The Hollow by the Mere E-Book

Geoffrey Peyton

• Herausgeber: BookRix
• Kategorie: Abenteuer, Thriller, Horror
• Sprache: Englisch

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2015

Beschreibung

In April 1990 I decided to leave the domestic hell of a relationship that saw my long time girlfriend throw me to the streets, in an attempt for her to find a better love elsewhere, and in doing so, she left me naturally homeless.
I could have stayed with friends or relations, but those sort of agreements are always short lived, and I would only end up back at square one and ultimately on the streets again.
Because of the summer being just around the corner I decided that I would like to spend a few weeks of camping at some rural spots for a while, just so that I could find time to mend a broken heart. But those weeks would turn into months, and soon I would be living the life of a Nomad where I would once again find love, but this time it would be with the most incredible girl that I had ever met.
Little did I realise it at the time, but I was about to travel the wilderness countryside of rural England with my new found love, followed closely by various law enforcements that were on the trail of a killer that was my Becky.
For six and a half months, Becky and I would make our own world amongst the wildlife and natural freedom of the English prairieland where we became persistent in escaping the clutches of the law until the inevitability game of cat and mouse reached its inevitable end.
This is the true story of Allison Rebecca Mitchell; a real life bohemian girl who was a true mermaid of wildest England.

Leseprobe

Geoffrey Peyton

The Hollow by the Mere

The Mermaid of the Forest

Thanks to Gerald Parker, Christopher Stevens and Teresa Cartwright-Bell, for accepting me into their Nomadic world of paradise and freedom. But most of all to Allison Rebecca Mitchell, who mended my broken heart and who led me through the wilds of England and through a majestic summer of love. BookRix GmbH & Co. KG81371 Munich

Saying goodbye to hell

There comes a point in our lives where we need to rid ourselves of other people’s involvements in our own personal discomforts. No longer do we need, nor require, the help of friends and family to guide us through, and then out of a misguided situation that we had the misfortune of present ourselves with in the first place. If we all had a precognition of the future, a sepulchral path would always be eradicated, and enduringly we would live a harmonious and jovial life. But sadness, joy and horror, are part and parcel in the creative seed of man and woman. We each have two lives; the one we are born into and the one we choose. I chose a life of generosity and kindness, but my thoughtful handouts to the not so affluent and unfortunate over the years, would, one would think, be rewarded. But half a century into a pretty ordinary life has so far failed to honour me with any reasonable accolade.

I have never understood the point in people fighting or arguing. I myself am no pacifist, and will try and talk my way out of any disagreement, or if necessary, fight my way out of a corner if need so, and these are the transient tasks that are bestowed upon us from whom or whatever guides our lives. We are all a metaphorical seed of anger and happiness that is planted here upon this earth, most of the time for nonsensical purposes. Wouldn’t it be great if we could all meander away our lives dolorously in a non belligerent world? But this is not the fictional paradise of Logan’s Run, where people are somnolent in their happiness; this is the reality in the actuality of life.

In 1992 I separated from a girl that I had known before mine and her virginity. The heartbreak for me was so much that I was within a few seconds of fulfilling a premeditated suicide. Only through the intervention from an off duty WPC was an indelicate situation avoided. Today I find my life a lot more happy and bearable. I am indomitable to almost anything that is thrown at me, and I can walk away from trouble post-haste.

An anachronism of the 20th century, I have always drifted to another world where the need for today’s technology is non applicable to the way in which I desire to live out the rest of my life. Build me a shack in the middle of some spacious forest and leave me there to see out the rest of my days, and that is me done. So I suppose it was no surprise when I left a domestic heartache and drifted into a nomadic romany world of living off dregs, loose change and a handful of hopeful pickings. I had no intention on living off the state, nor was I putting myself into the care of the YMCA and the indolent dropout legacy that throng its dormitories looking for a cheap scrounge. Today I am, in theory, a free man. I am hurt, and I am hurt deeply, but this escape from society is the only way that I can think of to cure this broken heart. I have been given another chance to breathe new life; to rid my inertia and get up and go. Today I start a new life - alone again.

I took what money that I would require to pay for my needs. I left with a backpack full with nigh on every miscellaneous survival gear that I could contort into it. I kissed the children, Geoff Junior and Kerry Dee, goodbye. I looked Julie in the eye and silently wished her a shit life.

It was the first saturday of April 1990 - a fool’s day. So with a cantankerous relationship now door-slammed behind me, I sat on the kerbside of a horrid Birmingham Council Estate, waiting for the single decker red bus that will take me into the city. I was also in full view of a twenty month old dishabille little who girl crying behind the front window of what was once my home, wondering when daddy is coming back.

I hadn’t the foggiest idea as to where I was going, as I had no premeditated plan and was indiscriminate on where I would lay my hat for the forthcoming future. All I wanted was to get as far away from this urban hell as this day would allow, and tomorrow, even further. There was no prearranged destination, yet I was strangely looking forward to being on my own, even if it was for only a week or so. But has it turned out, I would be away from home for the remainder of spring, summer, and well into the autumn. So with over £600 on my person that I had hidden in various compounds about me, I was off on a solo mission into the wilderness of rural England.

I took a vacant seat at the rear of the bus and almost pressed my face against the graffiti stained glass and thought pensively on why my life had come to this, and why I had put myself there in the first place. Kerry’s beautiful and tearful pouting face disappeared as the bus left Shannon Road, Hawkesley. There was no going back now, this was really it.

My backpack must have weighed between 35lb to 40lb. I myself am only 140lb, so I will be carting just over a quarter of my bodyweight for the foreseeable future. This is nothing new to me, as I can carry a decent load for any permitted time. This is not my first venture into the wilds, as it was once my favourite pastime, and it looks like those days are about to be revisited.

