fed up with trying to merge with the background. I feel high and beautiful, why shouldn’t I express it? Life is so short, why not dance in it?
Then I feel a chill in the air and see the cloud. The great black cloud stalking across the sky towards us. I’m only wearing a T-shirt and shorts. Shit. I rush out of the park just as the water pours. Hello summer.
Back at the squat (yes, it's a squat) I bump into Martha. Martha is the daughter of Teresa Hayter, a Marxist author and key peg in the Campaign to Close Campsfield. Since they've been young, Martha and her sister Esme have taken their holidays at a holiday cottage on the Devon coast called Mouth Mill. Teresa is keen to gather a large ‘extended family’ of friends for a jaunt down there.
Martha is ostensibly here to invite Steve, but wants to know if I want to go down as well. This would be the perfect kick start to my adventure, so I say yes.
When Steve gets back to the house later I tell him about it, but sadly he’s too busy to go this time. He’s been before though, and tells me how wonderful it is. A sense of excitement grows in me. My intention is now clear – to discover my land and my own inner peace with tent and thumb.
Sunday 28th May – Thursday 1st June
Before I can leave Oxford properly though, I need to sort out a few things in Essex, at my parents’ home. I catch the Stansted Airport bus, and Dad picks me up from the airport. He doesn’t mention my haircut once, which is odd, but when I get home Mum more than makes up for it. She seems genuinely shocked.
The four days in Essex pass in reasonable calm, however. I feel I need to visit this part of my past in order to move on. I’ll never be able to shake Elsenham completely from my life – I lived there for 21 years after all. But I’m a city boy now.
Mum reminds me of the cultural differences between my life and hers in the one argument we have – about ‘gay people’. I’ve got lots of gay friends, but to my mother homosexuality is a sin. I can't believe how blind she is, and we spit fur at each other for an hour or so before chilling out. Bloody Christians. Still, she’s never lived in a place where people can be openly gay. A spell in Brighton would do her a lot of good.
I arrange to meet up with Michael Rasmussen, one of the closest friends from my Bishop’s Stortford days. The kind of guy with whom you can get wildly drunk, but also talk intimately about hopes and fears. His spirit was once so strong. The last two years however have been tough on Mike.
We meet up in Stortford at the Boar’s Head, a place packed with stale adolescent memories. Mike seems withdrawn and almost bewildered to see me. I chat away like a maniac anyway, as he sips the one pint he’s allowing himself.
The Boar’s Head leads inevitably to the Half Moon, and here I convince Mike to have another. As we drink he seems to relax a little, and then I notice he’s drinking faster than me. There's some jazz on in the back room tonight, so we stand at the back of this seedy little hall, watching a crazy harmonica player blow the place away. It ignites Mike's old passions and we have a bloody good night. I love the guy, even when he's in depression's shadow. Oh Mike, I hope you find your way.
While I’m in Essex I also visit Harlow College, where I spent six mostly wasted but happy years. It’s since changed horribly for the worse – surrounded by fences like a prison. I manage to meet up with some old lecturers, and it saddens me when I discover how bitter and cynical they’ve become.
As I leave the college, I think about all the crazy things I did there; the drugs, the music, the people, the rush of creative innocence. I’ll probably never visit it again.
The four days in Essex pass in reasonable calm, however. I feel I need to visit this part of my past in order to move on. I’ll never be able to shake Elsenham completely from my life – I lived there for 21 years after all. But I’m a city boy now.
Mum reminds me of the cultural differences between my life and hers in the one argument we have – about ‘gay people’. I’ve got lots of gay friends, but to my mother homosexuality is a sin. I can't believe how blind she is, and we spit fur at each other for an hour or so before chilling out. Bloody Christians. Still, she’s never lived in a place where people can be openly gay. A spell in Brighton would do her a lot of good.
I arrange to meet up with Michael Rasmussen, one of the closest friends from my Bishop’s Stortford days. The kind of guy with whom you can get wildly drunk, but also talk intimately about hopes and fears. His spirit was once so strong. The last two years however have been tough on Mike.
We meet up in Stortford at the Boar’s Head, a place packed with stale adolescent memories. Mike seems withdrawn and almost bewildered to see me. I chat away like a maniac anyway, as he sips the one pint he’s allowing himself.
The Boar’s Head leads inevitably to the Half Moon, and here I convince Mike to have another. As we drink he seems to relax a little, and then I notice he’s drinking faster than me. There's some jazz on in the back room tonight, so we stand at the back of this seedy little hall, watching a crazy harmonica player blow the place away. It ignites Mike's old passions and we have a bloody good night. I love the guy, even when he's in depression's shadow. Oh Mike, I hope you find your way.
