A mini tour

For the past few weeks I've been editing the story of what I've seen on my travels and feel the need to go out and take a look at the country. I should be looking for work but travelling gets more difficult as the year drifts towards winter and nights draw in and with the sun out it seems like a good idea to head off towards Kent. So, assuming the now rather elderly, but hopefully still trusty Ka is willing, we are off to the coast for a couple of days.

High (tech) drama on the 77 bus

I was sitting on the 77 bus going home about half past ten, the bus was the usual mix of slightly grumpy and wary people who inhabit late buses. It's a curious balance of trying to shut out the world and concentrate on book/music/mobile phone screen/Evening Standard and at the same time stay aware of any trouble that might kick off. We'd just left Vauxhall with the mishmash of half the bus getting off and being refilled by those waiting. The melee of seat changes was over and we could settle down. Police sirens screamed from behind as the bus pulled into the next stop, no-one blinked assuming the sirens would rush ahead of us. They didn't. They pulled in in front of us, blocking us in. About a dozen police, some in uniform, some plain clothes jumped on the bus. Now we were paying attention. 'Don't move, stay in your seats, there's been an incident and we know that what we're looking for is on this bus'. Now we are properly intrigued. What had happened? How had our sleepy bus journey turned into an incident? Some people were tutting and muttering, most wanted to know what had happened. We looked around - no sign of an incident on this bus. Then we are asked to file off the bus one at a time to have our bags checked. Evidently something had been nicked. I was on the lower deck at the front and so one of the first to be searched. 'What colour was the cover?' the policemen asked his colleague as he took my iPad out of the bag. 'Orange' he replied. 'You're all right this is blue' the policeman reassured me. So an iPad had been nicked and because Find my iPhone was on, the police knew that it was on the bus. Those of us who had been searched were asked to wait on the pavement. The policeman with the tracking iphone was standing among us. 'Oh you can set off an alarm' he suddenly remembered and set off the alarm. You could see the heads on the top deck turn and a couple of minutes later a young man was marched off the bus with the stolen iPad. Allowed back on the bus the mood was transformed. Here we were in the midst of our own little drama. Our own 77 soap opera, the action had taken place, the wrong doer found and about to be nicked, here was some late night entertainment and we were an engaged audience. The bus depot was giving the driver a hard time for stopping and threatening to cancel this bus and make us all wait for a later bus. We could hear the conversation and the passengers were on the driver's side, increasingly annoyed by bus company bureaucracy. We were ready to take over the bus if the depot said stop. I think they must have heard the hubbub in the background and agreed to let the driver take us home. But we were transformed. No longer silent and apart, we had now bonded, we were chatting. There was laughter and people who a few minutes before had been annoyed by fellow travellers bags/size/demeanour were now chatting happily. Bus crowds are mobile phone users more than iPad users and many were amazed how a device could tell the police where it was. After watching the humiliation of the person who'd stolen the iPad walking through the bus, I think anyone who might have thought these devices were fair game, might be thinking again.

The Lavender Hill Mob 2011

‘Ann just called to say that she’d heard the BBC say that there was rioting on Lavender Hill. Are you all right?’ There’s nothing new about social networks and family is the strongest social network for most of us. It was about 10.30 and my mother was on the phone. I looked out of the window; there was no sign of a riot. ‘No it’s fine. It’s quiet here. It’s very quiet actually’.

The quietness should have been a clue. It was 2.30am quiet, not 10.30pm quiet. But it took me a while to realise that it was quiet because the traffic couldn’t get past the looters at the bottom of the hill. There were no sirens, but sirens are a pretty everyday sound around here. Not that there is usually a lot of trouble but Lavender Hill is a road that people use to get to other places, so the emergency services often go through on their way to somewhere else.

Within a few minutes the street was transformed. Suddenly there were dozens of young men on their way down to the Junction. They wandered along in groups of four or five. Hoods were up, but their pace didn’t suggest they were interested in rioting or looting. They just seemed to want to find out what was going on. I don’t think it was Twitter or BBM that was encouraging them out. It was the BBC. Television seemed to drive the change and encourage people who earlier had not bothered to go out. I don’t know if they ended up rioting or whether they just wanted to see what was going on. But within ten minutes of news coverage, many more people were on the street.