During the ride into the city I visualised umpteen places that I would like to go. For some reason I wanted to go to where I could reminisce the good old days when I was a child and living with my grandmother. She would always take me away for a fortnight each year to either Scotland, Wales, Cornwall or the East Coast. After discounting the three aforementioned, I opted for the latter of Essex, and in particular, Clacton-on-Sea. Now this may not seem a good idea if your original plans were to rustle up some feathered bedding in the woods, but I wanted to time travel to my infant youth where I could gad about in the arcades and stroll along the pier and prom. Clacton is no haven, in fact it is  nondescript and analogous to maybe Margate or Blackpool, but my pertinacious mind had set its sail, and all being well, I would be out of Birmingham and back in the good old days once more.

The National Express Coach Station in Digbeth, which is in the centre of Birmingham, was possibly my best option for cheaper travel. I viewed the timetables to all destinations, and one confirmed that four coaches would stop at Clacton-on-Sea. I wasn't sure how much the fare was to Clacton, but through previous excursions via this station I knew that I would save a good few quid by travelling this way, although it would take up to three hours longer. But I had time to kill; in fact I was to have months to kill, so where was the rush? There was none.

If all goes to plan, I will be boarding the 1.50pm to London, which will make several stops on the way before hopefully pulling into Clacton Bus Station just before 6.00pm - so the timetable tells me. It was just after 12 noon, so I had plenty of time to grab a cup of tea and a sandwich from the cafeteria. The butterflies were fluttering insanely inside my stomach with the excitement of getting away from everything that is malodorous about this city. I looked up at a clock upon the wall which told me that it was 12.20pm. It was time to book my ticket to either paradise or to live the life of a lonely hobo.

The events that occurred during the next five and a half months were not as I had expected them to be; not at all. A new romance, sweltering heat, my inadvertent part in a murder, and a game of cat and mouse with law enforcement, all became, eventually, part of an everyday routine. Rather than a memoir, this book resembles more of a novel, but I assure the reader that the events that occurred during the following months, took place at a period when I had plenty of time.....to kill.

Rebecca’s world

  I made my way to the coach station booking office where a queue of about ten prospective holiday makers of diverse nature, waited in turn as two rather corpulent blonde girls chewed gum behind a perspex shield, wishing each customer a happy day as they left with their destination ticket in hand. A very pretty girl of about sixteen had her turn before me. She also chewed gum, and it seemed that she may have been queuing for an application form as an extra ticket assistant to help the other two Wrigley chewers. Her cerise dyed hair suggested that her application may be withdrawn due to her not matching the management’s criteria, as she was too petite and thin. But as per usual, my assessment of character was way out, as all she wanted was two tickets to London. When my turn came, I thought that I would be laughed away for asking for a single ticket to Clacton-on-Sea, as it is so popular at this time of the year, therefore I may have to settle for the likes of Rhyl or Grimsby.

“Good morning”, said Sheila Pearson, who according to the name tag that was protruding above her left breast, was  'your caring assistant'. “How can I help you?”

I looked up at a 2ft clock on the wall which told the world that it was in fact 12.30pm. And with its size, also looked as if it would bring the partition down on its next chime.

I replied with friendly sarcasm, “Good afternoon”.

She also took a glimpse at Big Ben and replied with a counterfeit smirk, “Ooh, so it is. How can I help you?”

I pressed myself against the counter and whispered, “Do you have any spare seats on the 1.50pm coach to Clacton?"

I could see by Sheila’s facial expression that I was new to this sort of thing, as she held back her laughter in replying after a few taps on the keyboard, “Yes we do”.

I nodded and smiled, “How much is an open return?”

Sheila looked at the screen, and I could not help but look at the size of her boobs. As she looked up at me rather sharply, I knew that I had been caught in the act of lecherous tendencies. I paid the £28.70p fee and pirouetted sharply towards the exit. As I closed the door I could see Sheila prattling with her colleague, no doubt discussing the filthy leery pervert that has just left the office.

With over an hour to kill I had time to perambulate about the coach station, and so I headed for a newsagent that happened also to be an off licence. A few cans of lager would do very nicely on my long journey to the East Coast of Essex, and I also bought a few of tabloids to accompany my 6 pack of Grolsch. I topped the picnic hamper up with a couple of cheese and onion cobs that I had acquired from the station cafeteria. I had not yet left Birmingham and I had already squandered £37. I really should be a little less liberal with my money and only buy what I need to survive on. But it was too late to take the cheese cobs back now, as my coach is loading passengers and I need to get a comfortable seat, and hopefully one at the back.

There were only eight people at the loading gate, suggesting to me that I will have little worry in finding a vacant seat at the rear of the coach, and more importantly, close to the toilet. While everyone else was packing their luggage into the bus alcove, I asked the young stewardess if I could take my backpack on board with me, as it contained all of my needs for the journey out.

“Yes", she replied. "But if someone needs the space later, we may have to ask for it to be transferred to the luggage hole. But it looks like you should be fine anyway, as we are not fully booked”.

She tore off my outward chitty and I found that the back seat of the bus was indeed free. I relieved the portable home that was burdening my shoulders and dispatched as much of its contents has I possibly could, so as to occupy the vacant spaces next to where I would be seated. This, I hoped, would discourage any other passengers to discommode my needed freedom of space.

The engine starting up was euphony to me, and I knew that I was now committed to my new life on the road. The refined young stewardess informed us through the PA system that we would be calling at Solihull, Coventry, Stanstead Airport and Clacton-on-Sea, before arriving at London at approximately 5.50pm. So that means I will be in Clacton well before I had anticipated, which was great. I opened up my cheese and onion cobs and lunched to the sounds of China Crises through my personal earphones. Within a few minutes I had nodded off, so I guess that the mixed emotions inside me had had enough for one day, and they needed to cool off a bit.

Before I knew it, we were rumbling down the M11. I had clearly missed the Solihull and Coventry stops due to me falling asleep, which was a great relief. Even one of the newly boarded passengers asked if I had enjoyed my snooze.

