The journey home

After being dropped at the A34 junction with Newbury, it soon became obvious I'd found the quietest northbound junction of the whole trunk road. My sign for Bicester wasn't doing it for me so, after twenty minutes in the blazing sun, I sat by the side of the road and crafted a new sign for the M4 junction a few miles up the road, which I knew would be considerably busier and give me a much better chance of a ride.

Ten minutes after hanging out the new sign and munching a rubbish sausage roll, I got picked up by a young guy in a hatchback. I asked where he was heading and he said he was bored and was just out for a drive. He'd only passed his test three weeks previously and still had that nomadic enthusiasm one gets when realising the freedom a set of wheels brings.

He was a nice lad, not least because he dropped me on the right side of Bicester for my continuing journey, which was high above and miles beyond what I expected. I was ten miles from home now, all the busy traffic heading in my direction. It was a matter of minutes before a couple of guys in a white van scooped me up and dropped me ten minutes walk from my house. A mostly smooth journey all round, with just one wait longer than ten minutes, an average wait of about six minutes, and an average journey speed of almost 26mph!

On returning home, I cooked a big cheese and bacon fritartare and drank ginger beer while watching the Grand Prix.

All in all, I had a brilliant weekend, with good hitch-hiking, great company, odd randoms and relaxation - a superb combination which makes for a very happy me.

A quiet night in

We managed to take a wrong turn on our walk back to the cottage, despite M having walked the route a number of times, so we sent out an SOS and K came out to pick us up.

We got back and K's shrewd feminine senses detected we were a bit mangled - I'm happy to admit I felt mostly in control apart from the odd giggle, whereas M seemed a little more wobbly. Regardless, we cracked open a cider and sat down for dinner - home-made lasagne and leafy salad, which was nom nom nom.

I skipped dessert and we retired to the living room for a little Wii action. I feel sorry for K in this respect - M and I probably monopolised the living room and each others' attention, meaning I didn't get as much of a chance to talk to her as I'd liked, mainly because my head was a bit sideways. *shakes fist at beer and hash*

Not having had much experience on a Wii, it was a thrill to be guided around some really innovative games. It is my ambition to own one now, having subsequently borrowed my brother's Wii for a couple of weeks and getting hooked Zelda and Mario Galaxy. What an exciting life I lead.

The Wii sucked up much of the rest of the evening, bar burning a couple of music DVDs. In a step towards the unusual and a tip of the hat to our continued consumption of cider, M arranged a selected playlist by length and copied the longest tracks onto one disc, the shortest onto another. As is wont to happen occasionally with burned discs, I get CRC errors on some tracks on the 'short ones' disc which has made copying them over very, very wearing. So my new expanded music collection consists of the longer tracks of lots of albums,
leaving me with half a musical experience.

We also interrupted Wii time with a gorgeous view of the night sky. The cottage is in the middle of the countryside with very little ambient light and we were blessed with one of the clearest skies I've seen in a long time. The hazy band of the Milky Way was clearly visible after a few minutes, and M's binoculars picked out thousands of individual stars from the ghostly light.

We finally put our heads down in the early morning, and I fell into a satisfying, uninterrupted sleep.

I awoke feeling chipper the next morning, taking in the continued sunshine and sharing tea and toast with K, and I resolved to spend more time getting to know her properly in the future.

After more Wii action and a trip to Waitrose in Newbury for lunch munch, we said our goodbyes and I was dropped near the A34 for my hitch-hike home.

Worst case scenario

M and I continued our walk along the canalside path, enjoying the quiet countryside while the dogs cooled off in the canal. The dogs were a funny pair - M referred to them individually as "Brains" and "Brawn" which was appropriate and anyone would instantly know which was which from their build. Despite being twin brothers, they are fine examples of the difference slight genetic alterations can make. Gideon is lithe, bright and attentive, while George is stocky, brash and slightly arrogant.

The difference was also apparent in their approach to the canal. Gideon was more than happy to dive headlong into the canal after a stick, while George paddled near the bank, waiting to steal the returned stick and crunch it into tiny, unthrowable pieces. On the surface it seemed obvious which was Top Dog, but who can say which is more likely to lead - the military commander with all his might behind him, or the wiley politician with his intelligence and cunning?

It was during one of George's unusual forays into the depths of the canal that a boat came along. We watched as George did the sensible thing, retreating to the bank opposite and waiting beneath the trees for the boat to pass. We exchanged hearty hellos with the collected company on the boat and started up the path again.

It became quickly apparent that we were walking with just one dog. Gideon happily bounded along with us, carrying his stick and dripping canal water, but George was nowhere to be seen. As the boat puttered off into the distance, we returned to the spot where our paths had crossed and called out for George. On the first few calls, there was some splashing from under the trees. I pointed out the last place I thought he'd been, out of sight under the low-lying leafy branches of a massive horse chestnut tree.