I switched on the news and suddenly my evening was transformed. The quiet evening in was shattered (although still I neither heard nor saw anything) I was living in a ‘war zone’. The BBC were saying there were reports of Debenhams being on fire. I looked out of the window. No sign of anything other than wandering youth (and not so youthful). Everyone wanted to see what was happening and the foot traffic was still increasing. People were wandering home up from the Junction, but they too were sauntering. It was easy to assume that bags were full of loot, but most seemed to be non-hoodie wearers and carrying gym bags rather than swag. I kept listening to the news and there was endless replaying of the fire in Croydon. That fire had, by then, been out for some hours because an interview with the owner had described looking out over the smouldering ruins.

But the Croydon footage was on an endless loop on BBC News. I was interested in my own reaction. The combination of a reporter talking about what was happening, together with the footage made me want to go out and see what was happening. Sanity returned a moment and I realised the folly of my impulse.

I’d returned from a meeting in leafy Cambridge about 5pm and the second I came off the platform I realised something was afoot. There was a young boy with his bicycle being eyed by two lads of 13 or 14, one wearing a hearing aid. It looked as if they were thinking of nicking his bike and they were being stared down by grumpy adults, such as myself. The lads tried to look confident and seemed to be looking for others, or for something. But their confidence was fragile; they couldn’t find what they were looking for. With a rather showy gesture of kissing their phones (I assume Blackberry but other brands were probably present) they walked out of the station attempting bravado.

There had been police on the platforms and now police in the station entrance. This was not usual afternoon staffing. The effect was somewhat marred by the presence of two PCSOs who were chatting to each other and not paying much attention to the people coming out of the station. They looked about as intimidating as a paper bag and would have struggled to keep the library under control. Their impact was considerable. The youths slightly ahead of me, sized them up, saw them lacking and you could see their confidence and swagger increase.

I had no food and so was planning a trip to Waitrose. There were lots of kids on the streets, but matched with lots of police. The kids were young – most were aged 8-12. It’s hard to tell, while girls often look about 18 at 12, boys often look like children in their mid teens. There was almost a festival atmosphere; a sugar rush of excitement rippled through the kids; a sense that something was about to happen. They were laughing and joking, waiting for the main event. They were watched over by police, but at this stage there were only high spirits. It didn’t seem that threatening, but it was a sunny afternoon and the carnival feel was building. I was rather more unsettled to discover Waitrose had closed one of their shutters. A number of mobile phone shops had boarded up their doors but had not boarded their windows which seemed a rather half hearted gesture. Waitrose was less busy than usual and there was a lot of slightly nervous giggling in the aisles. How very British.

It was pretty clear that the police were expecting something to kick off but at that stage it didn’t seem too scary. As I walked up Lavender Hill I realised that Wandsworth Council) had ‘helpfully’ left about 70 bricks neatly stacked up as convenient ammunition packs. There are in the process of redoing pavements and lights and the workmen left the bricks around the yet to be secured new lampposts. This seemed a bit risky and I popped in to the police station to suggest they might like to call the council and get them picked up before dark. It was past 5pm and I was pretty sure I wouldn’t get anything other than an answerphone. The nice lady constable (the only person left in the station) said she would call the council’s emergency number. I have no idea whether she had any joy.

I wandered home, cooked my supper and settled down for the evening. I was wary, I wasn’t sure what was going to happen, I wanted to be at home to defend my home. But I felt reassured that there were plenty of police to keep things under control; made a few phone calls and cooked supper. I had a few texts and emails from friends in the area. ‘Was I OK?’ I was. Were they? Yes, but a lot of police and some with roads cordoned off. Then the call from my mother and within minutes everything felt different.

The BBC News was telling me every few seconds of the rioting and looting at Clapham Junction. There were reports of the police station being attacked which is only a few streets away. There were still no sirens. There was the odd buzz of one of those micro scooters that sound like angry wasps and kids drive round the estates. By 11 I could hear the police helicopters above. The police were in air, but there was no sign of anyone on the ground. I felt alone. Alone because there was no sign of the police. I could hear the people who live in the other flats and that was comforting. Between us, we might be able to defend ourselves. But I was shocked at the speed at which my inner vigilante was revealed to me. ‘Where were the police?’ Why weren’t they on the streets. Why did the BBC keep saying there were no sign of the police?

