A mystery-riddled walk
So we were staying in the Wye Valley Youth Hostel (and that's another story.) It's in Welsh Bicknor (so called because it's in England) and it's a strange place: the former rectory of the church next door, a church that sits in the wilds of the river bank and appears to administer to nobody at all except for passing water creatures. In the grounds is a dark abandoned railway tunnel. Across the river (in English Bicknor, so called because it's in England) is a deserted 1930s factory complex, long lines of red brick warehouses; I am sure I once killed zombies in a place just like that. The lane down to the hostel is steep, narrow and pot-holed, with a precipitous drop on one side, and a wall of stone on the other. (Even in our small car it felt scarynarrow.) A hairpin bend lies half way down, and there are no passing places whatsoever.
Anyway, I went out for a walk on Saturday morning, heading for Goodrich Castle. Tokens would be awarded for the fulfilment of certain tasks (part of the Another Story referred to above) and one was to take a photo on a local walk. Unfortunately, I didn't have my camera with me. Unfortunately, I did have my phone: "unfortunately" because I don't know how to use it, and when by some miracle I manage to jab at random buttons and produce photos, they're rubbish.
So I pointed it at a pretty manor in the valley below (later revealed as a priory) and pressed random buttons, and somehow managed to take a video of myself going "aaargh!" and then going "make it stop!" and jabbing at random buttons and going "Stop! Stop! Stop!"
It stopped. The putative manor smiled back at me from the valley, stubbornly unphotographed. My phone decided that my frenzied squeaking was a mortal insult, and spontaneously closed down. "Stupid putative manor house, anyway," I told it, and walked on.
Further on, I met a party of ramblers in their twenties, with pristine boots and a shiny, uncrumpled map. "The river's over there," one was saying, his voice slow and baffled. "But a minute ago, it was over there." We don't understand! their body language screamed. The world has gone mad!
They did not understand meanders, the poor dears. They will learn. Oh, they will learn.
Down in Goodrich, I was accosted by a lady on a horse. "Come down this lane!" she said. "There's a man in a van and I can't tell if he's alive!" I followed nervously. "I'm too high up," she explained. "I can't get low enough to see if he's breathing." I continued to follow. "An hour ago, I wouldn't have worried that he was dead," she said, "but it's nearly ten o'clock!"
We reached the van. A man lay curled up across the front two seats, head pillowed on a coat, hands pulled up snugly to his chest. "Is he breathing?" the lady asked me. "Can you see?" I bent my knees to get my eyes down to the level of his shoulders, sighted them against a flat surface, and tried to see if they moved. "Knock on the window!" she urged me, but suddenly the man twitched. "He twitched!" I declared in triumph, giving her a thumb's up. A car edged past her horse slowly, peering suspiciously at us. "What a relief!" she said. I backed away rapidly, in case the twitching was going to lead to eyes opening, and he was going to rise up from the seat, bellowing WHO WOKE ME?
We parted. I walked. I walked. I walked. Um… shouldn't I have met a right turn for the castle by now? I thought. I walked. I walked. I walked. Goodrich was now a distant blur far behind me. At length, I concluded that the only possible road to the castle was the lane where I'd been led to inspect to undead white van man; the lane where I had been sufficiently consternated and confused to fail to notice the great big "castle this way!" sign above his undead head.
I thus retraced my steps. Undead white van man was now up and about, and had turned into a hale and hearty I'mNotDead! builder. I hoped he hadn't opened his eyes and noticed me peering into his bedroom, an anxious horse lady (and horse) looming above me. Just in case, I removed my distinctive furry hat (it was hot) and sauntered past him, trying to exude an air of Only Just Arrived In Goodrich, of Certainly Not Been Here Trying To Wake The Dead Only Half An Hour Before.
I reached the castle and went in. "But I haven't got time to see the castle," I told the nice English Heritage lady at the counter. "I need to get a souvenir from a local tourist attraction, which will earn me tokens which will help us find out how to fix the broken time machine." We had a short chat about this, during which she concluded that whatever it was I was involved in this weekend was "just like the Ramblers Association." (It wasn't.) She then told me that it was going to rain in the afternoon. (It didn't.) "It's okay," I assured her. "We've got about 150 hours' worth of board games in the house." (We did.)
"Are you sure you don't want to see the castle?" she asked me hopefully. No, I told her. Time machines to investigate. Board games to play. Dead men to raise.