While I’m in Essex I also visit Harlow College, where I spent six mostly wasted but happy years. It’s since changed horribly for the worse – surrounded by fences like a prison. I manage to meet up with some old lecturers, and it saddens me when I discover how bitter and cynical they’ve become.
As I leave the college, I think about all the crazy things I did there; the drugs, the music, the people, the rush of creative innocence. I’ll probably never visit it again.
Friday 2nd June
Another Essex morning. I look out of the landing window, where fields once stretched out to the woods beyond. Now we have legoland, a cluster of corporate starter homes with tiny gardens and empty souls. Still the woods though, still the woods.
It’s time to say goodbye to Elsenham again. I’m aware that today I’ll be crossing a vast tract of the country, from Essex to Devon. First a taxi to the airport. Then the slow, winding, inter-varsity bus, whose circuitous route has been familiar to me for years now. By lunchtime I’m back in Oxford.
I nip back to Bartlemas Close to pick up some gear. Kirsty is in. She seems sad that I’m going, which is really touching. I wonder if anyone else’s noticed? Probably not. As I leave she gives me a big hug. Ah, Kirst, what a joy you are.
I pick up my passport, pay the phone bill, send off my WWOOF application, write to my bank, and drop off my keys at the squat. At last I’m ready to go.
It’s a short walk from the squat to Martha’s. I arrive about 4pm and almost instantly we jump into her van and drive off. At Didcot station Martha picks up Martin, her boyfriend, and I move to the back of the van. I know my place.
We ride west into the sunset to the sounds of Pentangle and Tracy Chapman. Oxford sinks away, and I’m glad to feel it leave me. It’s a long way to Devon, and we have another stop to make along the way – to pick up Martin’s friend Bruce from Tiverton Parkway station. By the time we get there Bruce has been waiting an hour and three quarters in the cold. He’s philosophical about it. Bruce is a strapping Australian, who in his premature baldness bears a close resemblance to Hunter S Thompson. Temperamentally though he’s the opposite – calm and friendly.
It’s about 11pm when the van finally leaves the road. We trundle slowly through the woods, dropping down further at each corner, occasionally struggling to find traction in the mud. In the beam of the headlights I can see that the road drops off suddenly to our left. The van isn’t suited to off-road conditions, and the prospect of plummeting to our doom adds a little bite to the proceedings.
About 20 minutes later we pull up in a layby and turn off the headlights. It’s absolutely pitch black. I fumble for my torch and locate my gear. Under the torchlight we locate the first of a series of steps, which lead us down to the dark looming shape of the cottage. A great wooden door opens and here are the others - Teresa, Esme & Ben (her boyfriend), and friends Tony and Natasha.
The cottage is lit by warm, flickering gaslight and a roaring fire. It’s spartan, but homely, and I get the feeling I’m going to have a lot of fun here. That’s for tomorrow, however – for now I’m shattered. Bruce and I choose the attic, and crash.
It’s time to say goodbye to Elsenham again. I’m aware that today I’ll be crossing a vast tract of the country, from Essex to Devon. First a taxi to the airport. Then the slow, winding, inter-varsity bus, whose circuitous route has been familiar to me for years now. By lunchtime I’m back in Oxford.
I nip back to Bartlemas Close to pick up some gear. Kirsty is in. She seems sad that I’m going, which is really touching. I wonder if anyone else’s noticed? Probably not. As I leave she gives me a big hug. Ah, Kirst, what a joy you are.
I pick up my passport, pay the phone bill, send off my WWOOF application, write to my bank, and drop off my keys at the squat. At last I’m ready to go.
It’s a short walk from the squat to Martha’s. I arrive about 4pm and almost instantly we jump into her van and drive off. At Didcot station Martha picks up Martin, her boyfriend, and I move to the back of the van. I know my place.
We ride west into the sunset to the sounds of Pentangle and Tracy Chapman. Oxford sinks away, and I’m glad to feel it leave me. It’s a long way to Devon, and we have another stop to make along the way – to pick up Martin’s friend Bruce from Tiverton Parkway station. By the time we get there Bruce has been waiting an hour and three quarters in the cold. He’s philosophical about it. Bruce is a strapping Australian, who in his premature baldness bears a close resemblance to Hunter S Thompson. Temperamentally though he’s the opposite – calm and friendly.
