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Published: September 9th 2006
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In a spasm of giddiness and last-minute planning, we’ve decided to leave London for a long weekend, cruising around the south in Greg’s new camper van. The morning is decidedly off to a keystone start, with ample head-slapping and running in circles. We’ve planned to set off by 10am at the latest , but it’s half-past twelve when I see Lenny trudging out into the Lidl parking lot with two fat bags of groceries. We stop at Greg’s place for more supplies. His mother - a flushed, mirthful woman - greets us with a newborn tucked beneath her arm. We’re steered into the living room and offered drinks, while Greg’s sullen sister shifts moodily on the sofa. From the looks she and her mother exchange across the room, it’s clear there’s a serious power struggle at work. Greg sits on the edge of the sofa and strokes her hair; her face lights up. Their mother is laughing at something she’s said - her head tipped back, her shoulders shaking, the laughter roaring up from her stomach.
On the road we’re devouring a date and walnut cake baked by Auntie Val. It’s taken us hours to finally make it out of
London. Greg’s proudly pushing his brown beast past 70 down the freeway - on her maiden voyage, she’s holding up well. In the past year Greg’s had a couple of automotive meltdowns, and at every bump in the road, you can feel his shoulders tense. He grimaces when Lenny takes over behind the wheel. She’s having trouble finding the gears, and when she shifts, the transmission makes a grinding noise like the approach of the Apocalypse.
It’s half-past four when we get to Stonehenge. They’ve built the highway so close to the ruins that you can practically clip the hippies with your passenger-side door. The ruins are roped off from about 30 feet, and flocks of tourists circle around them, holding handsets to their ears. A long line of traffic is chugging along the highway. Even the sheep - making little sheep noises off to the side - don’t look too thrilled to be here. Suspicions abound that they’ve been trucked in to add a touch of English quaintness. In the gift shop, they’re hawking small scale models of the ruins for 30 quid.
“That’s bollocks, isn’t it?” Greg says. It’s his first trip to the ruins, too.
Barreling down the highway, Lenny tells us about scampering over the rocks during her childhood. Under Prime Minister Thatcher, the work of preserving and protecting such British icons as Stonehenge began in earnest. Around the summer solstice each year, there were stand-offs and skirmishes between police forces and the barefoot revelers who came to visit. You can imagine the fierce resistance put up by a bunch of glass-eyed druids.
Lenny’s working the gears like they’ve said nasty things about her mum. En route to Exeter we make a detour through Shaftesbury, where she’s been talking up some postcard views. We make a wrong turn off a round-about. After 20 minutes, we get directions from three girls glammed up for a night on the town. They’re wearing long white t-shirts and tight-fitting jeans and gold, glittering belts that apparently came from the three-for-one bin. After we’ve paused to admire the view, we see them again marching down the street, boldly clutching their handbags and taking militant strides.
The streets are mostly deserted; little has been said about Shaftesbury’s nightlife, and rightfully so. A few drunk lads with tough, ruddy faces are smoking cigarettes outside the pubs, and we high-tail
it to Exeter in time to set up camp with the last embers of daylight. Greg struggles with his tent: he’s borrowed it from a friend, and with all its copious clips, hoops and buckles, I suspect it came half-off at some bondage store in SoHo. We pop in a nearby pub for pints, while Lenny takes off to retrieve her boyfriend at the train station. They barely make it back in time for last call, flushed and all smiles. Benny smiles broadly and pumps my hand at our introduction. The bartender is clanging his bell, asking, “Can you finish your drinks, please? Can you finish your drinks?”
In the morning we bathe in a stream beside the campsite. Sunlight pours through the trees, pondskaters dart and glide across the water. We spend the day driving through broad, nettled fields, past postcard cottages and weary cows that chew unhurriedly by the side of the road. Sheep crowd the shoulder, completely undeterred by the prospect of six tons of VW camper van turning them into so many cotton balls. It’s a bit disconcerting to watch these little guys blinking dimly as we pass. You see centuries of human progress
and technological advances boiled down to a scary cipher when you can’t even muscle your way past a flock of sheep.
In the fading daylight we make it to Sidmouth, a favorite for pensioners and rumpled retirees on a stretch of coast affectionately dubbed “Death Row.” Mingled with the scent of fresh sea air is the sense of many impending coronaries. Stricken old couples hobble along the promenade, wearing loose, unfashionable trousers that flap like pennants in the wind. An ambulance idles outside a stately hotel, possibly on stand-by. The shops sell tweed ties and over-priced knick-knacks, lending credence to the belief that the old, eccentric and shamelessly rich will pay good money for just about anything.
In neighboring Sidbury we stop for drinks, undressed by the suspicious stares of the locals. At one table, three generations of hard-drinking regulars are laughing and smoking heavily. Lenny explains how during the post-war years, when whole villages - bombed-out and ruinous - were being razed and rebuilt, the church and the pub were sometimes the only original buildings left standing. At a time when American families were buying Chevy’s, moving to the suburbs and cooking up TV dinners,
desperate Englishmen were still trading in ration coupons for food.
Lenny wants to make a documentary on how her grandparents’ generation navigated the treacherous middle years of the century. She says, “You can imagine the stories some of these people have to tell, dyouknowhatImean?”
They sit at the tables around us, taking small sips of their pints and mashing their lips.
At the campsite, Benny fires up the music on his laptop. He tells us about his trip to Mozambique, hopping up between songs to change the playlist. He speaks five languages, and his taste in music likewise seems to scamper across the globe. A French folk song with an accordion tune merges with Jimmy Smith and A Tribe Called Quest. I get up to watch the silhouettes of horses in the field nearby, neighing and clopping over the wet grass. Behind me, Benny and Greg - their faces illumined by the blue glow of the computer screen - sway and rock to the music.
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