I did not see the Confused Ramblers on the way home, but the undead builder was still building away (he gave no sign of knowing me or holding a grudge.) I saw no-one else on the way home, but the following day, when leaving, we saw a small group of elegant elderly people who appeared to be dressed for a 1930s country house shooting party.
The Welsh Marches are a Very Strange Place.
Anyway, I went out for a walk on Saturday morning, heading for Goodrich Castle. Tokens would be awarded for the fulfilment of certain tasks (part of the Another Story referred to above) and one was to take a photo on a local walk. Unfortunately, I didn't have my camera with me. Unfortunately, I did have my phone: "unfortunately" because I don't know how to use it, and when by some miracle I manage to jab at random buttons and produce photos, they're rubbish.
So I pointed it at a pretty manor in the valley below (later revealed as a priory) and pressed random buttons, and somehow managed to take a video of myself going "aaargh!" and then going "make it stop!" and jabbing at random buttons and going "Stop! Stop! Stop!"
It stopped. The putative manor smiled back at me from the valley, stubbornly unphotographed. My phone decided that my frenzied squeaking was a mortal insult, and spontaneously closed down. "Stupid putative manor house, anyway," I told it, and walked on.
Further on, I met a party of ramblers in their twenties, with pristine boots and a shiny, uncrumpled map. "The river's over there," one was saying, his voice slow and baffled. "But a minute ago, it was over there." We don't understand! their body language screamed. The world has gone mad!
They did not understand meanders, the poor dears. They will learn. Oh, they will learn.
Down in Goodrich, I was accosted by a lady on a horse. "Come down this lane!" she said. "There's a man in a van and I can't tell if he's alive!" I followed nervously. "I'm too high up," she explained. "I can't get low enough to see if he's breathing." I continued to follow. "An hour ago, I wouldn't have worried that he was dead," she said, "but it's nearly ten o'clock!"
We reached the van. A man lay curled up across the front two seats, head pillowed on a coat, hands pulled up snugly to his chest. "Is he breathing?" the lady asked me. "Can you see?" I bent my knees to get my eyes down to the level of his shoulders, sighted them against a flat surface, and tried to see if they moved. "Knock on the window!" she urged me, but suddenly the man twitched. "He twitched!" I declared in triumph, giving her a thumb's up. A car edged past her horse slowly, peering suspiciously at us. "What a relief!" she said. I backed away rapidly, in case the twitching was going to lead to eyes opening, and he was going to rise up from the seat, bellowing WHO WOKE ME?
We parted. I walked. I walked. I walked. Um… shouldn't I have met a right turn for the castle by now? I thought. I walked. I walked. I walked. Goodrich was now a distant blur far behind me. At length, I concluded that the only possible road to the castle was the lane where I'd been led to inspect to undead white van man; the lane where I had been sufficiently consternated and confused to fail to notice the great big "castle this way!" sign above his undead head.
I thus retraced my steps. Undead white van man was now up and about, and had turned into a hale and hearty I'mNotDead! builder. I hoped he hadn't opened his eyes and noticed me peering into his bedroom, an anxious horse lady (and horse) looming above me. Just in case, I removed my distinctive furry hat (it was hot) and sauntered past him, trying to exude an air of Only Just Arrived In Goodrich, of Certainly Not Been Here Trying To Wake The Dead Only Half An Hour Before.
I reached the castle and went in. "But I haven't got time to see the castle," I told the nice English Heritage lady at the counter. "I need to get a souvenir from a local tourist attraction, which will earn me tokens which will help us find out how to fix the broken time machine." We had a short chat about this, during which she concluded that whatever it was I was involved in this weekend was "just like the Ramblers Association." (It wasn't.) She then told me that it was going to rain in the afternoon. (It didn't.) "It's okay," I assured her. "We've got about 150 hours' worth of board games in the house." (We did.)
"Are you sure you don't want to see the castle?" she asked me hopefully. No, I told her. Time machines to investigate. Board games to play. Dead men to raise.
I did not see the Confused Ramblers on the way home, but the undead builder was still building away (he gave no sign of knowing me or holding a grudge.) I saw no-one else on the way home, but the following day, when leaving, we saw a small group of elegant elderly people who appeared to be dressed for a 1930s country house shooting party.
The Welsh Marches are a Very Strange Place.