South Riding 20: The End

Diggers on the M25 and I know I am nearly home

Total: 3 Days 150 miles.

I need a final post to wrap up my journey. This has been hanging a round too long.

My initial plan was to talk about the final cycle ride and how tired I felt. So tired, everything was done on automatic. It should not have been like this as it was only a 35 mile mile day but the cumulative effect, on someone who had not been doing enough cycling before setting off, was heavy. There is not much to say about it except I got through. There were however moments of pleasure, one of which was cycling up to High Barnet and realising the hill was not as steep as I thought it would be.

Perhaps that is one of the lessons of the trip: do not over emphasise difficulties, just get on and work them out as you go along. If you are not careful pre-visualisation can be a powerful negative force.

In the end though I was happy to reach the familiar landscapes of Hertfordshire. When I finally got home a feeling of relief and happiness washed over me. After some food, I lay down and let my mind swirl with images and memories from the past three days. It had been worth doing.

This final post really ought to be a summation of what I found and an attempt to draw some conclusions. But where to start?

The answer came yesterday when I was listening to Russell Brand plugging his latest book. He was asked if he now considered Los Angeles his home. He said no and quoted a line from Howard Barker:

"In the end there is nowhere left to go than where you are from"

That is it! The summary of the whole trip.

It took me back to Colliers Wood, where I lived for my first eight years. When I stood in front of that house and walked the streets, there were a heap of memories, random events that I didn't write about:

I remembered the way my grandfather loved Music Hall and used to sing Harry Champion:

Boiled beef and carrots
Boiled beef and carrots
That's the stuff for your derby kell
Makes you fat and it keeps you well
Don't live like vegetarians on stuff they feed to parrots
From noon till night blow out your kite
On boiled beef and carrots

I have just typed that out from memory so it might not be 100% accurate (in fact I am sure the 4th line is 'makes you fit' but fat is what I always heard). It made a big impression. I can remember loving the sound of the words 'derby kell' and the idea of 'blowing out your kite'. Other, more cultured people, might cite poetry or high class literature but for me the enjoyment and appreciation of words came from Music Hall.

In the same way I was fascinated by Max Miller. My father had a record of one of his performances and I can remember playing it over and over again. Of course I didn't understand the sexual innuendo. I just loved the way he repeated things and drew you in close as if he was having a natter with the audience: "I say here's a funny thing. Here's a funny thing". I could appreciate something about the rhythm of the performance, could sense something was happening but I didn't really know what it was.

I remember my first stupid argument (not the normal tussles and frustrations but an argument about something stupid). It was with a boy at primary school who insisted the best car ever made was a Vauxhall because that's what his dad had. I got agitated because I knew it was bad reasoning but could not explain why and had to fall back on 'everyone knows its a Rolls Royce' (which is also logically weak).

I also remember something that has a link with this cycling trip. When I was seven I had a scooter that I loved to push along the pavement. One day I started out on the road to Cricket Green and just kept on going until I got there. It was not planned. I just went bit by bit. At first I was just going to one road junction, then I went to the next and then the next and so on. When I got back my mother was furious with worry and I couldn't understand why she didn't share my pride at how far I had explored (now of course I fully understand). I was not a rebellious or difficult child. I just lived in a world of my own.

Looking back suddenly understand that I am still that seven year old: I still live in my own world; I still go on excursions by bike or running; I still get frustrated by false or weak logic; I still appreciate lots of things without fully understanding them; and I still love the sound of words and the way they can be played with.

The child is the father to the man and yes - In the end I have nowhere left to go than where I am from.