Ian was originally from Scotland, and was on his way from Coventry to London for his brother’s funeral. He was fitted out in the true Scott’s outfit of kilt, glengarry and sporran, and he also boasted a pair of Doc Martin boots. I asked him how his brother had died, due to the fact that Ian himself could only be in his mid to late thirties.

“Oow, he drank emself tee death”, he said, in a typical Scottish accent.

“Oh dear, he must have been young then"

"He was forty"

Instead of Ian having to twist his head, due to the fact that he was seated in front of me, I invited him to join me at the back. He obliged, and we spoke of our respective losses in different circumstances. Being a true Scot, I thought it best to also invite him to a can of beer from my pack.

“Oh hi”, he said, “I canny gooa London feckin sober”.

So with that sorted, we celebrated our losses in true Celtic style.

Ian’s expertise on all matters was profound, in that he seemed to know the answer to any question that I hauled at him. His football knowledge made him great company for the time I had to kill. He was an Ayr United supporter, and from that day onward I would always look out for their scores, and I am now a keen follower of the team.

We eventually lightened the load of my six-pack as we pulled into Stanstead Airport. Ian asked the stewardess (who’s name we now knew as Kim) on how long we would the coach be here for.

“We will be leaving in ten minutes”, she said.

Ian got to his feet and requested for me to... “Hoold on, ar won’t be a sec”.

He raced out the front of the coach, and within three minutes he returned with four cool bottles of Newcastle Brown.

“Where the fuck did you get those?” I asked with an enormous grin.

“Arr, there’s always a feckin bar at a feckin airport”.

We had only drunk one bottle each by the time a sign appeared, indicating that Clacton was a mere four miles away. Translated into English, Ian gave me a going away speech.

“Geoff. You are the best friend I shall find this weekend. We will swap neither addresses nor phone numbers. We will almost certainly never see each other again, but I will always remember you as a true friend. Go on your way and be as good as a man that I am sure you are already”.

I found this gesture quite emotional, but elected not to cry on his shoulder. His ineffable comments touched me deeply. As a parting gift Ian handed me a cravat and said, “Here, that’ll keep yer warrom at neet”. He also pulled out a bottle of some alcoholic substance that I cared not to enquire of its contents.

“Here, have a twiggy on that". he insisted.

Whatever poison that was in the bottle almost singed my eyebrows. It was potent and barely potable, but it certainly warmed the heart. So slightly inebriated and precarious in step, I said farewell to Ian. I offered him my bottle of Newcastle Brown but he waved the gesture away. “Have a wee drink on me"

I watched as the coach took off and I thumbed Ian goodbye. Here was a true gent from the Highlands who I will do doubt never see again in my entire life. I still remember him vividly now as I write this story 22 years on.

I was now stuck at a coach station somewhere in Clacton-on-Sea. It was a bit on the nippy side and the darkness was very close at hand, so I needed to find this evenings shelter first before I venture into the night. My initial thought was to find some hedgerow near the coast, but I was concerned of prying eyes while it was reasonably light, as I would need to hide my all of my gear in a safe place.

It had taken only five minutes to reach the coast as the threatening wind announced its presence upon me on a cold and early April evening. Innumerable people that were still enjoying the weekend break were flowing on and off the long pier, and I felt tempted to join them. But first I must select some small or infant forestry for my den. From a distance I could see some low foliage that was about 200 yards offshore. As I got closer, I became pleasantly optimistic with all the pathways that led through these low bushes. I made my way into the labyrinths of walkways that had been inadvertently created by ramblers and other animal means, hoping to find a small alcove for when the night falls, and there was very little of that remaining. Plenty of niches were found by me, but I was determined on finding a less commodious spot where I can hide myself, and more importantly, my backpack.

After I had tracked the breadth of this man made trail I made a U-turn and returned to the one that I had shortlisted for approval moments earlier. It was set well back into the prickly hedges that border this maze. But it had been used some time before, as a neat job with some secateurs or a similar tool had carefully pruned a perfect den. I only found this prize myself through stubbornness and a lot of good luck. But had I infiltrated somebody’s present home? With the yellow spring buds appearing around them I could see no evidence of recent activity of a gardening nature, suggesting that it had been a while since someone had homed themselves here. A discarded newspaper seemed to give me sufficient enough evidence that the den was used during the period of March 16th, and that was over two weeks ago. It looked as though this was going to be my home for a few days. But I cannot leave my backpack here yet, as it was still light, and any hikers passing through the trail may spot it, although it was extremely unlikely.

I laid my tabloid on the cold grass verge for comfortable seating adjacent to the hedges and drank my Bottle of Newcastle Brown that Ian had given me. I drank freely and content with my choice on leaving Birmingham and becoming a hobo for a few weeks or so.

I pondered for a while on why I had chosen to up and leave the big city. Was it my fault that I am in this position? Had I instigated my own predicament? I can be very crotchety at times but I was never violent in my behaviour. My relationship with Julie was never enamoured, it just became a coition needed affair on my part, so perhaps I got what I deserved and I was the one who paid with a broken heart. At least I had been rid of her peevish and tenacious behaviour, and now I can find a way back into society through a different path. After all, I have always secretly led a bohemian life, so it was intelligible that my life would return to this.

I finished my bottle of ale as a celestial moon lit up the darkened skies. I was hardly in an ebullient mood but my bonhomie character is still with me, and I am still in the mood to carouse the night away, even if it means doing it solo.

There were still a few objectives left for this evening. I needed to hide the backpack in my new home, find a pub where I can finish off my inebriating quest, find a chip shop (fortunately there was a plethora of those), and to make sure that I can find my way back to my den when I am totally arseholed come midnight.

I counted the amount of steps that it had taken me to exit the bushes from the den. This was estimated at only 41 paces, and so I wrote it down on some paper. I then had to observe a building, and the Pier View Hotel was perfectly in line with a promenade bench, which itself was adjacent to the entrance to the foliage where my hideout was. So with all that written down I set off to locate a sufficient pub, and at last I was finally relieved of the burden that was piercing my shoulders for so long. Before too long, a big white pub soon distracted my eye line, so I thought it best to keep close to my new home and down a few night caps before bedtime.

