2005-01-12

Winchester yesterday: ancient capital of England! Legendary seat of Saxon kings! In fact, I popped into the cathedral and took a few snaps of a carved wooden box containing the bones of several of said kings going back to the 9th Century. I’m sure King Aethelred would have died a happier man knowing that his earthly remains would be providing entertainment to ghoulish tourists from halfway around the globe a thousand years into the future. Fuck me I love history. I also trod upon the grave of Jane Austen. She’s much shorter in person.

After that bit of fun, I hiked up St Giles Hill to a promontory perched in a grove of majestic yew trees, which dripped majestically on my head in the dank English drizzle, whence I gazed upon – or rather squinted at – the city spread idyllically before me, receding into the thick winter fog. Then I enjoyed a well-deserved pint of bitter at the Royal Oak, which claims to be the oldest bar in England, whilst waiting for my trousers to dry off. It just doesn’t get much more British than that, no sir.

The day took a bit of an upswing, and then a downswing, when I stopped in at another bar for an evening-capper, was adopted by the locals, as per usual, and managed in the heat of conviviality to miss my last bus. I sprinted to the train station just in time to catch the last train of the evening, dishing out an extra £7.50 for the pleasure. On my way home, I gripped my seat armrests like a pair of hand-held life-saving devices, desperately willing the train to stop rocking and pitching: I’m afraid a long evening’s worth of ale and no supper had left my tummy a bit poorly. Thankfully, I arrived home without inflicting any fresh stainage upon the upholstery. All in a day’s work!