Writings

Return, Part II

I have a specific memory of sitting in Pip’s living room on a Sunday afternoon, drinking tea and watching a film. Children of Men or Shoot ’em Up are two that have stuck. The clock ticks inexorably towards 3pm, which was my go time, either for me to drive the 80 miles home (90 minutes on a good day) or take the train to St Pancras, the tube to Waterloo, and the SWT train to Southampton (about 3 years). It is that time and place I mentally returned to, with all the knowledge that I did not have that much time. Anyway…

I awoke in my usual spot, in Pip’s living room , my fingers graspring toward the wooden flooring, trying to find my glasses and phone, with the morning light starting to peek around the window blind. I pushed myself upright (was it always this difficult?) slowly rising to my feet, tidying away the makeshift bed, which was part leather sofa cushions and a variety of sheets. I’d been sleeping well here, Some jetlag, some whiskey helping me along.

Today I’ll see all my old friends. But first, breakfast and a cup of tea. It was only my fourth day in St. Alban’s, but as I sunk into P’s sofa with my plate and mug of tea, I thought about how much I enjoyed being there. It created a sort of inertia, for want of a better word. Part of me just wanted to stay and keep hanging out. I was enjoying being with my old friend and I had a lot of good memories tied up in this place.

Pip had some last-minute packing to do and a little later, after the morning routine was done, we settled down for more tea, and we discussed leaving around 1pm. I would have to re-pack my luggage, which was no great effort as I’d packed as light as possible. This was the third transatlantic trip of the year for me, and I’d learnt exactly what I needed for a week away from home. Typically about half the clothes you’ll think you’ll need, and twice the money.

Swanage, a small coastal town in Dorset, was about 140 miles from St. Albans. It would be fairly brisk, a quick scoot down the M3, then a dog-leg West into Dorset. It should take around 3hrs. I knew the route would take us close to Southampton, which I had some feeling about, on account of spending almost 14 years of my life there. I had the whimsical idea of maybe spending a couple of days there, after the Dorset stay, but I ruled it out. People had taken time off work to see me, including my host, and I wanted to make the most of my time with him. Southampton wasn’t going anywhere, after all. Another time.

We headed downstairs to the parking, lifting my roller case down the steps bump-bump-bump, and I had that slightly melancholic impression that this felt a little bit like leaving, capital ‘L’, but that would not be for another five days. We squeezed the luggage into the boot, then I squeezed myself into the outrageously low passenger seat, and we were off to the races.

There’s a little maze of flyovers just outside St. Albans, on the way to the M3. They look like a giant concrete tapestry. I’d remembered them from previous visits in my own car. Set against the seemingly perpetual November grey sky, I thought we could not be anywhere but England. I was looking forward to seeing if I remembered much, having driven the stretch of road so many times. Time passed quickly, and as we headed towards Southampton, the GPS looked for a moment like it might take us into town, but with about five miles to run (“I know that exit sign”, I thought) it duly announced the motorway change and we headed West. I had a little pang of regret we didn’t go into town, just a little.

Dorset was largely unknown to me. I’d been to Bournemouth a couple of times, but most of the trip was new. It’s a famously pretty part of England, and as we neared Swanage and passed Corfe Castle it was hard not to be taken in by the beautiful scenery. Lots of picture postcard stuff. I think Pip is amused by my wonder at the countryside but as I’m American now, so anything older than 1950 seems interesting to me. I don’t have the open, rolling hills in Western Pennsylvania. They’re covered in trees, mostly. Nothing quite looks like England.

It took, in total, the expected 3 hours, and we pulled into Swanage. The parking area was slightly above the town, in a plot of land with some landscaping and stone walls. It seemed impossibly pretty for such a functional thing. The house was a couple of streets away. The town had a distinctly compact scale, and I was struck how it is just the right size for this kind of break. We’d been to Devon in 2009 and it was terrific, but going anywhere was a bit of a hike, which could be rather strenuous after a few pints.

We bumped into Jay in town, who I’d not seen since 2009. That would actually go for all these guys except Pip, who had been over to the states a couple of times. Jay informed me that he’d been there a while and had ridden the steam train out to Corfe Castle. There was…a steam train, you say? I never did get to ride the bloody thing.

In Swanage there’s lots of places to go (and by places, I mean pubs) and they’re all very, very close. We managed to get into the house with no problems, which felt like a good omen, given the broad scope for fuckups that arise with keysafes and combination locks.

The house is the kind of place that would usually be turned into flats in most cities nowadays; a narrow, deep, and tall (three story) terraced house, It reminded me of a couple of places from my childhood. The kind of house out of reach for most people nowadays. It had linoleum flooring in the hallway, in the Edwardian/Victorian fashion, which I was somewhat smitten with, while acknowledging I was now apparently at an age where I can dig linoleum flooring. A massive kitchen towards the rear of the property which of course was the social centre of the house when we weren’t watching telly.