The Queen’s Arms was relatively quiet for a saturday night, which suggested that this was not a place to boogie the night away. But that is just what I wanted, a quiet night and a few beers. My only concern was that I was not far from intoxication already, but I needed a few beers more to get me to sleep.

 I ordered a lager from Phillip the barman who wanted to know as to where I was staying. I could hardly tell him that I was an arboreal dweller living on the sand dunes of Clacton-on-Sea, so I told him that I was residing at a holiday park in Holland-on-Sea, which was a mile or so south of Clacton. He nodded his acceptance, and to eschew further delicate questions from him, I retired to a vacant seat as far away from oral distractions as feasibly possible.

I had the misfortune of sitting within gobs length of a local man who appeared to be in his late 70’s, and was a raconteur that I could have done without right now.

“Are you local?” he asked, while puffing on his pipe.

“No I am from Birmingham”.

He had noticed my curious interest in an artist’s impression of Clacton that was hanging precariously above a welcomed open fire place. The picture was taken before it became Clacton-on-Sea, over 130 years ago. I know the latter to be true because the gentleman had just told me so. He also informed me that Henry XIII gave the aforementioned Clacton to Thomas Cromwell as a gift in the mid 16th century, just before the King had Thomas's head chopped off for a minor filching charge. Well what else you would expect from an axe wielding monarch that once ruled the British Isles. I said goodbye to the old man and ordered another beer, thus moving to pastures new, i.e. the other side of the room.

After another beer, I became tired and very hungry, and so I left the Queen’s to sniff out the best looking chip shop that I could find, and my stomach told me to visit the first one I came across. I wanted everything the place had to offer, but all I bought was fish, chips and a carton of non mushy peas. I noticed an open loaf of bread behind the counter so I asked whether they sold bread and butter, which they did, and so I ordered two slices. This meal set me back a mere £3.90p, which I was jolly impressed by. I took my meal outside, along with a bottle of take out lager from the pub and headed for home; that’s if I can find it of course.

Not only was I lost and pissed, but I could'nt even locate the frigging Pier View Hotel. I had to shilly-shally up and down the prom before it finally came into view, and it was at least half a mile from the Queen’s Arms. Whether the pub and the hotel were involved in some sort of landslide while I was out getting merry, causing them to part 500 yards, I don’t know, but with any luck I should be inside my sleeping bag and having my supper by torchlight.

I had the good sense to carry the pocket torch with me, so finding the trail was very simple. All that mattered now was for my gear to still be there, and thankfully it was. I rustled my way through the brambles and other mischievous foliage and then unzipped my pack. I pulled my sleeping bag from my backpack, and in the process of doing so, I managed to disseminate nigh on all of my other worldly contents all over my new den, but that was of insignificant worry to me at this moment. I dabbed about for one of my transistor walkmans and then turned it on to hopefully catch today’s football scores. With that done, I lit my mini gas cooker and placed a saucepan of water from a bottle that I purchased from Tesco’s in Birmingham. With that on the boil, ready to add to an infant water bottle (I do like to be prepared) I clipped the cap from my bottle of beer with my teeth and indulged contently, accompanied with a welcomed cigarette and the welcomed sound radio.

I have to say that the fish was not up to the standards of taste that you receive from major city chippy’s, but I think that is put down to the fact that the fish here is relatively fresh, and the imported city fish has been added with some sort of chemical that gives it a better taste. I have always noticed this transformation with the coast and rural divide with fish, and I am adamant in my prognosis of the matter is correct.

I successfully transferred the sufficiently hot water to the hot water bottle that I stole from Julie before I left her and placed it at the foot of the sleeping bag. I went and relieved myself of any lubricant distractions from my bladder before finally slipping into my bed.

I will be sharing my first nomadic night with whatever creatures reside here, and will no doubt be doing so for the next few nights, and myself and the creatures that reside here will endeavour to coexist as neighbours for a short while at least.

A rustle in the hedgerow aroused me from my slumber at around 3.30 in the morning. Once I am awake, the chances of me returning into dreamland were virtually zero, so an interminable few hours were on the cards for the rest of this morning. It was dark and cold, but inside my sleeping quarters it was fairly comfy, and the radio also kept my spirits up. The only discomfort that I had right now was that I needed a wee quite urgently, but I was a little reluctant to leave the warmth of my bedding, and so I held out for as long as possible until I had almost reached bursting point. I have to say that the relief was tremendous, but I had not travelled too far from my bed, and the amount of urine that I had extracted had developed a quagmire that threatened to channel its way towards my temporary residence. "Why on earth did you not just go outside of the den?", I muttered to myself.

 The ground eventually accepted the puddle into its earth and thankfully evaporating about a foot away from my bed. Confident of not getting wet, I crept back into my sleeping bag and listened to the radio until the first flicker of light would appear, and hopefully with it, the bringing in of a fine morning.

The morning choral from various bird life meant that it was time to think about packing up and heading out. It took some time to reorganise my pack because I needed to hide a few of the non essentials in a decent place that would be unlikely to be discovered by a passing walker. This would at least relieve me of any weighted hindrance upon my person. These included a saucepan, fishing tent, mini gas stove, two small gas cylinders, a two litre bottle of water and my tin mug. I first boiled some water for a tea before I set off, and when that was completed, I wrapped up the items into two plastic bags and forced them into an adjacent hedge. I was now relieved of a good stash of heavy goods, and I can now venture about the town with a litle less discomfort.

It failed to register to my brain that it was a sunday, and we all know what that means. Yes; no shops open. I took myself and the tea that I had made to a nearby bench alongside the promenade. The tide was well established towards the prom, and the morning was quite cold and he wind was moody and inhospitable to an otherwise pleasant morning. My inclination of the time was relied solely upon my radio, and so I waited for a time check from whoever may be twiddling the knobs behind a desk at the BBC, before alas, the 7.00am news came on.

