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.
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