I felt abandoned. I made plans to take care of myself. The blinds were already down but I switched off the lights. That way I could watch what was happening on the street. If I was alone, then I needed to know what was happening. The more sensible thing would probably been to have switched off the news. I still couldn’t see or hear anything other than the police helicopter. Should I block the letterbox? Fill buckets with water in case of fire? Or would it be better to find blankets and towels to smother any flames. Making plans felt like regaining control. But I was feeling increasingly angry with the mob. How dare they? What right did a bunch of kids have to create this sort of mayhem? I was now ready to fight. My inner vigilante was revealed to me. The house next door has scaffolding and I had visions of the police driving the looters up the hill and a pitched battle being fought from the vantage of the scaffolding.

And still the BBC kept talking about Lavender Hill and showing the footage of Croydon. I found myself increasingly angry with the BBC for inflaming the situation. How dare they, as a news organisation, show out of date footage that made everything feel worse. Yes, it was the most dramatic footage. Yes, they want to win a Sony award. Yes, I know the media like to see themselves as seekers after the truth, but most have been revealed to be every bit as self-interested and blinkered as the institutions they criticise. There may be questions about police tactics, but criticising the police when all I wanted was a sign that the police were on the ground felt totally inappropriate. And showing the endless film of Croydon burning while saying ‘fire crews are unable to reach the blaze on Lavender Hill’ felt irresponsible. Would it be the same here? Fires raging along the hill?

Just when I was wondering whether I should sleep in the living room to be able to fend off any intruders along came the cavalry; actually probably more like knights in armour. I had never seen armoured vehicles in England; I’d seen them in Northern Ireland. Instantly things felt different, it wasn’t down to me to protect my home. I could leave it to the police. My inner vigilante could go back to the place it came from.

Maybe it’s the weight of the armour but these blue beasts had a presence that was as primal as my desire to defend my home. As primal as the marauding looters: but the power of armour shifted the balance. To me, it felt that their solidity revealed the chaos of the looters. I don’t remember sirens, but the heartbeat pulse of blue lights as six (I think, might only have been three or four) dark blue armoured police vehicles drove down the middle of the road - purposeful, powerful. A single file of security. In an instant, things felt as if they were under control. It was safe to go to bed. I sent an email to say I might be late for the next morning’s meeting and went to bed and slept.

Next morning I got ready to try and make my meeting, unsure what I would find when I left the house. Would the station be open? Trains running? As I set off everything looked exactly as normal. More litter than usual, but otherwise the same. The only change was that the other people in the street were not living on peripheral vision plugged into their ipod/phone. People had escaped ‘I’, there was a sense of ‘we’. People wanted to chat, to share their relief. There was a sense of the social.

Battersea Arts Centre seemed fine but Foxtons’ window had been shattered along with a couple of other estate agents. This seemed an odd target for the kids I’d seen earlier and made me wonder if a few anti-capitalists had decided to get ‘down with the kids’. I crossed Latchmere Road and as I walked down the hill the density of broken glass increased. An independent electronics shop had been hit hard. Most places had broken windows – some had shattered, other fractured but held their form. The party shop had been torched and the road was cordoned off. People were clustered at the barriers, cameras were out and photographs taken. A slight detour to the station which was open and trains running. The shops in the station were intact which was a surprise but probably a reflection that the station had been closed for much of the evening.

So what was it all about? A sign of the cuts? A sign of a sick society? An underclass kicking off? Perhaps the most dangerous thing about Monday is that the kids think they have found a way to be visible, powerful and gain the consumer goods they want. I don’t really even want to write that sentence. We need to transform from ’I’ to ‘we’ if we are to avoid that eventuality. It won’t be enough to be cheery for a few days and then go back to normal.

There has been lots of discussion and analysis of cuts or broken Britain, but it’s infuriating me. There are no simple solutions. It’s not about who’s to blame. We are all to blame, we are all responsible for the society we have. There is no magic ‘they’ who can make things worse or better. Society is the sum of what we each do. If we want it to be different, then we all need to change.

I have no idea of the background of the looters on Monday but I wouldn’t mind betting that there are as many hard-working nurses and porters, administrative assistants, cleaners, care assistants among the parents as there are those on benefits. Many in London struggle to make ends meet in a city that increasingly feels designed for the rich, super-RGUs who move to London because their home country feels too dangerous. They are welcomed despite spending a lower proportion of their income locally and paying a lower proportion of tax. This is not to excuse what happened on Monday, but to blame it on those on benefits is missing the point just as much as is those who blame it on the cuts.

