Freewheelin’ East Anglia – Day 2 – Richard Alpert In Chains

Tour Journal – East Anglia – Day 2

Date: 16 November 2013
Transport: Train
Franchise: Greater Anglia
Depart: Colchester, Essex.
Arrive: Ipswich, Suffolk.
Activity: Busking.

There’s probably some completely sensible astrological explanation for today’s over-arching sense that somewhere, just around the corner, What Really Needs to be Done for Today to Achieve its Full Potential is lying in wait, safe in the knowledge that this is not the day I will discover it.

Or will I? Like Richard Alpert in chains, extraordinary things have already occurred, and extraordinary things await. Yet one still feels trapped inside the Black Rock, with the key to the shackles just out of reach. I have come to Ipswich. I have conquered. I am hungry for more.

Woke this morning in Colchester after at least six hours’ uninterrupted sleep. Absolutely fucking amazing. Once you get out of London, the English really, really know how to accommodate. Luxurious, uncompromising mattresses. A snack in the fridge in case you’re hungry when you arrive. All the colours of the tea-and-coffee rainbow. A little sash over the toilet seat – just so you know in the back of your mind that Civilisation has graced this particular incarnation of Thomas Crapper’s legacy with disinfectant – and a sash on the pillows too, to indicate firmness.

And let’s not forget the horizontally-positioned duvet cover cover, which allows you to sit on the bed in your disgusting London Town jeans, and not have to worry about whether Such Filth will be transferred later on to your freshly-showered ballsack when you are rolling around with no clothes on. The Queen probably has a word for that item, but fucked if I know what it’s called.

With breakfast conquered, enthusiasm ensued. Train to Ipswich in seven minutes. Had a window seat to myself. Beautiful scenery as pretty-verdant Essex gave way to famously-rural Suffolk. I suddenly realised how much I loved what I was doing and how deeply I had missed travelling town-to-town; staring out the window every day, reading the landscape like God’s greatest and most important novel.

This is how you get to know Country, folks – by travelling through it, over it, under it – watching its endless subtleties unfold as town morphs into countryside and back again. It’s possible to do by coach or car or bike of course, but it’s the seamlessness and efficiency of trains that makes them the undisputed kings of transportation. Simply grand.

Epic town hall overlooking the markets in Ipswich town square

Within twenty minutes I was on the platform in Ipswich. New county, new city, new possibilities. I’d chosen to visit solely because it is Suffolk’s county town (capital). It was an unknown quantity. Lonely Planet Guide snub it completely – in print and online. Greater Anglia‘s tourism pamphlet said something about shopping. I supposed it was a place that people were from, rather than one they went to.

In fact, everywhere I read, Suffolk seemed to be derided as a sleepy backwater that peaked in the middle-ages. And, having been here today, I don’t think that’s entirely fair. Ipswich on a Saturday is a bustling city that mixes thriving (post-)modernity with an epic town history that dates from the rule of King Rædwald in the early AD600s.

Several blocks’ worth of Ipswich’s town centre is paved for pedestrian malls, full of just about every kind of shop you can imagine existing in a small city. The gorgeous town square facilitates an enormous market. It was Saturday. The market smelled like an actual farm. I soon realised this was a big day out for these people. The wellington boots had been exchanged for smart sensible footwear.

The farmers of Suffolk had come to town with their families to shop. And… wait for it… there were no other buskers around.

I just about jizzed in my pants.

Quick! To the pub. Lunch. Think about what to do with these bags. Just bring them. Scout for a pitch. Found one I had spotted on the way in, played two songs… 3 pence dropped. Shit! Too quiet. Scout. Set up slightly awkwardly between two shops that had a gap between display windows, so no shopowners could complain that I was blocking their advertisements.

Commence busking in earnest. Confident now. Success!! By about 45 minutes into this set, I felt absolutely bloody fantastic. Yesterday’s throat problems were long gone, the weather was awesome, the street was packed to the brim with shoppers.

There were shitloads of kids there, and grannies too – which is great – but I did ease up on the throttle a little for their sake. Rockaway Beach is fine; but perhaps spare them having to explain the consequences of sectarian alienation on disenfranchised youth in Belfast in the late-1970s – at least for today. But make sure Old Fatty is in there, with all its gravitas. Make them think, but give them no ammunition.

Ipswich bed has been waiting for me all day.

My room was 15 minutes out of town, but my god, it’s a comfortable little abode. When I walk into a room like this I think well… perhaps I could stay for a couple of days? – and, of course, I could, but it would be shit. Do the job, get out, do the next one. The universe thrives on industry.

Back into town – and again the curse of the sun going down so early in this part of the world. Tried a couple of pitches but nothing quite gelled, and you could tell that an exodus was coming. Trucks rocked up. Stalls were unpacked. Someone let off a jackhammer.

What the fuck? I thought. No!!

I wanted to play again for at least 70-80 minutes – maybe 90 – I wanted to knuckle in and take a hold of Ipswich and make it my bitch. I could tell Ipswich was up for it. Wonderful golden pounds began to drop. A woman gave me a fistful of silver and said “buy yourself a beer!”

But people had places to go. Farms, I reckoned.

I wandered down to the deserted marina, where a small handful dined at a PizzaExpress. So much for the restaurant district!

Damn it Ipswich, you turned me on and left, and now I am going to wander around the house all night wondering whether it’s my fault.

Decided to return to the pub where I had lunch. Beautiful wooden panelling in there…. but they’d cut off the food. Damn it! So I settled for a nearby Wetherspoons – yucky corporate pub chain, but at least you know what you’re getting.

Ordered bangers and mash and immediately developed a crush on the barmaid. Spent the meal pondering – not for the first time – how on Earth to get to know hospitality staff, when they’re working, and I’m drinking, and they’re serving me. And here she comes again…

Don’t be That Guy, I thought to myself. Nobody wants to be That Guy.

I mean, I am pretty sure that I am not That Guy, but what if I am? Nobody wants to feel uncomfortable in the workplace. And what is this anyway? I am quite sure I could could get to know this woman, but will I like her as much when she’s not working..?

So I bought some cans of Guinness and reviewed a George Harrison record.