A Bimble from Berwick

Liberation is a train ride with no return.  A 'Buzzards Valley' breakfast saw me off as I rode the nice way to Tamworth past a vineyard that no one ever expected.  Bike booked and stowed in its own private cubicle on Cross Country trains I sat smugly in my carriage heading North listening to the wiles and woes of Henley Brexiteers, Cathy and Clem, who may even have to move up country.  One of the great pleasures of train travel is listening to other conversations. It provides an insight into society and allows some for some human warmth and lifts the spirits a little with a new found belief in the amiable niceness of British folk.

The paper had an article espousing the need to get out of the house at least once a day and interact even if just for a wee while.  It was a thought that occurred to me when I saw the Tesco and Iceland vans zipping around the too narrow lanes of Devon.  The village store and a proper  high street with independent businesses become ever more necessary as isolation breeds fear and anxiety.  Tucked away in a combe with only clickbait to divert you until the delivery man arrives defies the image of rural bliss.

We pushed on from York to Berwick and Gary met Sasha, who used to be a stewardess but was now in sales. I marvelled at Sasha's gushing enthusiasm and wondered if it was a Geordie thing.  There is nothing as infectious as a huge smile, a ready laugh and a keen listener. Although he must have known that no one under 40 was supposed to be called Gary, Gary was smitten.

Chugging through Newcastle brought to mind the end of the Great Gatsby, 'So we beat on, boats against the current, borne back ceaselessly into the past'. This pilgrimage was going to bring back early memories and formative experiences with grandparents in Blyth.  North Tyneside was familiar but distant in memories I wanted to re-awaken.  I wanted to squeeze the pease pudding of life. 

A whirling vortex of a cooling wind blew dust and rubbish about an uninspiring Berwick as rain greeted my arrival at the border. Probably very unfair on the historic, ghostly town but I was eager to leave the brooding buildings and cycle across the famous sandstone 'Old Bridge' with its 15 arches across the River Tweed built in the time of King James. No doubt with the proximity of Scotland in mind.

The steel greys of the evening light on the estuary were a boon to my landlocked eyes.  It was no surprise when I came across a paean to LS Lowry in Spittal where he must have been inspired by the atmospheric vista and memories of those distant childhood holidays. Once again revealing how these indelible images that rest with us play a powerful role in our imagination.

Funland