Freewheelin’ East Anglia – Day 4 – Thrive By The Sea

Tour Journal – East Anglia – Day 4

Date: 18 November 2013
Transport: Train.
Franchise: Greater Anglia
Depart: Oulton Broad North, Suffolk.
Arrive: Lowestoft, Suffolk.
Activity: Busking, songwriting.

Today was always going to be heading toward Rest Day – the glooooooorious half-way mark in any week-long travelling showcase. But things didn’t exactly go to plan yesterday. I didn’t quite comprehend how isolated I was going to be out there on Oulton Broad. Don’t get me wrong, there were some cool little spots, and at least a couple of great pubs. But there was no way a nighttime trip to Lowestoft was going to work. 40 minutes on foot, I was told, or a ride on the diesel inter-city train I’d rode in on. I didn’t fancy it. And there was nowhere to busk out there either. It was a one-road town.

Had dinner at a place called The Wherry, down on the wee lock that joins the eponymous Broad to Lake Lothing and the North Sea. Gorgeous little spot, gigantic pub and the food was absolutely magnificent. Plus their wi-fi actually worked, which was great for getting some work done, not so much for blogging at the end of the night, which is essential routine. The last thing anybody needs is to wake up with a blog to finalise – they are a shitload of work, and there are other things to do. Like booking ahead to the next town. And trying to earn some money. I could go on and on.

Awoke today in the Death Star just before 5am. I’d managed to put away enough Guinness to get me to sleep for a few hours, but given the small matter of the corpses downstairs, and the fact that I couldn’t get my online shit done properly as I had hoped, it was never going to be the best night’s sleep. This all might sound ridiculous, by the way, if you’ve never woken up in the middle of the night in the midst of sleep paralysis. There was no way I was going to be able to tolerate that kind of shit out here, in the middle of nowhere. The huge, cold room already felt deeply lonely.

I spent the early morning songwriting, which is something I haven’t taken the opportunity to do properly since I left Australia back in early April. I tend to be a sporadic songwriter, putting up my antenna when I’m ready and tuning into a frequency, like Keith Richards. Some songs (like Bulwer Street Waltz) come fully-formed. Othertimes you just get a little pip – a signpost or two – and you have to try and build the rest of the thing based on that. Today’s song is in the latter category. Musically, it’s pretty damn watertight. The tune will stay with you for weeks. It has anger, power, conviction, emotion, melancholy; all hooked in tight like a fist. Making the most of that lyrically is the challenge, and the sucker ain’t anywhere near ready yet. But it’s nice to have new shizzy in the works.

Pretty consuming work, songwriting, but eventually I was able to walk away from the thing, pack my bags and make my way to Oulton Broad North, which is literally around the corner from the Death Star in the opposite direction from its counterpart station. Had to wait about 15 minutes on this 19th Century platform that probably looks much the same now as it would have in 1950. Enjoyed the historicalness and the prospect of finally making my destination – Lowestoft – literally seven minutes down the line.

Oulton Broad North

What surprised the absolute shit out of me was the considerable size of Lowestoft, and its unexpectedly large port facilities! I cannot remember the last time I was in a port city – it would have to be Fremantle, back at home, and god knows when that was. Oh, I tell a lie, it was Hong Kong, in April, but TST is a long way from any portainers.

Here, peering out of the little diesel train, I had an aesthetic pleasuregasm at some of the run-down 20th Century industry. The heavily overgrown in situ rails in the goods yard at Lowestoft station looked amazing. That’s the kind of stuff I grew up around, a kid amongst the wharves and rail-yards of declining late-80s/early-90s Albany.

As a kid, I would wander abandoned rail lines and wonder where they went, how they ran, what it was like in the heyday, before road freight and bulk handling rendered them obsolete. It all seemed just so out of reach. Lowestoft has that same sense of romance. The goods trains fizzed out in the 1980s, but the rails are still there – still operable, too. I liked this place immediately.

I’d made it to the easternmost railway station in the UK, and just as importantly, I’d made it to the sea. I’d seen the sea in Blackpool back in August, but this was The Sea – with ships, docks, cranes. The real deal. And the main street of the town was paved as a pedestrian mall, just like in Ipswich. Outstanding! I made a beeline for a local coffee shop, fired up the lappy and checked the train timetables. Originally I had planned to head inland to Norwich for a total of two nights–give me some time to explore and take a rest from the check-out/train/check-in/busk cycle. But I’d decided to take this opportunity to explore the coast more instead, so I was going to go north to Great Yarmouth for the night.

No train!

The trip between the two towns double-backs on two lines, which is a bit awkward, so trains seem to only run once a day. There was probably a way around it – perhaps a road coach – but my mind was made up immediately. We would stay here tonight. Somewhere half-decent. I booked a guesthouse around the corner. 12pm check-in. Amazing. And it really is such a nice little place. Everything is so dainty and ridiculously English. I think the landlady got a shock when I rocked up on her doorstep, dressed totally in black, carrying two black bags and my black rock’n’roll roadcase with my pointy shoes. But we had a nice chat, talked about travel and study and her son who went to Australia. There’s a full cooked breakfast tomorrow. Free of charge. Haven’t had one of those for while. I needed this.