I would be sharing a room with Kev, right on the top floor, which offered a partially obscured view of the waterfront. The sea looked good, stretching out seemingly forever, but in reality, France. Since being in Pennslyvania, around 400 miles from the Atlantic, I’d underestimated how much I really enjoyed the sea, and seeing it on a silvery November day stirred something. Even now, I can imagine, with little effort, the sound of the wind on the window pane, and the sound of seagulls.

There were two single beds in the room, which was fortunate, because Kev was a good mate, but not that good, handsome devil that he is. The room was pretty big and had a blue and white colour palette that reminded me a bit of The Shining. I unpacked some things, and by unpacked I mean I put my case next to the floor and opened it, and we headed out. It was still light outside.

We made our way down to a pub at the bottom of the street, and settled in. Not everyone was here yet. People were coming from the Midlands, Wales, and of the people here only my roommate Kev was still in Southamton. We had not been together in that town since September 2000.

Tucked away in one end of the pub, they all seem so small, don’t they? We started the pints. I don’t really drink anymore, but that’s less to do with preference and more to do with not having this kind of life, where I just sit in a pub with friends, steadily getting pissed. I’m tempted to say I don’t miss it, but I would be lying, because with every drink, the years started to melt away. With every passing pint, being around my friends had the effect of trtansporting me to another time and place, and I had this satisfied and rare feeling of being totally in the present. Of course, at the time, I was very, very drunk.

Some time later, I think it was after 10pm, we went to a curry house. We were all sat along a long table, like it was the last supper. An assortment of shared plates came out, followed by the main course, with some lager to wash it down. I don’t remember what I ate, a casualty of age and, lets be frank, booze, but I remember just having the best time. I was struck by the thought the time had caused no distance at all, I was 23 again. We all were.

Reader, let me tell you. The next morning every last one of us would feel every second of middle age.

“You’re not a young man anymore” I remember thinking as I looked in the bathroom mirror. I felt like shit. After the curry we came home and I think there was some single malt involved, because it was seeping out of my pores. A shower helped. A little.

The plan for the day was to get a bus out of town, then take a road a cople of miles up into the hills, and have a pub lunch. I did not quite feel like the movement but thought it might do me good. Walking into Swanage town to the bus station I didn’t feel too bad. The moment we got on the bus and headed upstairs, the still air of the bus did me no good at all. Thankfully a bit of nausea was the worst of it. I was absolutely horrified at the prospect of ejecting last night’s dinner all over the top deck of the bus. It would have been memorable, at least.

Out of town, the road follows the coast to the right, with the hills on the left. It felt like about a mile out of town the bus deposited us at a junction that looked for all the world like the middle of nowhere. A couple of miles up the hill there was a pub. It started to rain. A cool, light misty rain that actually didn’t feel bad at all. I had a hoodie and a pair of jeans. Annoyed with myself for not being better prepared, it turned out to be fine. I was otherwise aware of how slow and plodding I’d become in middle age, which wound me up a bit; the cost of a largely suburban sedentary lifestyle. It at lease inspired me to do something about it. I didn’t particularly struggle to keep up, I was very aware how a fairly short uphill hike was taxing me, but I was also hungover and being a grumpy old twat.

About 10hrs later (I think) we arrived at the pub. There was some kind of little festival going on. A lot of people, lots of very plummy sounding women and men that looked like they were named Rupert. “London Overspill”, grunted Kev after hearing some girl whinney. Seating was at a premium, so we got some sausage sandwiches and a pint, and found a spot inside. After rejoining the queue – outside the building – for more beer, we elected to sit outside. It was a good time, but none of us really had an appetite to pull another massive one, so after about 90 minutes we headed back down the hill to meet the bus back to town. The bus stop was a little stone building, next to a field with a red phone box. If you looked in one direction and squinted, the scene had probably not changed in 50 years. In contrast to feeling like the world’s most youthful pisshead just a few hours earlier, it was quite a drop to earth.

Many years ago, living in the North of England, I took scenes like this for granted, because this stuff was just everywhere, now I never see it.It increased the slightly fuzzy feeling I had one foot in an earlier time of my life.

The bus turned up and whisked us back to Swanage station. There was a quick stop at the supermarket for dinner supplies and we headed home. There was a slightly subdued atmosphere to the day, but there was nothing to it other than than the fact we’d got completely gazebo’d the night before. It was a quiet evening moving between the kitchen and living room, drinking some whiskey and watching Nuts In May (filmed just up the road) and Withnail and I, two staples from our old days. It was, for all that, an early night.

And just like that, we’re into the final day. I usually get very down about such things, but it never really hit me that day, perhaps because I still had a few days left. Anyway, we decided we would have a pub lunch, a nice Sunday roast to cap it all off. I think you can probably guess what happened.

