A visit to my father

This April day is bright and sunny, as I sit quite alone, with mixed feelings, on the moss and lichen covered wooden bench, by the metal rails, in the 'June' 1998 section of Colchester crematorium 'Gardens of Remembrance'.

The crematorium is tucked away at the rear of the cemetery, as if being cremated is a stigma. This is my first visit in twenty-four years, since the day he (my father) was cremated and his ashes scattered here.

He had the foresight to arrange everything through a funeral firm. So I'd had little to do but attend the last day his flesh was on this earth.

Ashes being scattered means no coffin, no urn or jar, nothing to remember him by. And that's what I imagine he wanted. To be anonymous. Not even a small plaque.

I'll not rave on about his flaws, for we're all flawed. He was very human, with all the faults of a human male. Now I too have aged, I am having some inkling of the lonely life he led towards the end of his life here. Perhaps I am the son of my father after all.

Legs

For one brief moment I thought that I was caught up in some Edward Hopper painting. The shapely blonde, obviously slightly worse for wear, sprawled on the living-room couch, her near naked legs lounging over the arm, feet towards me. Chris de Burgh might have sung about this very female, her and her red dress. Her well groomed companion uttered something about keys as I moved through the room on my way to the kitchen. Honestly, I was too distracted by the female presence to reply.

I made toast and, on the way back through the living room, guiltily made polite conversation. I’ve not seen female legs so nude for over two years. It was most disconcerting. I didn't know where to look. But decided, as they were there, I might just as well look at those items so prominently on display while I spoke briefly to the new tenant and his night partner.

Another day in the life of a static wanderer

Yesterday I rushed, hastened to the bus stop to catch yet another bus (which was later than advertised on the internet) to the marine delight of West Mersea. I needed to complete both my registration with the letting agency and to pay a deposit securing my claim to rent that magnificent 16th century building (mentioned before) and which I shall call home, hereafter.

All went well despite glitches in the online referencing programme, which seemed to have a (digital) mind of its own.

With some time to spare before my vegetarian (lentils and very nice homemade pita bread) lunch at the Art Cafe, and the thereafter trip back to my current abode, I returned to an antique shop that I had peered through the window of, on my last visit. There, amidst various nicknackery, squatted a tiny deep-red Buddha. This time the shop was open. I wandered in. I bought said tiny ‘Chinese stytled’ seated ‘laughing Buddha', which was £2. I noticed some gilt on the object, worn away through years of use, and a small loop at the back, which appeared suitable for a string of some description. Perhaps that Buddha had been someone’s little treasure and worn on a pilgrimage. I'll never know.

As I went to buy it, I noticed a most unusual pot. I was told that it's a Pilgrim vase (pot or flask), used for carrying water. Not only was it an unusual shaped pot, but it had a very odd ‘Hieronymus Bosch’ style illustration (with possiblely faries) around it. I must do some research. I bought the ‘pot’ (£85) as a token to personalise my new home, and got the little Buddha free.

Escaping Ganjaland

Crumpet, Ganja, Peng are all common British slang for marijuana, or cannabis. They are also the names for the pungent aroma I frequently try to shut out of my double-room ensuite in the evenings and at weekends, when my local potheads indulge their desire to absent their brains from common reality.

I should consider myself lucky. Now there are only two out of five other males who scent the air with their (still technically illegal) smoke, before there were three. One user and two dealers out of a composite six males in residence in this smallish, newish house in what was Britain’s first city. One dealer was raided by the local constabulary, and disappeared. The other remains supplying the user. Together, but independently, they puff their cannabinoids into the house milieu. Hot air rises. I am inundated with unwanted secondary smoke laden with cannabinoids and carcinogens..

I confess that in my youthful past I too imbibed in the smoking of illicit substances. That was mostly fifty-plus years since. The more recent being a few puffs, seven years ago, at an art gallery viewing night in Kuala Lumpur, where cannabis is not only illegal but still brings the death penalty if you’re not careful.

For me, the use of substances which block my thought processes never became habitual after my twenties, when age has done that quite naturally. Since slipping over the half century mark, my brain quite naturally runs at half its previous speed, and doesn’t need any external help to impair cognitive function. Quite the contrary. Now I practice meditation, in the dire hope that I can desperately cling onto what mental capacity I have left.