The tea had brought about its laxative mode and now I needed the comfort of a loo. Roughly 200 yards away, and what looked like public lavatories close to the pier, was a must visit situation. I grabbed my now lightened pack and made haste toward the toilets. A young girl walking her Great Dane, wished me a good morning as she motioned the animal away from me before it decided to eat me alive, or worst still, shag me. As I approached the toilets my hopes and bowels were dashed when I discovered that the men’s entrance was barred up and closed. As I moved towards the opposite side of this building I found that the ladies section was open. This peeved me a good deal, and with no one about and the place being seemingly dead, I moved myself quickly inside and performed the necessary deeds. As soon as I was done, I was out of the ladies toilets like a flash and quickly onto Marine Parade, which was the main road that ran parallel with the beach, and from there I went in search of a newsagent for my sunday tabloid.

The wind relented as I moved further up Pier Avenue and further away from the beach. I wondered the streets looking for various food outlets for future reference, and as I came towards the railway station, the presence of the library warmed my hart a tad. Although it will be closed today, it will be a warm haven come the middle of the week, and all I need now is the public baths so I can shower at some point.

I had passed quite a few newsagents while I was on my way to nowhere in particular, and eventually I purchased ‘The News of the World’ tabloid from one of them. Another mug of tea and a comfortable seat would go down well right now, and so I asked the proprietor of this shop if there was anywhere that I could eat at this time of the morning. He checked the time from his cheap Quartz watch before pointing almost to my face in replying, “McDonald’s are open now. It's just there, right behind you”. I about turned to see that there was indeed a McDonald’s directly opposite. I thanked him with a hint of embarrassment and made my way over for a crappy burger and a delightful coffee.

There were three other people already stuffing their faces by the time I had relieved myself of more cash and taken my seat. I opened up the newspaper to the football section, and was pleased to learn that Wolverhampton Wanderers had beaten Port Vale 4-2, which put me in a good mood for this forthcoming sunday. I was feeling a little better now that I was happily alone to my thoughts, and the coffee warmed my shivering body up a few degrees. I pondered on what would I do for the rest of the day, but I guess this bridge would no doubt be crossed in good time, and I had plenty of that to kill.

Each of us four diners sat as spaciously apart from one and other as feasibly possible. Including me, we all fitted the description of phlegmatic humanoids taken over by the pod replacement body snatchers. But suddenly the gaiety of two women brightened up the place as they smiled and laughed their way to the counter before ordering their breakfast meals. One was a rather large beast who appeared to be in her late thirties, and was a dead ringer for the 1960’s flower power decade with her attiring of a moccasin skin cardigan. The other was a bleached blonde petite girl with tints of silver and red streaks who looked to be in her early twenties. She was a double for Cyndi Lauper, which I am sure she’s been told this time after time. I would like to get know her true colours but I had better not interfere with their day, as I am sure that these girls just want to have fun (I am sorry, but I couldn’t resist the puns).

With their breakfasts in hand, the girls had a good mooch around and decided that I was the best option to dine close too. Cyndi’s eyes met mine and we exchanged morning greetings. Her friend, who we shall call Mama Cass, also smiled at me, and another merry greeting was observed. Mama Cass was of a large stocky size, and her Egg McMuffin’s suggested that this was the mere hors d’oeuvre of what may be on the menu when lunch time arrives. Cyndi took a lady like nibble at her petite and nimble breakfast bun, at the same time inadvertently staring at me. We smiled again, this time possibly through embarrassment. I pretended to read the paper, and at the same time I was peeping over the top to look at her, and of course I got caught staring. Mama Cass had by now finished her snack and was busy sipping her drink with the accompaniment of a cigarette (You could smoke in most places back then). She almost dived into her straw bag, galumphing annoyingly, until she pulled out a large blue hardback book. It may have been the new addition of Pharmacopoeia Weekly, and containing new narcotic software, I don’t really know.

I was about to pack up and leave when Cyndi asked if I was staying at the campsite. Her voice seemed soft and caring, ‘to salve one’s conscience’ I think the saying goes. Mama’s head popped up from behind the 'How to carefully dispose of any hypodermics' chapter and put her ears within touching distance of not minding her own business.

“No”, I replied, "I really don’t know what I am doing here, as I just packed up my gear and left home and I ended up here”.

Cyndi raised her eyebrows to suggest that she had been dining with a true Wally, I mean Clacton, who on earth would runaway to Clacton-on-Sea. But she accepted my answer and then a small conversation evolved between us two. Mama pretended to read her pharmacology chronicle, and I am sure that she wanted to put her two pennies worth into our conversation, but she thankfully kept her head in her book.

Cyndi held out her palm of friendship and announced herself as Rebecca. She pointed to Mama Cass and introduced her to me as Terri. I nodded in Japanese greeting style with my introduction. “I’m Geoff”.

So with the elimination of Cyndi & Mama, - Rebecca & Terri were born.

Rebecca asked if I would be around the area this afternoon, at which I replied, “Yes”.

Without any qualms, Rebecca then asked if we could meet at the pier head at 3.00pm. I was more than willing to accompany such a pretty young lady for the afternoon, just as long as she does not bring the Rhino with her.

What I do for the rest of the day was a bit of hit and hope. I watched as Rebecca and Terri made their way northwards to who knows where. Rebecca’s made to measure bottom that fitted perfectly in her dirty blue jeans was a pleasant view I must say, but the knickerbockers of Terri gave the impression of the rear end of perhaps John Candy. A last wave occurred as the distance between us developed into mere dots until I was on my own again and wondering the side roads of Clacton.