So finally, at 4:30pm, I headed down the main drag – the London Road North mall – set up a pitch and played some tunes. Late afternoon can be a very depressing time for a busker. But it was OK, I just wanted to play for a bit, and I think people needed it. It had been a grey afternoon, with intermittent rain. Like any port town, there’s a definite rough edge to this place – some gnarly dudes around, and times are lean right now. But people in general were very forthcoming. I met another bunch of lads on push-bikes, one of whom made his entrance by skidding up in front of my case. I wasn’t so sure about these guys. But I showed them what I did, and they respected that, I think.

Then I busted my g-string and called it a day.

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.

Freewheelin’ East Anglia – Day 1 – Back Like Kerouac

Tour Journal – East Anglia – Day 1

Date: 15 November 2013
Transport: Train
Franchise: Greater Anglia
Depart: Liverpool Street, City of London.
Arrive: Colchester, Essex.

Spent the past three days holed up in Paddington – a ridiculously posh area of London where some joker has purchased a hotel and elected to rent the rooms out budget while they’re renovating.

There I was, in amongst the intergenerational mahogany bookshelves of the City of Westminster, sitting in the cheapest hotel room that side of Stratford, attempting to acclimatise to possessing only things I can carry with me. It really does get easier every time.

In fact, moving on from five months settled in West London has been the cruisiest and happiest and most organised move of my whole life – still, I was pretty damn sleep-deprived by the time we rolled out of London Liverpool Street just after lunch.

Got an awwwwwesome seat on the train. Quite by accident, I found the quiet carriage.

Unusual noises. Cute woman transporting a kitten. Jet black in colour.

“Une pussay noir” – a very different cat – encountered around the Quartier Pigalle, Paris, France on 3 November 2013.

“Oh, it is a kitten!” I rejoiced.

“I’ll try and keep him quiet,” she replied.

End convo. That’s not what I had meant at all. I probably should have proposed to her instead.

Ride to Colchester takes about an hour through grey Stratford, brown terraced outer suburbs and beyond into gorgeous green rural England.

Finally – after nearly seven months – I’m out of London.

But not very much notice prior to reaching my stop. Collected my belongings. Left my ticket on board. What’s the bet some cunt asks me for it at the gate? Indeed. There was no going around.

I approached the two security men confidently.

“I left my ticket…” I said to one, “uh… you know, in the bit… on the top… of the seat. Where the tickets go… on the train.”

“Okay sir,” said the other, “I will have to ask you to step over here to one side with me.”

Instantly I knew this guy was going to rubber stamp me – after all, I had the appropriate credentials.

Still, whether an official procedure exists for this type of thing, or whether he was just going to make a procedure up as he went along, he was definitely going to make sure he enjoyed every millisecond of our ensuing conversation.

“So you left your ticket on the train,” he began. “And Colchester is your final destination?” I felt like I was going through airport Customs.

It continued. Phone out. Showed him the booking confirmation. He asked approximately what price my ticket had cost. Then we double-checked the email again to make sure the location was correct.

Then he asked for my bank card. I didn’t even know this was a thing. I think he caught on that it was weird. But he had to follow through.

“I’m very sorry about this sir,” he finally said with that distinctive reading the procedures manual inflection that police and security personnel worldwide all seem to have mastered.

“Ordinarily I would be forced to convict you for fare evasion,” he continued. “However you are lucky, I am in a good mood today.”

“Are you in a good mood?” he asked.

“Yeah man, I am.” I couldn’t believe this was still going.

“In future you must remember to keep your ticket with you at all times,” he continued, before explaining again that I could be convicted.

Finally – and very professionally – he saw me through the gate and I was set loose in Colchester. He was a good dude, really, with a different accent to what I am used to. Welcome to Essex.

Act: Benny Mayhem
Activity: Busking
Location: Colchester
Time: 5pm

I set up outside a bank on High Street, and sat around till the bank shut at five so as not to piss anybody off. Sun was fully set by 4:30pm – very strange seeing banks open at night time.

Short set – about 45 mins – felt really good but I cut things short when my throat hit a hurdle during Shivers. Not risking blowing a gasket this early in the week. Look after that bastard.

You know you’re starting a new level when you’re literally working for the coinage to buy a bottle of water to hydrate your throat. Did so.

Happy with that. By 6:00pm the entire city of Colchester appeared to be striding urgently toward home, and none of the pubs was vibing even for a meal, so I did the same. I got a big week ahead in unfamiliar territory.

Colchester so far? Quirky. Has potential.

My preconception was “Essex = chavs”—thanks to Lonely Planet guide for reminding me of that particular nugget of casual popular classism.

But I do like to generalise, and all I could think of pre-gig was chavs. How was this going to go? I do look forward to witnessing a chav, but was having visions of men in tracksuit pants attempting to mug me in a kebab store. Conflicted.

Instead the punters were all friendly (if reserved) and seemed to enjoy having a tune or two for the bus ride home.

Colchester itself is 2,500 years old – the oldest city in Britain. In fact, it was the capital of Roman Britannia, before local Queen Boudicca arked up and raised the place to the ground. Romans re-built but the title of capital got hand-balled to London, and the rest is history.

Anyway, I’m absolutely fucking destroyed, having written this, so it’s time to locate the healthiest and least expensive food from the closest possible location, and to weigh up whether to accompany it with a nice cold can of beer from the servo down the road.

We’ll see about sneaking in some Roman shit tomozza… xx

NB: No pics from today sadly. Some issues with acquisition of new photo footage. Equipment and storage problems mostly.