It has been an experience. Not one I have consciously sought out, but interesting nevertheless. The irony is that my future (proposed at this point) abode is in a Grade II listed building where smoking of any description is banned. So are pets, and young children. Smoking werewolf children triply so.

16th century timber-framed

Back to oysterland.

I hadn't been back to West Mersea since I left last July. There's no excuse.

I was there to see a rather charming little cottage, the emphasis being on little, with the view to renting.

I had been yearning to return to Mersea, to finally relax away from the noise and pettiness of my current abode. Yet rented accommodations are few and far between on that marine inclined Isle.

I always enjoy that half hour country bus ride from Colchester to West Mersea. There are rustic farms and buildings along the way, interspersed with golden fields of rapeseed. The causeway between the mainland and the island always fascinates, whether tide bound with calling gulls, or revealing mud canyons at low tide. 

I lunched on seafood (fish) chowder at the Art Cafe and delighted in having a small.pot of tea with actual tealeaves and a tea strainer. Mersea is a different world, taking me back to a youth sans teabags, sans microwaves, sans plastic waste and global warming.

The Art Cafe is so called as it sports artworks by local artists, on the walls. It also doubles as a delicatessen for invading summer tourists, selling items as diverse as Tiptree jams and Penang (Malaysia) sweet chilli sauce (,Linghams). Two doors down, the same owner presides over the local art gallery proper, selling more local artworks and books by authors and photographers of the beauty of the island, and its maritime ways.

Whereas I could have walked to my destination via the footpath network, I chose, instead, to take the coastal route to feel the sea breeze, listen to ropes making music against yacht masts, hear the cry of gulls and smell the scent of the sea.

The cottage was all I thought it would be from looking at the images online. It begged to be called Rose Cottage or something romantically similar, such was its other worldly charm with exposed beams and antique ambiance. The cottage comes (tastefully) fully furnished and with a small rear garden sprouting a blue table and chair set for balmy G & T evenings or locally caught fish lunches.

Yes, I had fallen in love with the Late 16th century timber-framed building. It only remains to be seen whether the building reciprocates.

The Traveller

The day was overcast, but warm, as I greeted the burgundy-gloved traveller to Colchester, at Colchester Town (railway) Station.

You know, explaining the history of your hometown to a visitor really makes you think. I have to say it, but I'm proud of my little town for, despite its current size, it holds many firsts in the history of this land.

We sauntered a few steps to the ruins of St. Botolphs Priory, one of the first Augustinian Priories in England (1100, constructed from Norman brick and re-used Roman stone). I'll explain that Roman connection in a moment.

The intrepid traveller handed me her (far from lightweight) brown bag, as she delved inside to grasp a contraption she uses to prevent shake while taking video. Like a robot the small electro/mechanical arm sprang to life with her handphone clasped to its blossom, if indeed such apparatuses have blossoms. The filming began.

I confess that it was my first time being in the company of such an earnest and serious videographer. I stepped back and watched her narrate the Priory's history, in Chinese, for her growing audience of tens of thousands avid Chinese viewers. When she had told me of her Wechat patrons my jaw dropped in surprise, and a little envy.

We stepped out of Priory Street and into Queen Street, where filming continued, and up to what is now the Natural History Museum (originally constructed as a church between 1375 and 1550), across the end of Colchester’s High Street and into Castle Park (so named because it shelters Colchester Castle).

Castle Park holds many memories for me. One is the weekday trudge through the park as a shortcut between my school (St. Helena Secondary Modern) to the bus park, then situated at the top of East Hill, and rummaging through the magazine stand at the bus park, to see if there were any new Marvel or DC comics. Other memories involve friends and lovers, charity ‘crisp eating’ contests and so on and so forth (over fifty plus plus years).

And so into the (Norman) Castle (circa 1076, comprised of plundered Roman stone) we went…Thankfully my ‘Colchester Castle Pass’ was still valid (one year).

[Briton, and therefore Colchester too, has been invaded since time immemorial (well, for over 10,000 years) . First there were those who became the ancient Britons (Iceni, Trinovantes, Silures, Cornovii, Selgovae, etc) then the Romans (43 - 410 ) who created Britain’s first city in Colchester (Camulodunum or Colonia Claudia Victricensis), and Angles, Saxons, Jutes, Frisians and Danes (Vikings/Norsemen/Northmen) and then northern vikings (from Normandy, France) who became known as the Normans (1066 for 300 years). Britain had an Emperor (Cladius), Anglo-Saxon ‘kings’, Viking kings, then various French and German kings and queens up until now, with a queen of German descent and a consort (now deceased) from Corfu (Greece).]

