The written thoughts of a traveller.
Touring with Rock ‘n’ Roll bands; exploring Europe and the world; flirting in bars… and some naughtiness.
Oh, and all with a trombone. Enjoy..
Great Aunt Gwen is attired in leather driving gloves, happily piloting the Mercedes well under the speed limit. Full beam dazzles other road users, and she occasionally deigns to indicate off a roundabout, all the while calling me ‘daahling.’ She is taking me to a Lancashire village, for a hearty meal with her daughter, Judith,
Bury, near Manchester, has a famous market. Famous for what, though, I wonder? Well, not much, except hot Vimto drinks and superfluous apostrophes. I hate to harp on; comparable to world poverty and war-ravaged states, the erroneous apostrophe is hardly a humdinger of an issue. Yet Britain’s educational downward spiral is a shame. Nipping the
What with all the excitement, I forgot to mention that Namibian – or Don Juan, to his friends – has had a ladyfriend with him for the last few days. No, she has not been picked up as a disposable pleasure along the way; this is Janet, and they live together. Namibian, rather generously, has
I suppose you think I’m well rested after a good night’s sleep? No, I’m not, thanks for asking. Why does the human body, when seriously in need of recovery, wake us up for no earthly good reason? At 4am I get a serious bout of hiccups. There is surely a medical reason for the affliction
The colour of one’s deckchair is crucial: it calls into question one’s sexuality. The good news, then, is that my green deckchair left in Zurich was not in fact ruined, but rescued by another driver: hawk-eyed Ken. The bad news.. Erm, there isn’t any bad news except that most of us could happily have remained
Grandparents are not to be taken for granted. I am incredibly lucky to have three of them still kicking about, and really do thank my lucky stars. My advice is to make the most of them while they’re still with you. Grandma is now 90 but still full of beans – certainly potty, but compos
Though AC/DC are in London for three days, and there are zillions of things to do in the city, I’ve gone home again. I agonised a bit at first, because really I should take the opportunity to visit city-dwelling chums. But then I thought: ‘No, blast them, I’m going back to the beach.’ I know
If you can cast your mind back a week or so, you’ll remember we were enjoying rather splendid weather in Zurich. As a result, the inimitable Namibian generously loaned out my deckchair – an essential piece of touring apparatus – to a long-haired girl. Strict instructions were left, to the tune of: ‘Leave the chair
Hooray – we are finally travelling home. It’s a little sad to hug Swiss Julian goodbye, though – we have twenty years of shared adventures, from drinking cans of Super Kestrel and walking through bonfires in our formative years, to using road bollards as didgeridoos in our thirties. Even sadder is Namibian. Oh, I mean
“Barnaby’s thoughtful musings on his voyage through life. You are not alone as you travel that valley my son.”
Father Pius Smith, Hastings.