There is a growing crisis of legitimacy which has been blossoming long before the last election. Everyone knows that trust has changed, it is more fragile and more fluid. But following scandals over MPs expenses, alleged bribery of the police, the actions of much of the media and the near-collapse of capitalism and the bail out of the bankers by the taxpayers, there is a dangerous sense that you are punished for playing by the rules. Work hard and pay your taxes and you’ll find your modest pension is taxed. And this is a comment that I may later retract but in hard economic facts how different are the looters to the bankers. Emotionally it feels worse, but is it? Those in the city knew that there were problems long before it was made public. I heard tales of merchant bankers rushing home one afternoon to get all their money out of RBS because they knew what was going wrong weeks before it was made public. Is it so very different?

That is one of the problem of this crisis of legitimacy. What is right? What is wrong? Looting is definitely wrong, but so too was much of the behaviour of the financial institutions. The argument might be that the bankers didn’t know what they were doing. I leave you to make your own decision about the financial institutions. I see parallels between both – both have a strong sense of identity and (I would argue, twisted) and narrow view of what is acceptable behaviour. If you understand those narrow rules you can probably make a case. I don’t see either extreme as acceptable. So far most of the analysis I’ve heard leaves me shouting at the television or radio. It seems to fall into the comfortable old tracklines of blame. ‘It’s the parents’ ‘It’s the cuts’ ‘It’s a life of entitlements’. It’s the same old story – everyone looking to generate their own revenue from the story. And the same old faces. I’d like to hear more from David Lammy and less from Diane Abbott. And I’d like to hear a lot more from the youth workers who were on the streets trying to persuade the kids to go home. We need new ideas, but less blue sky, big picture thinking and more down to earth stuff that everyone can do.

My wider worry is that these extremist views of what and what isn’t acceptable make it very difficult for the middle to know what a good life should look like. Should they be grateful that they have a roof over their head, that their kids were at home on Monday night and there is enough money to pay the bills? Or should they be aspiring to the 40 inch high-definition TVs that so attracted the looters and the designer lifestyles and brands of the rich (even if a handbag in the sales costs a month’s wages)? And I know that no-one thinks they are rich – ‘we’re comfortable’ or ‘we’re provided for’. There is always someone richer. But as a nation we are rich. We are some of the richest people in the world so most can still live very good lives even if we have a bit less than before.

This is not an argument about government cuts. Whatever happens with that, there is a bigger global economic picture that will affect us all. The world is changing and we cannot navigate this new territory with the old structures. We need to define a new map (and keep refining it, there will be no new certainties). Just as the police’s command and control structure looked flat-footed compared with the fluidity of the looters’ networks on Monday, so too the tax and benefit scheme is broken. There is inappropriate generosity and inappropriate cruelty.

Was Monday a canary call of dangers ahead? Or a moment of madness? None of us know, but whichever it is, I think there is a need to have some sort of collective discussion about what sort of Britain we want.

I’m writing this in a sleepless night. I usually sleep like a dormouse and am unsure whether my lack of sleep is a need to get these thoughts out of my head and onto paper. Or whether my still slightly jangled nerves pumped adrenalin because of a sound in the garden. I looked out of the window to see a sleek (on the edge of chubby) fox sitting staring at me on the wall. I’ve seen the havoc that foxes can wreak on a hen house but while many people described the looters as ‘animals’ their behaviour seemed so very human.

Autumn camping

I wandered along to St Paul's last week. I was interested to see the Occupy the London Stock Exchange campsite for myself. It was a very cheery place to be. There was a first aid tent and a legal tent, a food tent and a piano tent. A library and a tent university. There were lots of people, some of them demonstrators, some of them onlookers and quite a lot of media. The demonstrators were quite happy to chat to everyone and the whole feel was very sociable. The health and safety conversations had begun; tents were being moved, barriers had been put up to ensure that fire exits were clear. The barriers were being decorated with flowers and pieces of ribbon.

There are lots of signs and drawings (all hand written/drawn)- and it seemed lots of points of view. Whilst the protesters have been criticised for the lack of clarity in their demands, I liked the 'another world is possible' tape that was around the site - it's surely time to think of alternatives.

It was very cheering to see St Paul's surrounded with so many people. Having people living close to the cathedral seemed to feel true to its history. There would have been lots of people and stalls around churches and cathedrals. They used to be living places and not just buildings to be looked at. By comparison, Paternoster Square (now the home of the Stock Exchange) was empty and seemed sterile. Now it's full of police and security guards watching the protesters (from the safety of their barriers).