Much of the above history can be found in Colchester Castle, also the English Civil War (1642 – 1651, which destroyed St. Botolph’s Priory in 1648), the remnants of that war are still visible over Colchester town.

With much videoing taking place in the park and castle we, eventually, adjourned to stroll the High Street up to Wagamama (opened in Colchester, 2018), which was founded by Alan Yau (1992), in London, and which presents an interesting array of ‘fusion’ asian/Japanese based cuisine, but more importantly a substantial menu incorporating both vegan and vegetarian alternatives. I had, incidentally, been waiting to go there since my arrival back in England, way back in June 2021, but there had always been long queues outside awaiting entry. This day we were lunching later, hence our ability to grab a bench.

Then we were out walking streets dating back to 1277, on the way to Colchester Town station (1866). Much history was left, as Colchester has so much, for another time, perhaps. I grabbed some ‘char sui buns’ for dinner at May May Oriental Supermarket and walked pensively back to my current lodgings and hung up my metaphorical tour-guide hat for another day, which may, or may not, come.

And then it snowed...

And then it snowed…

Yesterday I was up at the crack of dawn, well 7am, and excited to get ready to travel up to London. It’s been a few weeks since I was last there and I was getting itchy feet, well that’s one reason. Do read on…

Despite having a false summer last week, where blue skies encouraged photography and a day’s warmth encouraged the shedding of jackets, yesterday was exactly the opposite. Biting winds had me wrapped up warm as I walked towards Colchester Town (rail) Station, and then, and then, I could hardly believe my eyes as flakes of what turned out to be snow, lazily drifted from grey skies to the rail tracks (melting as they touched).

It was hardly a blizzard, though it was cold enough but, instead, a taste of what the British weather might achieve once it got going. I smiled. Yesterday was the first time I had experienced snow for many many years. I was just trying to remember how long, and I really can’t remember. I had been cold in Ireland, but that was rainy weather, I had been cold in China but it didn’t snow when I was there, so it’s probably more than 18 years since I experienced snow, and yesterday was a very slight reminder.

The train was warm. Colchester station was being swept by light snow, more like a cold wind with added snowflakes, and waiting those few minutes for the second train had intended passengers sheltering intermittently behind the open-fronted shelters provided. 

That second train (to London Liverpool Street) was crowded. It was my first experience of a crowded train since I arrived back in the country of my birth, last June. I felt somewhat uncomfortable to be seated next to someone I didn’t know and facing a gentleman who obviously was equally uncomfortable with me sitting next to his wife. The recent Will Smith Oscar’s incident flashed through my mind, so I kept my distance from my fellow traveller as much as the seat would allow.

Was it a date or simply meeting up with someone I have been in contact with on the internet? Honestly I don’t know. It’s been too long since I actually dated, you know, dressed up, splashed aftershave and raised my expectancy levels to nervous proportions. I feel that’s the province of youth, and rightly so. Yesterday was a first meeting of some description, and what exactly it was may (or may not) be revealed (to me) in due time.

A year and a half ago my ex insisted that I move on. That’s after hinting for the previous six months. It has taken me that time to realise that moving on might just be possible. I had been in mourning, grieving for a lost relationship. It was a serious soul destroying business which, I feel, I can begin to see in retrospect, finally.

So there she stood, facing Platform 9, it was 'Brief Encounter' in reverse.

I am led to understand (though I have scant personal knowledge of this) that pictures on internet dating apps may be somewhat misleading. Check on Google, there are pages of info on this. Some people place blatantly untrue images, others doctor their photos to smooth over blemishes etc etc etc. Rarely do people look better than the image they are promoting except, that is, on this occasion.

I’ll not laden you with details or gush with rapturous descriptions of someone I have met once, so far. But suffice to say that I met with a charming, attractive woman who was humorous, quick witted and thirsty for knowledge. The venue we chose to talk in suited her background, and my desire for that Chinese food which ‘touches the heart’.

Tempus fugit.

Too soon I was back on the train heading for Colchester, wishing that I had booked a later train.

Watch this space…