Where to start? Maybe Friday and very early in order to avoid the traditional ritual traffic jams as cars full of people head onto the roads to enjoy quality time in queues en route to somewhere or other, but not where they live. This strategy succeeded and Brighton Hill, in the rough end of Basingstoke, was reached before eleven, including the ritual search round the ring roads for the destination. As it happened this led to a tour of the posh narrow lanes outside of town, where very dear properties are found. A kind builder offered directions and then escorted me along the short cut since he was going home anyway, and that was quite close to Brighton Hill.
Saturday was demo day, when large numbers of humans fed up to the back teeth with the fake pandemic, took over the streets of central London, disrupting the traffic and entertaining the tourists, just like the good old days when sane people confronted Thatcher and Blair to dissuade the dark state forces decades ago. All good fun and energising as well as tiring and giving a renewed sense of purpose to the old blogger.
Sunday was for the old school friend providing hospitality to the old blogger and entailed risking joining the ritual queuing of cars full of people heading for the beach, since Sun was forecast and in the interests of social distancing it seemed like a great plan to cram onto sandy beaches and sit eating sandwiches cheek by jowell with perfect strangers in order to spread deadly diseases to give the kind government reasons to pull the plug on the midsummer further easing of restrictions and return to new normal, just because they think they can. Bastards.
Anyway, the main queue was dodged by diverting on a scenic route through the New Forest, via Godshill, where we hoped for a glimpse of the Creator made in the image of man. However He appeared to have joined the others on the ritual trip to the beaches, since they were His flock and that's where they were flocking. Stopping in Ringwood for coffee was nostalgic fun taking one hour, just right for the one pound we donated to the district council so Daisy could be safe in the car park and we could pee before coffee. And after, just to make sure.
The route went towards Wimborne where the old school friend and I attended the long abandoned Grammar School in the sixties after passing the exams to sort out the wheat from the chaff, though which was which is still unclear and the old school friend spent more time in the brighter streams than me due to her superior intelligence, especially when paying attention to the teachers and repeating what they said to show they understood. Being a trouble maker, the old blogger questioned everything especially the things which didn't make sense, and often asked: Yes, but Why? which usually annoyed the teacher who didn't know or was too shy to say. Sex being a subect often dodged as taboo, and there was a lot of that about in the sixties. And seventies.
At Holt where the old school friend lived as a girl, a halt was called to explore old haunts, including Gaunts House, which comes later in the story. Before that a coffee stop was made on the property of cousins, who happened to be at home and welcomed us to discuss the old days, which was nice, though not the Mad Cow Disease, which was not nice at all for the cows, who went mad due to being fed the brains and bones of other cows allowed by mistake by Maff, the government department looking after such things. Hmmm
After the relatives, the next halt in Holt was to visit the parents in the cemetery, where they lay under the earth, next door to their daughter, the old school friend's sister, which was poignant for us and inconsequential for them, since they were dead, though the sister who lived her whole life with a learning difference seemed to reassure the old school friend that all was well in the spirit world. Which was nice. Flowers were placed to brighten things up further, then off we went and found Gaunts House and drove in without permission. Since I had some history going back over twenty years here, it seemed appropriate to have a look round, and surprise surprise found, lying on the lawn another bloke, called Michael, who was on a similar mission but from a later time. We all went for lunch at The Stocks and discussed issues in common, having passed with care a small convoy of Gypsies with horses pulling the carts. They turned up later at The Stocks for a drink, which was nice, since they are the salt of the Earth, Nature herself, and wonderful informants for foragers seeking knowledge of things to eat. Strangely, many folks don't like them, but then some folks don't like immigrants or anyone not like them. Peculiar!
The trip home to Brighton Hill was swift, due to leaving before the folks preferring to carry on getting sunburn before heading back to the cities. An eventful day and proving yet again that what passes as normal in many segments of the whole, a lot of the homo sapiens branch to be honest, is neither wise nor sane. Hey ho, on we go, trying to return to Nature where we belong!
Tomorrow it's Krishnamurti and four days Retreating in Peace. After that, let's see ...
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