I've been asked to leave the square for taking photos in the past. It was a couple of years ago and I hadn't actually realised that the Stock Exchange was there until I was asked to leave. I was taking a photo of the Elizabeth Frink statue when the security guard told me that no-one was allowed to take photographs. Our 'free country' has all sorts of rules and these days a lot of them seem to be about preventing people taking photos.

The day of my visit was the day when the church was beginning to complain about the loss of visitors and I thought I'd pop in and add some cash to their coffers. It was easy enough to get into the cathedral. There were more people around than usual but no risk to my health and safety (or anyone else's). But I was rather shocked to find that it costs nearly fifteen quid to visit (£14.50) which seemed a bit steep when I only had half an hour to spare.

But it did make me wonder whether it was the money that was bothering the Cathedral. Perhaps not surprisingly, if you check out their list of Patrons and Supporters it includes most of the banks and the London Stock Exchange.

Sunday 9 October – Salisbury to London

My mother and I go to a Woodfair at the Larmer Tree on Cranborne Chase (an area of outstanding natural beauty). It’s beautiful day although a big breezy which means that the barn owls can’t fly. I’d rather like to become a falconer and like to watch the birds fly – one of these days I will get around to doing a course (it’s been the only thing on Groupon that’s ever really appealed).

There are lots of people and lots of dogs. Dogs and people of all shapes and sizes, including an enthusiastic three-legged terrier who bounces along but seems a cheery little thing. There are stalls and displays, things to buy and things to eat and drink.

There is also a village from 1068 – lots of people dressed up and with a small encampment – spinning, cooking, wood carving and a long boat. This is the area of the fair that seems to be attracting the biggest crowds. People are fascinated to find out what the group do and some seem keen to sign up themselves. As I’ve travelled I’ve seen various re-enactors. Georgians as well as the usual Civil War types and it seems to be becoming increasingly popular. And people seem to take it all very seriously. It’s not just about dressing up, it’s about how they lived, and their craft skills.

History seems to be becoming an ever bigger business and important for tourism and regeneration. Towns and cities package and sell their history as a means of continuing to make money. Whilst there is plenty that looks to the past, there is much less about the future. In all my travels only one museum has talked about the future (Swansea).

And now it’s time to return home to London. My car in chaos and many bags to be unpacked. As always I return full of good intentions to keep writing my blog, but it rarely lasts more than a few days so we shall see.

Saturday 9 October - Ledbury to Salisbury

Ledbury is abuzz when I go out to wander round. It’s the first place I’ve been to where there are foreign tourists – all good for the economy. It’s a pretty main street with lots of half-timbered buildings (and the usual housing estates and ring road behind). There are lots of shops selling pretty things aimed at tourists and some for the locals as well. There is a market and lots of apples – this is good orchard country – and I stock up on lots of different varieties of local apples. It all seems rather lovely and idyllic and I wonder why these towns seem to be able to deal with change when others have been decimated.

This part of the world was part of the first industrial revolution – the world of sheep and wool. So I guess it’s had time to adapt and scale down to fit the times. Perhaps the old 19th century cities will eventually find their right size and the challenge is to work out what to get rid of rather than trying to conserve things. There seemed to be a lot of knocking down going on in Stoke-on-Trent.

I drive through Malvern but still struggle to find somewhere to stop. Here it all looks very Edwardian; large houses along the hill line looking out across the plains. Elgar’s music seems to hang in the air (and the business part is called the ‘Enigma Business Park’. Then I zigzag my way from the Malverns to the Cotswolds. It’s rich countryside and there are orchards and many, many polytunnels – so while the British economy has transformed itself, in these parts there is still plenty of farming.

And as I get into the Cotswolds, there are increasing numbers of tourists. There are coachloads of Japanese and Europeans as well as British tourists. It’s difficult to find anywhere to park. The steep single street old town centres were not built to deal with large numbers of tourists. There are still sheep in the fields but although prices are better than they were, most farmers need more than one job to keep going. It used to be said that a farm will keep a family, now they say it takes a family to keep a farm. Judging by the farmers’ markets, bags of hay for pet bedding (which sell at vastly higher prices that bales of hay) there are plenty of people living in a multi-job world.

