Sometimes we are driven to do desperate things in order to see bands we love play live. Like sleeping on cold, hard metal benches in train stations just because getting the last train home would have meant missing the last song. Or travelling endless distances on buses, on foot and in train carriages merely to get to or from the gig. Really, nothing beats riding your bike across the park, through the thick snow to see some great bands play at the warm and cosy club. Walking in looking like a snowman and shaking it all off in the middle of people busy dancing away. Music offers a release from our trivial day-to-day pursuits, live music offers exactly the same but with the added immediacy of the music being played right in front of you.
Often it’s friends bands that I am most compelled to travel and go out of my way to see live. When ex-band members get a new group together, and they happen to be amazing, you feel it is your duty to go along and show your support just as much as you want to see them anyway. Whether you’ve heard them play or not, you should go.
To begin with I was planning to ride my bike the thirty miles to a small dive hidden away on Leamington Spa’s side streets but changed my mind on the day, choosing to walk and take a bus instead. If I had ridden my bike then the afternoon would have been a lot easier, and the journey time cut in half, at least. But I didn’t ride, and I suffered for it. As is usually the way with public transport nothing went straight from Northampton town to Leamington Spa. A bus went about a third of the way, to Daventry, and I’d walk from there to Southam, picking up a bus for the last third of the journey. The route I was taking couldn’t have been simpler, just one long and fairly straight road connected the two towns but hopping on and off buses, and ensuring I was headed in the right direction, cluttered my mind with journey times and bus stop locations.
The bus ride to Daventry was average, another plain bus ride out of a thousand boring rides. I knew the route and had travelled it a handful of times before. The bus had some interesting looking people on board but everyone seemed uptight and pissed off that the weather was suddenly so hot. It was a perfect day to be out walking, but too hot for the patience needed to go along with the commitment.
I got off the bus in Daventry and started walking straight away, following road signs, but quickly lost my bearings completely and ended up walking across a couple of random housing estates before I picked up my direction again. Daventry still seems like a strange town to me because I’ve been there so often and still don’t know my way round at all, and I’ve usually got a good geographical memory.
It was around midday by now and the sun was at its most vicious point. It felt like my hair was being bleached under its powerful rays. I walked on and on, along the grass verge at the side of the road, speeding cars being both loud and causing a cool breeze as I built up a steady pace. Past the golf course and into Staverton, which is mentioned in the doomsday book, but obviously spelt wrong as Stavertone. The fairly small village can date itself as far back as 6;000 years on evidence of Neolithic tools being found there, although I didn’t know that at the time, or I may have done some digging of my own. No-one was out walking either, so it seemed like quite a bare village.
The view north-west outside of Staverton was breath-taking and one of my favourite of rolling fields and hills in Warwickshire, all fields slowly leaning down towards the meandering river which worms its way out of sight. Pure, simple, delicate and green curvy midland hills. I kept walking and walking on the side of the road, avoiding checking the time as much as possible so I wouldn’t get too distracted from keeping the legs going. I sang to myself as I walked.
At the bottom of the long downward stretch, just past the boat yard nowhere near any water, I climbed up onto an old great central railway bridge for a quick break. The cars kept roaring by whilst I sat silent and watched them all, hoping someone might offer a lift to the lone sweaty, scruffy punk on the bridge. A police car drove past and I accidentally made eye contact with the driver. For a moment I wanted them to turn around and come to question me. Then I could feel vindicated and explain my long winded, but true, story of today’s crazy mission.
I played out the scenario hopefully in my mind. They’d pull up and wind down the window. If they thought I looked particularly suspect they would even get out of the car, they always did that. Then they’d question me. “Where are you walking to?” “Leamington Spa.” “Why are you going to Leamington?” “To see a friends band play.” “Where are you coming from?” “Northampton town.” “Northampton to Leamington Spa? Good luck, you’ve got a long walk ahead of you.”
Then they’d drive off in the direction of Leamington without offering a quick lift. How to spot a policeman: they always point out the most obvious thing possible. I knew it was a long walk, I’d looked at a map that very morning to figure out the distance and the most direct route. Surely they didn’t think I’d be walking in roughly the direction of Leamington?
In reality the walk was excessively long, tedious and tiring. It looks and sounds okay to walk long distances when the map is spread out on your floor and you’re tracing the lines with your fingers, but much different in practise. I could only keep track of distance passed and still to come using the three villages spread out almost equally along the A425.
I passed a field full of sheep on my left as the hill of Upper Shuckburgh came into view. As I trekked past the fence they all lifted their heads simultaneously and stared at me until I was out of sight. None of them made a sound, but stood frozen. Un-hospitable sheep, nothing strange there. The deer park was on the far side of the hill, which they call either ‘Goblin hill’ or ‘Beacon hill’, but it wasn’t visible, and neither was the manor house. The original village was deserted in medieval times, and all that is left now is a handful of houses and a big manor house. Back out on the open road side, a great flat plain revealed the Oxford canal winding and twisting its way through the countryside, and I passed yet another field full of sheep. This time though they all ran faster than I’ve ever seen sheep move to the fence next to me. They all “baaa’ed” loudly and followed on their side of the fence. Weird.
I walked into the petrol station in Lower Shuckburgh to buy a drink. My jumper was hanging over my shoulder, my shoes were covered in mud, I probably looked like I’d been on the road for weeks. The old attendant lady saw me coming and asked “Where are you walking to?”, like she could read my mind. I brought my bits and kept walking, cursing myself for being so dumb to take up such an idea, and numb from acting it out. Napton-On-The-Hill (Neptone in the Doomsday Book) came and went and my legs felt like they were burning up inside more and more.
On the litter-strewn last stretch of grass verge I asked a girl on a bike how far it was to Southam, she told me it would be about ten minutes on foot and things began looking hopeful all of a sudden. It would all be over soon, if it all went to plan. I could catch a bus for the last third of the journey, and arrive just in time for the bands.
Walking that final couple of miles, with all of Southam slowly coming into view, was the most gruelling part of the whole walk. Inch by inch I crept along, and finally arrived at the bus stop just before sunset, the walk had taken almost all afternoon. All the local kids gathered over the road, eating chips and sharing cigarettes. Middle aged-women bought wine from the village shop. I didn’t know the road from Southam to Leamington Spa very well, plus if I’d kept walking it would have been in darkness and I’d have probably missed the band.
Stumbling into the bar with legs like jelly I took up a seat. It was obvious I had over-estimated my walking ability. I could bear to stand no longer, a sure sign I’d overdone it. I was here finally though, a cheap tin of beer in my hand, plenty of tobacco and ready to hear some great bands.