A few whistles later and nothing, not a sound. We waited for a minute, two, another, but still nothing. M tried in vain to encourage Gideon to find his brother, and we were blocked from investigating by the ten metres of cold murky water that separated the banks.

It was now that something odd happened. M was obviously starting to worry about his dog, and it was contagious. Maybe it was the weed, or how out-of-character it seemed, but I found his next statement quite amusing.

He said "I think he's got stuck in the mud with his head in the water and is drowning!"

Unfortunately, I couldn't stifle a giggle, which I thought was quite rude but I'm sure he didn't take offence. I didn't even try to hold back my surprise at his unusual paranoia and tried to offer a more likely explanation, like "He's probabaly chasing a rabbit" or "Maybe he's found some lovely fox shit to roll in."

This seemed to set his mind at rest a little, and we started off along the canal again, hoping to meet up with the wayward hound.

And lo! Two minutes later, George came scampering along our side of the canal, panting away, and shook-off a coatful of water. With a sigh of relief, we took up our walk home.

I don't want to make too much of this - just know it amused me greatly. And know, M, that you're going to make a great father.

Enjoying the sunshine

The day continued its beautiful, sunny theme as we wandered along the bank of the canal, the dogs nosing their way in front of us, checking out every interesting smell along the way. We variously carried pints or mixers, and after about half a mile we came upon a stile to take us into M's chosen field.

We found a spot along a high bank which bordered the field with our backs to the hedge that separated us from the canalside path, and watched as the dogs raced each other at terrifying speed across the grass. I know applying human emotions to animals is wrong, but they seemed really happy, tearing up the grass and bouncing at each other, one seemingly trying to distract the other into making a mistake and tripping into a nice fresh cowpat.

We sat chatting and sipping our drinks, the shaman rolling yet another happyfag while M sparked what we thought was our own little cheeky smoke for the weekend, and passed it around. I was personally on the edge of giggly by this time, but I'd thankfully limited my beer intake so as not to turn into a gibbering idiot. The smoke worked its hazy wonders and I found myself seriously relaxed after the day's travels.

Relaxed, that was, until Sid started some odd behaviour. I don't know what everyone else thought about this, but I'll give you my take.

Sid got up and wandered over to the hedge to drain the lizard, and on hearing other people enjoying a walk along the canal path, shouted "Stop making so much noise, you cunts! I'll come over there and murder you!" He shouted a couple more times during our hour on the hill, mixing strong swearing with incredibly harsh insults.

Now, I joined with everyone and chuckled at him, somewhat uncomfortably. The thought that it could be me, out walking with my daughter, enjoying the sunshine and the tranquil nature of a rural canal and suddenly being assaulted with a tirade of swearing and threats of violent death, quite spoiled my mood. Another concern was that we'd be interrupted, and possibly assaulted, by anyone who'd taken offense at his outbursts. M might accuse me of a paranoid 'worst-case scenario' moment, considering what I will say to him in about an hours' time, but I don't think I'm being overly critical of Sid's behaviour.

I'll shut up about Sid in a minute, but I'd also like to record that he was needlessly insulting to our loved-up gentleman acquaintance, overly lecherous towards his lovely lady companion, and staggeringly incoherent after dipping into the smoke. His saving grace was his suggestion that he and the shaman race each other barefoot across the cow-shit minefield, which sadly never came to fruition. I also laughed nervously when he dragged the shaman all the way down the hill, silently hopeful that he'd stay within accepted social boundaries and not try it with me.

So, despite being slightly offended by Sid's shenanigans, it was mostly a chilled and amusing time in the middle of nowhere. When talk began of heading back to the pair's boat to continue the session, I indicated to M that it'd probably be better for our brains, and general wellbeing, if we thought about continuing on our walk, for fear of spending the evening ahead a pair of stoned, drunken idiots. I hoped to be reasonably sober to enjoy K's company, and the lasagne she'd lovingly prepared.

We made our goodbyes and good wishes, collected up the dogs, and started the journey back to the cottage.

The significance of zero

I forget the name of the pub by the canal for reasons which will become clear, but I recall it was a gorgeous building with sweeping timber beams and barrels of local ale to quench the thirst, and real crisps - none of that Walkers rubbish, but proper thick crispy naturally-flavoured crisps.

Surely, though, the potato snacks weren't the best thing about this pub. There's very little, for me, that beats sitting in the sunshine in a pub garden with very comfortable company, good beer and great crisps to while away the time. M and I have that greatest of 'old friends' traits - the ability to carry an interesting and meaningful conversation, without any warmup, despite not really having been in contact for the past few years. This is one of the things I think defines true friendship.