I stop in Bourton-on-the-Water for lunch and petrol and find neither. The density of tourists increases here. Long ago I went to school here and it’s not massively changed. It was a tourist spot even then and somewhere I have photos taken at the model village. But the quest for petrol is becoming more urgent. It is one of the ironies of our reliance on cars that there are fewer petrol stations. There are now petrol stations only on main roads and at supermarkets but you can go for miles in the countryside without finding a petrol station. I drive on backroads if at all possible and by the time I get to Burford the needle is getting alarming low – but I find no petrol – I drive cautiously to Lechlade but still no petrol. By this time I need local advice – Farringdon (7 miles) or Fairford (3 miles), so Fairford it is. With the confidence of a full tank of petrol I'm heading to Salisbury and an enthusiastic welcome from the dog.

Friday 7 October – Trentham Gardens – Ledbury

Trentham Gardens is a 21st century space. The house and gardens are old and have been regenerated. In addition there is a shopping village, a garden centre, the hotel where I’ve been staying and a Monkey Forest (about a mile away). The car parks are large, so large that I end up driving from the hotel car park to the shopping village car park and then to the garden centre car park (it was raining quite hard). I am slightly wary about taking photographs, I have a hunch that there may be restrictions here as well. There is a mix of shops: an organic deli, several art shops, clothes shops (Superdry and Weird Fish are both here), newsagent, cafes – all in what seem to be large and sophisticated sheds. But it’s Doggie Fashion that catches my eye. Sadly it’s not open so I can’t see the full range but there are little pink coats with sparkly things on them exactly like those for children. The signs say there is a dog bakery and I can see the dog ice cream freezer. There is a bowl for water outside and a sign saying ‘wet and muddy dogs not welcome’ – although it is kind enough allow clean and dry dogs. A lot of dog walkers seem to come to the gardens and there is a Tibetan terrier that looks very happy to be wet and muddy (obviously not a shopper).

Gardening supplies are relegated to a small part of the garden centre. I wander through the forest of artificial Christmas trees and Narnia comes to mind – a place where it is always winter but never Christmas. But here everything is getting ready for Christmas and there are sparkly things all around me. After being in so many towns and cities I’m beginning to wonder if we now spend more time preparing for festivals than actually enjoying the event. I’ve seen so many pumpkins, witches, skeletons and other Hallowe’en paraphernalia over the past couple of weeks – or perhaps it’s just my inner grumpy old woman. There are bulbs and seeds and plants – but there are also cards, kitchen stuff – their colour more dramatic than any of the flowers, clothes, ‘outdoor living’, and candles. Always candles and now we should all be aspiring to the Yankee Candle. No sign of recession or downturn here – it’s still early in the day and there are lots of people wandering about. Although there was no-one on the tills when I went to pay for bulbs, so perhaps it’s all shopping but no buying.

Shopping but not buying seems to be what’s going on around the country. The high streets have people but in many towns people seem to have come out to look at the shops, to buy food and essentials. Perhaps to treat themselves to a coffee, a biscuit and a chat with friends but not to spend any more money than necessary. People at the cash machines are taking out £10 or perhaps £20 at a time. Go into M&S and the food section is busy (baskets in varying degrees of fullness) but the real crowds are clustered about the reduced rails and everywhere else is pretty empty. And this despite the fact that it is getting colder and the jumpers that seemed so mad last week now look cosy and comforting.

I am determined not to be beaten by the complexity of Stoke’s one-way system – last night I was caught in a seemingly endless loop – today I shall work out how to escape it. And I realise where I was in the wrong lane and find my way to Hanley town centre. As with so many other town centres there are plenty of empty shops and the loos show the ominous blue lights that say heroin. But there is also a skin tone and particular cheekbone angle that says the same. There are diggers knocking down a large space in the centre of town and a machine that seems to eat bricks – all part of regeneration. The cultural quarter seems to be made up of Emma Bridgwater pottery shop, Victoria Hall, BBC Radio Stoke (which may be cut back now) and Gala Bingo. Somewhere there is a ceramics biennial but I don’t have time to take a look (on until mid November if you fancy a trip to the Potteries). Debenhams, M&S and Waterstone’s are here – but Wilkinson, B&M are busier.

Then I have to get on the road again and it’s down through the West Midlands – Sutton Coldfield, Aston, Birmingham city centre, Handsworth, West Bromwich, Dudley, Kidderminster, Worcester, Malvern and now Ledbury. I had planned to stay in Malvern but it’s strung out along the road (all double yellow lines) and traffic behind me and so I found myself in Ledbury. It’s getting late and this blog post too long.