It’s about 11pm when the van finally leaves the road. We trundle slowly through the woods, dropping down further at each corner, occasionally struggling to find traction in the mud. In the beam of the headlights I can see that the road drops off suddenly to our left. The van isn’t suited to off-road conditions, and the prospect of plummeting to our doom adds a little bite to the proceedings.
About 20 minutes later we pull up in a layby and turn off the headlights. It’s absolutely pitch black. I fumble for my torch and locate my gear. Under the torchlight we locate the first of a series of steps, which lead us down to the dark looming shape of the cottage. A great wooden door opens and here are the others - Teresa, Esme & Ben (her boyfriend), and friends Tony and Natasha.
The cottage is lit by warm, flickering gaslight and a roaring fire. It’s spartan, but homely, and I get the feeling I’m going to have a lot of fun here. That’s for tomorrow, however – for now I’m shattered. Bruce and I choose the attic, and crash.
Saturday 3rd June
We wake to the sound of rain drumming on the roof. I peer through the little hatch window, and look out into the lush green valley – a dripping dawn of past and present rain. The sound of water is everywhere.Bruce has already gone down to breakfast. I follow. Everyone’s busy in the kitchen, sorting out tea, spreading thick lumps of Marmite on their toast, chopping up logs for the fire. There are plenty of hands on deck, so I relax and accept what’s shoved in my direction. The rain continues, but I can see the sea from the front doorstep, and feel a surge of excitement. The others feel it too. For Martha, Esme and Teresa – the rush of memory. For the rest of us – the spirit of adventure and the wild call of the sea.
Martin and Teresa (standing), Ben Esme and Martha (squatting)Today’s new moon has dropped the tide down low, to reveal a coy stretch of sand. In this sand we draw a giant sun, a message to the heavens to bring an end to this rain. Such is the spirit of the moment that Teresa says:
“We must all go for a swim!”
“Er, are you sure? I mean, I’m always up for a bit of skinny-dipping as you know, but it does look rather cold, and….” my voice is lost under a pile of liberated clothes. Oh, alright then. I strip off and run out into the waves, where the others are already bobbing like seals. Oh, fuck, it’s cold! I shiver waist high in the water. No, I’m not going any further. I stagger back to my clothes, only to accidentally slip and cut the base of my foot on the barnacles. Bugger.
Then I hear a cry from Bruce and Martin. They’ve discovered a crab basket, attached to a small buoy floating a few feet out from the shore. We all wade over and look inside. Two crabs look back at us. Should we liberate them? In the end we decide not to interfere, and plonk the basket back in the water. Come on, let’s get back.Back at the warm house I dry off by the fire. Bruce gets some batter going and knocks up a never-ending supply of gorgeous pancakes, which we all quaff shamelessly. This afternoon we are walking to Clovelly, a village four miles along the coast, known for its picturesque beauty. Socks need drying and plates washing, but finally we are ready to set off.
First we must climb to the top of the cliff. My heart pounds as we scramble up the steep, muddy path. At last we reach the cliff top track, and through the thick shrubbery that borders the cliff edge I look out at the sea and the rocks below. It’s breathtaking. The track is like something out of The Hobbit, a winding passage through tangled trees and hidden pathways. I half expect to hear wee elves laughing in the trees.
I'm totally knackered by the time we reach Clovelly, which I instantly remember from other people's holiday photographs. The whole village, if you could even call it that, is based around a narrow cobble path which drops steeply as it twists its windy way. It’s a tourist trap, but a curious one all the same. All roads lead to the pub, where we find some gorgeous ale and chill out on the sunlit quay. Ahh. I think of my ex-colleagues hunched over their papers in the office, and quietly gloat, until I remember it’s Saturday and they’ll be down the pub as well. Not in such glorious surrounds though, I bet.
The walk back is a lot quicker. Caked with mud, I head straight back to the beach, and sit for a long time with Martha, watching the sun sinking behind vast orange clouds into the sea. For the last moment the others appear with wine and glasses, and the distant orange drops through the water. My socks are soaked.
Tonight we eat at the long wooden table in the half-light of flickering gaslamps. Teresa is the matriarch of this strange extended family, a family from whom I feel a great deal of warmth. Where does this time belong? Whose lives are we playing out?
After the meal we collapse in front of the fire, where we remain for the rest of the night. Wine flows freely, as does conversation, as we dissect this topic and that with our keen intellectual minds. At one point Tony settles down to brush his dog’s teeth, which sets us all off giggling. As the witching hour approaches we hear spooky tales of child eaters, who did their terrible deeds in caves along this coast. I head off to bed, dreaming of smugglers and plot.
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