It was during one of these amusing and meandering chats that one of our garden-fellows overheard M talking about some application development work he'd done for the National Curriculum. This chap called himself a 'shaman' and sincerely looked the part. His companion looked somewhat sparked-out over his pint of Kronie, but our attention was fixed on the shaman when he mentioned his ability to teach anyone about binary in one minute.

I won't pretend to understand the importance of what he showed us, even though I pretended to at the time. It hinged on The Significance of Zero - the capitalisation was apparent from his fanfare-like way of announcing it. It's safe to say that his method seemed much more enlightening than the way they taught binary at college. An observation is that his actual lesson took around five minutes due to his tangential manner of speaking, which was really quite captivating despite covering a multitude of tenuously-related topics in a short space of time.

The shaman and his buddy, who we'll call Sid, joined us at our picnic table. It seems our guests had been up partying for 36 hours previously and had come to their friends' boat to carry on their celebration of the end of the working week. The shaman was surprisingly coherent but Sid was, true to expectation, belligerent and unsteady.

The shaman rolled a medicinal cigarette and we continued discussing life, the universe and binary for some time over another pint and the occasional puff.

Half an hour later, a young couple were invited (read: probably dragged) to join us. They were hippie, sociable and sweet, and she was all of the pretty. They'd only known each other for three weeks and had come to Wiltshire for a (ahem) weekend away, so they were full of the joys of young, awkward sex. I have never seen a young couple beam so much in all my life.

Eventually, the dogs tired of sunbathing and philosophy and became restless, so we returned to the idea of wandering along the canal to a spot M had chosen where we could exercise the dogs, and enjoy the collected company with a Caffreys and our cheeky joint.

The easiest lift of the day

Standing on the grass verge at a junction between Marlborough and Clench Common, I updated the folks at my destination as to my progress. I'd been dropping them texts at each stage so they knew when to expect me, and I'd managed to get within three or four miles a good hour earlier than my best estimation.

I knew catching a lift from this spot was going to be incredibly difficult - it was a rural A road with very little in the way of passing traffic. I tried my luck anyway, until my phone rang.

After a brief conversation with M, K jumped in her car and I sat on the (now dry) verge, rolled myself another cigarette while munching dry crackers, and marvelled at the two Porsches, followed by two ambulances, which all came tearing around the corner and were gone in an instant.

Soon, the familiar beep and honed rumblings of a 'reliable' Audi were heard and we made contact. I climbed into the easiest lift of the day and headed forth with K.

After we'd stopped at the local car-fixers to make the Audi more 'reliable', we did a beer, cider and snack run at a supermarket in Pewsey and threaded our way through the country lanes to my ultimate destination - The Drunge.

A quick Google of the house name brought varying results, from a type of ghoulish monster to 'somewhere between dandy and grunge'. I'm happy to believe it's an old local word for 'bakery' or somesuch, but I'll be pleased to be proven wrong. The house is set back from the road, just the way I like it, and seemed on the outside to be a quaint country dwelling with a large garden. On the inside, it had an olde-worlde multi-level cottage feel to it. I could have been easily convinced I'd been transported back to the early twentieth century had it not been for the massive plasma TV in the living room and the satnav charging in the kitchen.

I said hello to M, and eventually their two beautiful dogs, and we made plans for the afternoon. K would drop us at a pub by the canal at Pewsey and make her way to Newbury for shopping, and M, the dogs and I would enjoy a pint or two then saunter back along the canal at our leisure. We rolled a sly doob, packed a couple of Caffreys and piled into Ol' Reliable.

Swindon to Clench (!) Common

The entrance from the M4 roundabout to the A346 was a blind, fast and busy corner feeding onto a single carriageway with no shoulder, curbed verges and no parking bay - fondly known as A Hitch-Hiker's Worst Nightmare. I knew I was pushing my luck but I stuck my sign for Marlborough out and hitched in vain for twenty minutes before formulating a new plan.

The fog had lifted soon after the start of my journey, the heat of the sun combining with the fact that, according to my map, I was now 122m-305m above sea level. The mist had left a fine covering of water droplets on the trees and grass, and I was about to regret wearing my comfortable trainers for today's sojourn.

A quick check of the satellite image on Google Maps indicated a junction further up the road, with a turning to the left, which would be a perfect spot for someone to pull over. It was about half a mile away, uphill, on wet grass, and my trainers were far from waterproof.

So it came to pass that, stood at the top of the hill by the junction, with cold wet toes and my sign on full display, I thumbed for my next ride.

Proof that waiting in the right place makes all the difference, it was less than five minutes before an old Volkswagen estate pulled over to take me on my way. The car had a long nylon-wrapped package on the roof-rack - so long that it was supported on an attachment on the bonnet.

I climbed into the passenger seat and exchanged salutations with the driver, a quiet man who was driving past Marlborough, in the right direction, to go hang-gliding at Clench Common - a more apt name for a hill people throw themselves off under a fabric wing will not be found.

