Adventures In The Potatoe Fields
Adventures In The Potato Fields
There’s nothing like a a jaunt out of London to revive one’s ailing spirits - of course I realize that not everybody lives in this sprawling southern sewer and some might even regard it as a place to come to for the replenishment of depleted joie de vivre.
Having been busy of late surfing the bi-polar big Wednesday brought on by kicking anti-depressants, then succumbing to a horribly tenacious little cold which has left me with a hacking nicotine gum cough and bleeding eyeball, I felt it was time to hit the north – or the upper south as it is now designated.
The A1, while lacking the folklore and neon signed romance of its American counterparts is not without its own grim charm. Who could fail to be moved by the garish glare of a roadside lap-dancing bar in the arse end of nowhere, promising adult fun to weary travellers? Readers, I didn’t stop and kept on truckin, sad for the women inside and the wretched circumstances which brought them there; but strangely impressed by the utter miserable seediness of the venture. This is still the England of post-war austerity, ration books and coupons – a place populated by Ruth Ellis’s and James Hanratty’s, and we’re not even at Peterborough yet.
The Peterborough effect – as it used to advertise when looking for inhabitants, was to send me completely the wrong way. Still undaunted, and enjoying the blanket of autumnal gloom spread across the land, while listening to an iPod which seemed to judge my mood perfectly, I continued. I found the flatlands of the A15. This road is essentially a race-track between potato fields. Should a tsunami ever hit Skegness, this will be the North Sea bed. Roadside markers advertise the staggering number of fatalities – perhaps caused by reading them and slamming into the tractor in front.
Having made it as far as Boston, the last leg of the journey was anything but fun. The Lincolnshire fens, while beautiful during the day, are hellish to drive through at night…especially if you are too stupid to read a map, and get lost, but are convinced that you recognize where you are, so keep on going, half-convinced that it will all come right. Apparently, the blackout is still in force up here. There are no street lights or cat’s eyes to guide you, everywhere is called Spillsby, Sibsey or Stickney, the RAF airfield you passed last time you were up here turns out to be one of dozens – the same goes for Old People and Blind People crossing signs – it’s a wonder that anyone can see again after the retina scorch of on-coming two-storey lorry headlights - It might have been safer just to roll the car over in a ditch and wait upside down until dawn…and curse Sir Walter Raleigh – he was such a stupid get.
At last, perseverance, desperation, and a little map reading in the car park of Morrison’s in Skegness remedied the error of my ways. Another death-defying screech back across the fens and woalds and I reached the destination of my relaxing break.
Thankfully, I am back in the London, revived, refreshed, culturally and spiritually enriched – having traipsed round Lincoln Cathedral, and am the possessor of an enormous pumpkin brought from a front garden, and a fifty pence, chipped and handle-less Victorian teacup with the face of a little girl on it who bears an uncanny resemblance to my daughter – A Halloween tale is forming.