Whatever the kismet of a new friendship will bring between me and Rebecca remains to be seen. But one thing is for sure, and that is I must take a non largess approach, and not to be over precipitant in the showering of gifts. Besides, I do not know if she is my misdemeanour; the person who will finagle has much of my money as possible. She may have looked upon me as an injudicious loner, and was ready to pounce at the first opportunity and take advantage of my small wealth. These thoughts would ricochet around my head for the hours to come. Of course I am pessimistic, and so I should be, as my brain is at six’s and seven’s at the moment.

I purchased a coffee from a burger stand along the prom. From there I walked a few yards to a round fort type building. This circular block of concrete that had several tiny windows, was in fact Martello Tower, and it was once used as a lookout for the incoming Luftwaffe during the Second World War. Although it was never used for its actual purpose, it still stands as an unorthodox reminder of a time when dignity and hope were all that there was to hold on to for the good folk of the east coast. I sat down next to this now derelict piece of history and gazed into the North Sea, observing the trawlers and liners moving slowly out of human sight. I sipped at the cheapskate coffee and picked a route to take for the six or so hours until my rendezvous with Rebecca. Holland-on-Sea was only a mile away and seemed a good idea for a visit, as my grandmother took me and my cousin Tina there once for a week when I was eleven years old.

The wind had receded a little by now but it was still a tad cold. But with the sun looking as if it may become generous today I felt more than optimistic for the forthcoming hours. But before I venture into Holland-on-Sea, I will just check and see if my worldly belongings are still hidden safely in the bungled hedgerow that was my hotel last night.

All was well at home, and so it was time to set off again, but I had taken another chance in leaving totally everything that I owned behind. But at least I was free of any burden on my shoulders, and again I can walk freely amongst the crowds without being observed as a drifter.

I tried, but failed to recognise any of the places that I had visited when I was with my nan way back in 1972 which saddened me a little. But I knew that I had once walked these paths all those many years ago, so there was a small bit of reminiscing to be felt.

Once again I bought coffee, and once again I gazed into the muddy coloured sea. I do remember way back in 1972 of a storm that ripped the sea violently into these concrete barricades, throwing tons of water over the top and dispensing small crabs onto the main road and into an ultimate death. I also recall that we were on the verge of being evacuated from our chalet. Tina and I were petrified, but my nan, as she always was, was totally unconcerned that we would come to any harm, and of course she was correct, as grandmothers usually are. I screwed up my paper cup and dispensed it into a nearby trash can and walked on some more.

With the temperature up to respectability, it was a chance to relieve myself of the heavy sweater that I was wearing. I tied it around my waist, leaving me vulnerable to a slightly chilled headwind. I had been walking pointlessly for quite a while by now and was concerned on the time. There were plenty of options of personnel to ask, as the sightseers were passing me by quite frequently, most of which I am sure were blessed with some sort of a ticking mechanism that tells the correct time. An Oriental couple enjoying the sights of Clacton (and let me tell you that it is a site) looked sensible enough prey. As they approached, I halted their walk.

“Excuse me, do you have the right time please?”

Number 1; why did I decide to stop someone of foreign origin? And number 2............. Well there is no number two, but I could have asked any one of the five hundred plus individuals that have past me in the last quarter mile, but I went and picked on somebody from Hong Kong.

The husband (I gathered) smiled at me while I waited for an answer. He spoke perfect, if not, excellent Mandarin. I of course understood absolutely fuck all of what he was saying, but his other half told me that it was seven minutes past two, and that was all I needed to know. I thanked her and about turned in rapid fashion, as I had a rendezvous to keep and I was bloody late.

Totally breathless, I made it back to the pier at seven minutes past three. I know this because I asked an Englishman for the time. I looked all around the vicinity of the pier, but could see no sign of a Cyndi Lauper duplicate. She must have thought that I had stood her up, or possibly she had stood me up. I waited by Martello Tower with a cup of coffee and a sausage sandwich. It was 3.30pm by the time I had devoured my tea, and it looked as though she was not coming.

I was a little peeved at my bad time keeping, but strangely relieved that she didn’t turn up, as what I possibly don’t need right now is a relationship. I walked the length and breadth of the pier and back again. The North Sea and The English Channel combined in a war of waves, spitting sprays of salty water over all the human bodies that were walking or relaxing on the pier.

It was 4.30pm by the time I exited Clacton Pier and my first thought was to find a pub. There were a decent few that were close to Pier Avenue, and with premeditated thought, I elected to do a mini pub crawl.

I failed to spot the name of the pub I was just about to enter, and quite frankly didn't care. All I wanted was to relax with a drink or two, and as soon as I opened the door, Rebecca greeted me with an unexpected hug. I hardly knew this girl, and in fact I thought that I was being attacked by some maniac.

“I waited for you at the pier”, she said.

I told her that I waited for thirty minutes by Martello Tower, but I could not see her. This discussion went on for a couple of minutes until the clock behind the bar revealed that it was exactly 5.45pm.

“Is that clock right?" I enquired.

 “Yes”.

It turned out that my Oriental friends had given me the wrong time, and if they had given the right time, I would have been late anyway. I had gotten so carried away with my walking, that time had simply evaporated. I explained this to Rebecca who accepted my alibi, and she kindly ordered me my requested lager.

“Who are you with?” I asked.

“I am basically on my own, and I'm just chatting to a few friends that come in here now and then”.

She lead me to a vacant table, waving goodbye to a trio of middle aged woman who looked as if they had just finished a hard day at the office, and Rebecca sat me down on a vacant low stool.

Rebecca was from Kendal in the Lake District. She had left home due to circumstances that she would at this moment in time like to keep hush-hush. She had come to Clacton to live in the wilds with her cousin who happened to be two-ton Terri. She said that she would stay here for a two months, go back to Kendal and then return to either here or Cornwall for the fruit picking season. She was an only child, and by the time we had finished our third pint of lager, had updated me on the theory of Quantum Physics. I gave her a concise repetition of my life, and finished by explaining the quantum theory of the offside rule, which totally baffled her.

“So where do you stay?” I asked,

 “We stay in the woods about a mile north of here. No one hassles us as long as we keep the land clean, which we do”.

