A TALE OF SIMPLE COUNTRY FOLK AND A PAIR OF LONDON TOWNIES

On Sunday 17^th July 2016 the other half and me set out for exploration of the Beds/Bucks countryside.  We were actually aiming for St Barnabas Church Leighton Buzzard followed by the nearby Rugby Club, but I like to treat every outing as a new adventure.  After all, that’s what life’s all about, new experiences.

A blazing hot day, we were in our Sunday best in honour of our Great Nephew’s baptism (his rather cute name is Oakley – where did they get that?  But being the youngest of three boys with nice normal names I guess they were running out of ideas). Anyway we loaded the car with a crate of water, changes of clothing (especially shoes in my case, there’s only so long I can wear heels these days) and a shedload of biscuits and medication in case my diabetes or a snowstorm kicked in. And of course AA printed directions for journeys to church then from church to reception. And a satnav just to be sure.

As it happened, the journey to the church was quite uneventful, it took less than 2 hours, though Other Half never did like driving down that way, too many country lanes.  His fears were to be proved right later.

The service was lovely and it was great to see my sister again (though like buses coming along 2 at a time, I usually only see her just once or twice a year, but saw her only a week ago at a school reunion), with her lovely family of 2 daughters, and 3 each of grandsons and granddaughters, two of whom are completely, and I mean completely, identical twins, who though only just 12 seem to be six foot tall. They play footie for Arsenal Ladies Juniors.

After the church we boarded our 10 year old but beautiful black Ford Focus estate which has seen us and our family through many ups and downs.  Little did we know just how up and down this journey would be.  Satnav found satellites. Recalculating. Turn left blah blah.  Recalculating (did she tut?) The journey should have taken 10 minutes.  40 minutes later we came to what I, unwilling and rubbish navigator that I am, believed to be the turn-off to the Rugby Club.  ‘Can’t be’ said he. ‘The sign says Eggington and we are looking for Stanbridge. Besides, look how narrow that road is’.

Recalculating.  The satnav directed us up the next right turn.  This looked even worse than the previous one, but him at the wheel getting overwrought, which makes him drive faster, and his language deteriorating every time the now hysterical satnav began ‘Recalculating’, we then missed the turn which would have taken us back to the main road, and found ourselves on what was scarcely a country track.  Hardly even a footpath.  On we went, me being cursed for my inability to read non-existent signs, and him worrying about the tyres and sump or something on the poor old but precious car.  Precious because both our daughters have used it a lot themselves and still do (especially when out of petrol in their cars) and my young daughter’s car being older than ours is often off the road and all of us extremely impecunious,  so if this car got damaged we would all be in a hole. 

Well there were plenty of holes to be in along this track, and having to drive so close to hedges, we were getting the nice black metallic paintwork all scratched. Not to mention filthy. Husband was not visibly impressed at my excitement when I spotted two badgers gambolling or was it frolicking at the side of the track. And in case you are wondering, not much mobile signal here, and my sister and her family being born-again country folk never have their mobiles on anyway except at work or in an emergency, which this was, but they didn’t know that did they?

Eventually a farm building came into sight at the end of the trail, and I leaped out to find someone to ask directions of. We stopped in a pothole by the most enormous barn I’ve ever seen, and was slightly spooked to realise it was full of what surely must be the biggest chunks of ancient farm machinery in the county.  I swear one of the rusting hulks of what I think might have been a threshing machine (but being a townie what do I know?) was the size of a double decker London bus. (In fact I wished it had been a bus in full working order, we had our Freedom Passes handy in our pockets too). Very impressive. There seemed to be room to turn round however, and though we risked impalement on a massive rusty plough looming over us as big as our sizeable car, we did manage to get back on the track.  I so wanted to take photos of these wonderful giants of the industrial revolution, but mention of this would have been red rag to a bull so in the circumstances I kept shtum, and I will probably always regret the loss of such a great photo opportunity as I feel it might be unwise to suggest a return to this place for photographic purposes in future.

Recalculating…Recalculating…Recalculating…eventually we found some houses, and I was all for knocking them up for directions, but then I spotted a lovely looking Curry House and went there instead.  I was sorry to dash the kindly Indian proprietors’ hopes of customers on this hot day, and though he was unsure of the rugby club’s exact whereabouts, he directed us to the main road where I would find a pub which he knew to be near our destination.  All aboard, his directions were fine and a nice couple enjoying a cool beer outside the Five Bells pointed the way, just a few minutes up the road. The road to Eggington which the Lord and Master had refused to try earlier. 

Over an hour after everyone else, we staggered into the marquee and up to the bar.  Double Happy Hour G&T for me (sadly proved to be bathtub not Gordons) and a large cold lemonade for the man, who then took great delight in recounting our adventures to our brother-in-law, who is wheelchair-bound but could find his way to Mars in his car without any directions let alone a satnav.  Luckily the cake had not all been consumed, and there followed a nice couple of hours with family and friends.

The journey home, thank goodness, was uneventful, hubby and brother-in-law (who knows everything about cars) having inspected underside of the family Focus and pronounced it sound.  One or two ‘Recalculating’s'  but nothing major. Having had by now three double bathtub specials I didn’t care anyway.

 I rather fancy I shall never live this one down, in spite of the fact we would have been spared all this if the ever cautious one had not dismissed my directions as the ravings of a madwoman, (which does happen sometimes I must admit). Whoever knew country Christenings could be so perilous?

Think I’ll stick to Croydon.