We talked about his hobby for a while and I told him of my desire to get into para-gliding where, much like hang-gliding, you jump off a hill under a big parachute and ride thermals on a calm day. After some words of encouragement, he told me that a fair percentage of people he knew who para-glide had broken parts of their body - mostly their backs - because it's considerably more dangerous than hang-gliding. Apparently, landing a hang-glider badly is more preferable than slamming your body into the ground. I can see his point - the metal-framed wing can take a fair amount of impact away, whereas you're completely exposed under a para-wing.

Something I'd never considered before is how hang- and para-gliders get back to their launch point after landing. How do you think they do it? That's right - they pack and stash their wing and hitch-hike, which makes them sympathetic to hitchers like myself. Score!

Once again, after the briefest of journeys, we arrived at our point of separation, and I climbed onto the verge quite jealous that he was to spend this most glorious of late September days soaring across the skies of the stunning Wiltshire countryside.

The journey to Swindon

The slip road onto the M4 had nowhere really suitable for people to stop and pick me up. One of my three golden rules for hitch-hiking is to make sure there's somewhere for drivers to pull over safely, without disrupting the flow of traffic or potentially causing an accident.

After ten minutes of holding my sign out, I checked the satellite picture of my location on Google Maps to see if there was a layby up on the main carriageway which would be a more suitable place to stand. Google Maps works really well in situations like this - their maps are good too but I tend to rely on my trusty AZ Handy Road Atlas of Great Britain, as I can make notes on the pages, and my phone gets messy if I try to write on the screen.

It was during this technical interlude that someone stopped, parking their car as far to the left as possible to avoid the traffic tearing off the roundabout onto the slip road. I ran up to the car and again spotted someone in the front seat furiously rearranging belongings on the seat I was to occupy - again, in the back.

The couple were off to Cheltenham for the weekend and would be changing direction at Swindon - perfect for me as I'd be heading south where they'd be heading north. The conversation was lovely, the driver regaling me with tales of their hitch-hiking around Europe, the passenger embellishing her stories with observations of his own.

They were an adorable couple and I could have quite happily travelled hundreds of miles with them. As appears to be a theme of this journey, it was over all too quickly and before I knew it, we were pulling onto the expansive hard shoulder just before junction 15 of the M4. Still enjoying the glory of the warming September sunshine, I walked up to the roundabout, turned left and found myself on the first single-carriageway road since my first pickup, about eighty minutes previously.

My hitch-hike, part two

Mr + dog dropped me off a couple of hundred metres away from the A34/M40 roundabout and wished me good day. I got my sketchpad from my bag, opened the next stage/page which said 'NEWBURY SWINDON' and held it behind me as I started walking toward the roundabout.

Within a minute, someone stopped for me. I kid you not - sixty seconds after I started walking, a huge Dodge pickup pulled over. I could see someone in the passenger seat hurriedly chucking stuff out of the way, making space for me to sit. I quickly realised that the truck was left-hand drive, and climbed (climbed!) into the... erm... passenger seat.

Man, that thing was cool! Yes, I know it was a gas-guzzling global warming-inducing verge-mashing monster truck, but those very things made it extremely appealing.

I guess it says something about human nature, and Americans in particular, when something so obviously wrong feels so right and attractive. I suppose the same thing applies to guns - they are very obviously designed to maim flesh, to very effectively kill animals (including humans), but my oh my, they are so fucking cool. They go BANG and make things explode and send shocks up your arms and make your ears hurt. And in any other situation those factors might really piss people off. But put a gun, or gas-guzzling monster truck, in their hands and people instantly transform into Action Man, or Bigfoot.

Enough with the generalised anthropological observations, and onto specifics.

The driver of the big Dodge pickup was an amiable man in his thirties, who had a heavy accent which I surmised was a mixture of somewhere African and full-on Aussie. I had clues - he told me he'd done a fair amount of hitching around Africa and Australia. He'd imported the truck from America, and it was chipped up to 450bhp, which any car nut will describe as 'pokey'.

Tootling along as a passenger, in what would normally be the driver's seat, is an odd experience. I felt distinctly detached from the road, like I was missing out on something. My hands wanting to steer, my feet to brake and accelerate, my mind straining to be involved in the driving process.

Our point of separation came upon us quickly - I was coming to realise that the scale on the map I was using was misleading, and my estimation of journey time was a reasonable amount over the reality.

So Mr Dodge dropped me at the M4 roundabout and continued his journey on to a meeting in Bath. I sat in the sunshine next to the carriageway and rolled a cigarette. After sparking up and checking the sky for signs of changing weather, I skipped over the entrances and exits to the slip road for the M4 West, held out my sign and started fishing for my next ride to Swindon.