I asked her how many people there are in her group.

“There are four of us; me, Terri, Gerald and Chris”.

I asked further questions and all seemed well, and eventually Rebecca asked the question as to where I was staying.

“In between some brambles on the beach”.

Rebecca looked shocked at my reply before she eventually asked, “Why don’t you stay with us? It’s cosy and we always have a fire going.

Before I could give a reply, Rebecca asked in some shock, “Where’s your stuff?”

I explained exactly where I had hidden it, and she almost demanded that I gather them together and bring them to camp. But I had to hold my hand up and say, “Sorry to be frank and abrupt, but I don’t know who you are. Maybe after a few days I will consider the invitation, but at the moment I am trying to get my head around the shit that I am in at the moment. I hope you are not offended?"

I may have been a little frank in my comments, but Rebecca seemed to accept the language that I was trying to speak.

“I understand Geoff, but most people here know who we are, and you will too, soon”.

With the fading light, I took Rebecca to my den to show off the pristine housework that the previous tenant had left it in. My gear was all there and untouched by any other man, although it may have been investigated by the numerous hedgerow inhabitants whose right to be here is more than that of mine.

“Oh Geoff”, said Rebecca, in an almost lachrymose expression. “You can’t live in these conditions”.

An immediate though came shooting into my somewhat alcohol drizzled brain. If she thinks that my temporary accommodation is adequate, then what are the conditions like of the upland forests where this pretty bohemian bonhomie lives in?

Rebecca invited me once more to accompany her into the woods. Normally that kind of invitation would mean unlawful acts of sexual indecency, but I am sure Rebecca was the refined and decent wench that would not stand for the crude behaviour that was in my thoughts right now.

We supped a few more drinks in the Queen’s Arms, and after another discussion on our respective backgrounds, Rebecca hailed me as a good friend, and from now on I can call her by her abbreviated Becky. I thanked her for a wonderful evening and then we said our goodbyes, but not before I received a gentle peck on the cheek and a mutual promise that we would meet up at the Community Centre tomorrow morning at 10.00am for a shower and breakfast. A shower, that sounds good.

So I was back into the hedgerow with pie and chips at around 10.00pm. I just managed to unpack all of my needs, thanks with the help of my faithful torch. I then lit my mini stove and filled my saucepan with water. As the water prepared to boil I sorted out my bedding, and once the water came to bubbling point I filled my padded water bottle up and stashed it into the sleeping bag and then slid my half naked body inside. The warmth to my toes was very soothing and most comfortable. The food was more than welcome, but the pie was disappointing, but I ate it anyway. The lassitude of the day’s events had taken all the energy from me, and therefore I had few problems in falling asleep in a semibreve.

I hadn’t a clue on what time I awoke but it was pretty dark and I was becoming extremely wet as the rain hammered down on me through the unprotected brambles from above me. Last night I had taken the chance (albeit through idleness) on not erecting my small lightweight fisherman’s tent; confident that it wouldn’t rain and that I would stay dry during the night. I must have slept in the rain for a good while because I really was drenched and was now panicking as I gathered together my items. All of my clothes were left out of my pack and all were sure enough saturated. I scrambled my belongings into my backpack, and within a few minutes I was out of my den and into a torrential storm.

Heading towards the main road, a bus shelter that I had spotted yesterday (just in case something like this ever occurred) made excellent shelter from the dire elements. It was an old shelter that resembled more like the protective huts that are usually situated along promenade seafronts. It was completely covered in all directions apart from an open doorway. The inside was totally benched and would have been a better option for me last night, but for the fact of being spotted and thrown out by the local constabulary, that choice deterred me from kipping there instead. However, I am going to put up here for the rest of the morning, although sleeping is out of the question, as I am almost freezing to death.

The man on the radio mentioned something about the two o’clock news, whichs honestly brought to tears. How on earth can I sit here for four to five hours trying to stay awake and then go back out into the cold morning, and that's if it stops raining.

Even though I successfully ignited my stove, it was little comfort in the fact that it was not large enough to dry my whole body. I did, however, manage to make a tin of hot tea which sent shivers of a tingling relief through me, and the cigarette which I had managed to roll erratically was a welcomed friend. I traipsed up and down the shelter but I seemed to be flogging a dead horse in my feeble and pathetic attempt to gather bodily warmth. I was wondering how Becky and the gang were fairing up there in the upland forest, but of course they must have been prepared for all elements of weather that came along. I was a mere neophyte in the art of wilderness survival, and was now wishing that I had taken up Becky’s generous offer.

I had choices to make now. Do I stay here until light? or do I go out into the storm and walk for the rest of the night? The latter will actually be a lot warmer, as my body would adapt to the wet conditions, and my continual movement would at least keep me warm. But if it stopped raining, it would become a horrible experience indeed.

I rolled six cigarettes, had another mess tin full of tea and then lifted my pack onto my back and set out into the pouring rain. I was now committed to the elements outside, and I just prayed that the rain would continue well into the morning; at least this would keep my body temperature reasonably steady.

Clacton’s backstreets seemed the perfect choice for walking in these conditions, as the buildings would become windbreaks, releasing at least one uncomfortable objective off my already burdened and soggy dilemma. The man on the radio (you know, the one in a central heated studio) said that it was pouring down in London. Well the capital is only a stone throw from here, and according to him it will continue well into the morning and then become showery in the afternoon. I was contemplating on jotting my obituary in my head and then inscribing it on a wall somewhere for when I am found floating in the gutter in the early morning. The only saving grace was the fact that I was now steaming hot and reasonably comfortable. I did own an umbrella, but that was as much use as a feather wielding pacifist Ghurkha in an Iranian mosque. I found another vacant bus shelter and boiled more water but found that I was down to the last drop in my bottle and so I put my tin under the best available rain shoot that felled the most rain. I sparked up another cigarette successfully, thanks to my good sense in keeping the lighter dry in a protective plastic bag. I then smoked pleasingly while my cup filled with rain, which had taken all of a minute, and in no time I would be supping warm tea.

