Mid-morning we wandered up to Lower Marsh Road Market and bought some cheap clothes, then strolled back to the flat. We packed up a picnic lunch and set off over to St James Park, where we lay in the shade for several hours, watching the antics of the crowds of park lizards soaking up the sooty sunlight.
Linda and Lucy went back to the flat mid-afternoon, but I felt like wandering, so I set off up The Mall to Admiralty Arch, sweltering in the afternoon heat. I walked down the back streets of Whitehall to the Embankment, then turned left and walked along King’s Reach. The panorama of the Thames, London’s heart, was spread out beneath the hazy sky with the brown water of the river, now full with the tide, leading the eye away into the distance, where the huge buildings of Canary Wharf seemed to float in the haze.
I walked downstream along the Embankment, past Cleopatra’s Needle and under Waterloo Bridge. Further downstream, beneath Blackfriars Bridge, clusters of cardboard boxes were stacked neatly out of the way, their homeless occupants presumably away, begging for the day. I crossed Blackfriars Bridge, where armed police were stopping traffic for some reason, then began to walk back upstream towards Waterloo Station. It was now very hot and the city sweltered beneath the sun, the concrete and stone gathering up the heat, then radiating it back upon the city dwellers.
Waterloo Station was crowded with commuters, held up by train troubles. I sat and watched the scene.
Notes from a Waterloo sunset. Free Doritos. The 16:58 service to Hampton Court was cancelled due to the unavailability of suitable staff. The girl handing out the free Doritos had no expression on her face. No one bothered to thank her, and when I did, she recoiled with surprise. Businessmen looking hot and ruffled walked by, coats over shoulders, shirt sleeves rolled up. In their midst, an Indian guru, long grey beard, red dot on his forehead, yellow robe.
The glass and girder roof acts like a glasshouse, letting the heat in but keeping out the cool breeze. An old lady pushing an airport trolley full of her belongings, wearing a thick overcoat. Many people limp as if a lifetime spent walking on concrete and tarmac has ruined their legs.
A grubby one-legged man came down the elevator on a suitcase trolley and propelled himself across the white stone floor to a Quick Snack Shop, where he bought a bread roll, then disappeared amongst the sea of legs. People run past, as if fleeing some horror, to try and catch the parting train.
Back at the flat, the evening had become humid and thundery, with towering thunderheads of grey and gold beginning to collect above the city. The delicate sound of thunder could be heard far off at first, but soon close overhead, accompanied by flashes of lightning and a cool breeze.
A spectacular light show played over London as we walked from the flat over to Kensington Road tube station, turning the sky indigo and orange.
Our cheap bus, Silver Choice, announced at 12.30, two hours after it was due to leave Victoria Coach Station, that the service had been cancelled. But patience won the day and eventually at 1.30am a substitute coach turned up. As I dozed off, the bus made its way out of London which glowed beneath a black sky.
Dawn. The eerie light half-light of morning, found us in the Midlands, the earth cloaked in grey mist. With virtually no other vehicles moving on the motorway, we could have entered another world, empty and shimmering. At a roadside service area, we had cups of tea, then stood outside in the cold damp air and watched a group of young ravers, their eyes wide and staring from the influence of ecstasy and dope, dancing to hard acid music pumping from their car stereos.
Bradford, Penrith, Gretna Green – we changed buses at Hamilton and travelled painfully slowly over to Edinburgh. The bus station there was vandalised and unfriendly, and we wasted no time in getting on the first bus possible, bound for Dundee.
The sky was grey and rain-threatened as we trudged from Dundee Central, out through its dull suburbs, to a spot on the road to Aberdeen. By the time we began hitching, a heavy drizzle was falling and the cars sped by. Luckily, after only about 10 minutes, a man picked us up in his new Rover and drove us all the way.
Aberdeen squatted in a seaward valley, dour and cheerless. The city is built almost entirely of granite, which is slightly radioactive. Consequently, Aberdeen has one of the highest levels of net radiation of any city in the world. The drab railway station echoed the cries of gulls as we sat eating soggy chips while waiting for Blue and Kerry to come and fetch us.
Outside the city, rows of government housing ghettos gave way to colourful fields of rapeseed and corn, ripening beneath a grey, sullen sky. We settled in at Blue and Kerry’s rented house, named Waiwhakamukau1.
1Pronounced “why-fuck-a-moo-cow.”
CurseOfTheTraveller 