We had, apparently, every intention of going back to the house. The problem was there was a pub in the way, and we stopped for a couple. I think we got out of there around 9pm, then we went to get fish and chips, returning to the house in a storm of dropped chips, wrapping paper discarded on the table, giving that lovely vinegary fragrance of the takeaway the next morning.

It’s Monday, and it’s time to go. I hastily packed, by this point using the proven method of just-throw-shit-in-the-suitcase, and headed out. Kev was parked near us, the rest of them we said goodbye and I headed to go and lie on the floor of P’s BMW (at least it feels like that) while Kev laughed at my attempts to get in it. A little while later we were on the road out, heading East toward the M3, and back up to London. We had one stop at a petrol station, and then straight home. I had two more days.It had been a storming weekend, had passed unbelievably fast, now I knew the comedown was due. It felt like the last Sunday of the summer holidays, before going back to school.

I had a visit to my sister planned (in the same town). Originally I’d intended to do it Monday, but this was a gross overestimation of my stamina. P & I were both very tired and we decided to stay in for the rest of the day.

Tuesday would bring some errands into town. I wanted to get some eye drops for the plane (I am cursed with very dry eyes, especially in an air conditioned environment) and I had some souvenirs to get for the boys at home. This was followed by dinner with my sister in a local pub, after looking at her newly finished home.

My last drink with P was a subdued affair in a nearby pub. I was already mentally thinking about getting home, while looking out at the dim street outside and trying to take in what I could. My mood would normally be on the floor at times like this, but I had a good time and was still thinking about it.

Wednesday would see us plan to leave for Heathrow around 1pm, to give me plenty of time to hang out and wait for the flight. It has always been my nature that when I have to be somewhere, I prefer to just get on with it. I get antsy just waiting to travel somewhere. This feeling usually fades in the departure lounge, I love airports, and I’m quite happy to sit around and read a book.

All said, we got to LHR with plenty of time, and I lamented it a little bit. I could and should have stayed another hour in St. Albans and grabbed brunch or a coffee.

I got out of the car – nailed it, on the last day – and headed into T5. I had already done something to cheer myself up, because I was a bit blue. I got offered a very affordable upgrade to business class when confirming my ticket. It wasn’t especially cheap, but it fell into the fuck-it category, and I knew if nothing else I would sleep. I could barely face the idea of being crammed into one of the economy seats again, although I was definitely being a bit of a princess about it at this point. The girl at check-in asked me how I felt about Trump being elected back to the White House and I realised I just had not thought about the outside world for a week, so consumed I was by the visit. I grabbed an empty seat by one of those small ATMs you see all over airports and snapped a picture.

I posted it to our WhatsApp group, moaning I was feeling a bit flat, which was true, but I was already thinking of home. Airports have this liminal quality where you feel like you’re neither here nor there. Once you’re through the checkpoints to the departure lounge, it almost feels like you’re already some other place. I had been here just three months before, on the way to and from Spain, and had the strange feeling of not being in the country at all, because the transit airport is just a strange little bubble.

Heathrow T5 wasn’t horribly busy. They’d put some chrimbo lighting up (in November) and it looked pretty, especially with the dimming sun outside. There was a fair bit of fog, and I moved to the relative calm of the departure gate and snapped a photo of the scene. The ramp was subdued, the fog lending that muted feel. The terminal opposite had more colourful lighting than the camera captured.

Boarding the plane first was a nice quality of life improvement. Being handed a glass of champagne was another. I settled into my seat, which due to having unlimited legroom was already in another class of travel, and relaxed. I was surprised just how much booze they gave me, but I had sought to continue my run from Swanage, so why not? After a Baileys, dinner, and a few single malts I set the chair back and crashed.

I arrived in Pittsburgh only mildly hungover, and easily the freshest I have felt after a long haul flight. The whole experience has absolutely wrecked air travel for me, and I have no doubt I’d do it again if the price was right. A bit of what you fancy never hurt, after all.

There’s an escalator just before arrivals at Pittsburgh. My family was waiting for me at the bottom of it, my youngest son jumping up and down and shouting ‘Daddy!’ repeatedly. Behind me, an older guy patted me on the shoulder and said “Well done.”

One Year Later

The sky is silver, the leaves have died, there’s frost in the mornings, and my thoughts drift to England again. I have probably thought about it every day since. I’m not sure if I miss the place, or my friends. One year ago today I was in St Albans waiting to go to the West End to catch a play. Now I’m sitting worried about work and a thousand other things. I really ought to go back.

I am not sure whether I miss it, as much as I miss a life where things wer normal, vastly less complicated, and being around people that have known me for decades is comfort in and of itself. I stepped back into a lot of history, and that takes a while to dry off.