My milk powder was wet, as was the sugar. But it would be used up today and then discarded into a bin, and during the day I would do some sort of shopping. However, I have hours of walking ahead of me, and a bridge of confusion naturally awaits me.

The morning light had threatened to appear on numerous occasions, or so it seemed. Maybe I had adapted somewhat to the dark, which may have tricked my mind in thinking that it shall be morning soon. I was surprisingly active and enjoying the experience of these conditions, and there were very little signs that the storm would cease anytime soon.

Inadvertently, I had made my way north and comfortably out of the main outskirts of the town. Ahead of me I could just make out some sort of upland forestry; in fact there was several in a juxtaposition line. I wondered if this was where Becky and her foes sheltered from such dastardly weather conditions. If not, I will attempt building a fire, as the light of the morning was now developing.

A pedometer would have been handy right now, as I would love to know the distance that I have travelled this morning. I calculated by the four hours trekking that I had completed in that time that I may well have covered in the region of 14 miles, and I was now at the zenith of rain walking and also needy of rest - although I still felt imperishable to nature’s acts of God.

Out of the plentiful array of woodlands to choose from, I selected one that seemed to own a mass of bracken. I climbed the shallow hill towards them and found that it was fenced off, seemingly to the public. I had by now reached the final episode of giving a fuck about the legislation of land ownership. If I am to be prosecuted under the 1676 law of trespassing to keep alive, then so be it. I carefully scaled the partially barbed wired fencing and fell flat on my face as my bootlace became entangled in a lone spike that had become detached over the years. I held my hand to my face, only to discover that I had sliced open my cheek. I swore to the heavens at the top of my voice, “For fuck sake, how much more pain do you want from me?”

I felt that I was being punished by unexplained sources from the Gods beyond as I began taking in more self pity. It was situations like these where I wished that I had made a better life in the preceding years, and I was now regretting these hellish corners that I had taken by chance.

I held my torch in front of me, and was almost hysterical when I found that I had just climbed a barbed wire fence only a metre away from a public hop-over. The wired fence was presumably for the safety of the resident livestock that sometimes wonder into these woods. I must confess that my rendition of Willem Defoe’s last involvement in the Oscar winning film ‘Platoon’ was a pretty good replica.

I sank to my knees and screamed in pain “Fuck you God” as an additional talky bit.

I took it that Becky’s gang were nowhere near to where I kneeled now, as they would have surely heard my cries. An ill feeling from the cold was setting in, along with a mild case of hysteria. I dragged myself tearfully along, picking up small wet remnants of branches that had fallen during last autumn’s fall. All I needed now was to find somewhere and hope that I can start a fire, and maybe even strip off and dry my saturated belongings.

Eventually a selection of loose Leylandia trees gave me my temporary camp. I erected my brolly and stashed yesterday’s tabloid into balls on the sodden ground to burn. I wasn’t confident in producing a continuous fire, but at the moment, even the slightest warmth from the Sun (unfortunately the newspaper) would at least give me a little ray of cheerfulness, even if it would only be for a few seconds. I placed the damp kindling upon the paper quite sparingly so as not to suffocate the matter in hand. My dribbling nose and self sympathetic tears combined at my chin as they dripped onto my last grasp of hope.

I first lit a cigarette before sparking the newspaper. The fern’s acted kindly as a windbreak, and a fire soon developed beneath me. The warmth from my spoils sent me into shivers of pleasure, but would it burn the tinder successfully? Within a few minutes, the sound of crackling wood and its ultimate spitting of remnant ash meant that I had indeed been successful. I gradually increased the size from kindle to sticks and eventually, small logs. I even dragged part of a fallen tree and placed it over the inferno. I now had a fire large enough to cause concern to the local environment, but I cared not.

Although I was a little worried over the initial smoke from the dampened timber, it soon disappeared, sending me into raptures of delight. It was still raining, but I had defeated the elements created by God. I emptied my pack onto the ground, and with the morning light now sufficient enough to see clearly, and of course the light from my potential forest fire, I hung some of my sodden clothing on the fern branches that hung from above me.

The rain was still coming through the tree and so I collected rainwater from the dripping branches, and soon my bottle was almost full of a cloudy liquid. Under my brolly I ignited my calor stove, but within seconds it went out. I was clever enough to stash two canisters inside my pack, so I unscrewed the empty one and put in the new one. 20 minutes later I was under my brolly totally naked supping tea and eating a chocolate bar in front of a beautiful fire.

My underwear hung on the end of a stick, and once they had dried I slipped them on. My socks had been steaming dry on the ground, and within a few minutes at the end of that faithful stick, they too were sufficiently warm enough to put on.

I had now decided that I was in a better shape to erect my angling tent. Although I was once again becoming wet after having come from under my umbrella, I had my new home up and running in a jiffy. My jeans were almost impossible to dry quickly, so I scrambled about half nude gathering timber from the woods and then placing them upon the fire, and at last I began to feel that I had succeeded at a task at last. Also my spirits were high and so I took time to look at the heavens, apologising to God for my blasphemous remarks earlier on. I actually felt that I belonged here, that I was ahead of priority amongst the squirrels, birds and whatever else crawl these sodden leafy floors. I was kingpin of the woods, I was a man who wanted no part in any other human contact, I became a misanthropist to all of man, and I was hungry, bloody hungry.

All this time I had the radio on, which was certainly adding to my already growing spirits. I searched inside my bag for any food that I may have forgotten about. There was unfortunately no food; just a half bottle of Captain Morgan’s rum hiding in one of the side zipper’s of my backpack. I had completely forgotten all about this medicinal need, considering it was the first item that I had actually packed before I left Birmingham. I already knew of the bottle of Newcastle Brown that I had purchased from The Queen’s pub last night, and soon a solo party was underway.