Between Then and Now
My favourite song at the moment is Divine Comedy’s “The Best Mistakes I’ve Ever Made” – partly because it seems to be playing every time I switch the radio on, partly because I think Neil Hannon’s writing has a beautiful message and partly because it’s got a nice tune that even a musical numpty like me can hum along to. Indeed I was humming it as I walked around Llangattock in Powys last Sunday so I want to apologise to Neil for the misappropriation of his lyrics in this blog and I want to reassure you that using photographs which relate to my now rather than my then may seem like a mistake but it’s not.
I kind of like remembering
I think we all know how much I love maps so it will come as no surprise that I have a fairly large collection of dog-eared, creased, water-stained, falling-apart OS maps of various parts of the country. Some are of places I’ve visited, some of places I intend to visit and some are of places I know that I’ll never get to in reality so a map is the next best thing. One of the best ideas to float through cyberspace recently has been the development of Slow Ways – a project to develop a national network of walking routes that will eventually link up villages, towns and cities throughout the UK. The Slow Ways website was showing up a few routes passing through Crickhowell but there was no information about Llangattock (a small village on the opposite bank of the River Usk), which is where I was. Next on my go to list of useful websites is Coflein, the online catalogue of archaeological sites in Wales. It announced that I was in close proximity to both Ffynnon Cattwg and Llan-Wysg holy wells. If I had brought the right OS map with me, I might have been able to find them. Undaunted, I picked up my mobile phone and set off towards the canal towpath.
Things that never worked out right
I joined the Ramblers’ Association back in 1986. It turned out that in my group at that time the average age of members was about 70 and their average level of fitness was Joe Wickes on amphetamines. I was an overweight, shy and generally breathless 20 something. Think (very) round peg in a square hole and you’re almost there. My first outing with them was a walk along the Pembrokeshire Coast Path. The coach which took us to the start point was full of Berghaus clad geriatrics and there was only one empty seat on the bus – it was next to me. We finally arrived at Broadhaven beach and George the walk leader insisted that everyone form an orderly queue to use the toilets. Obviously because of my junior status and the fact that my 20 something year old bladder still functioned within optimal parameters, I was placed last. Eventually my turn arrived, I went into the middle cubicle, sat down, did what was required, stood up, flushed the loo and opened the door. No, actually I didn’t because the handle came away from the door leaving it stuck firmly in the frame.
Muddles and Miscommunications
“Hello?” my shy little voice quivered. “Hello? Anyone there? The door’s stuck and I’m locked in.”
Outside I could hear George the walk leader issuing advice about kit, and route, and first aid, and let’s do a head count, and who’s missing because we’re one short. I got down on my hands and knees and pulled the bottom of the door as hard as I could but it was jammed fast. There was the unmistakeable sound of a rucksack being thrown down on the concrete path and then George’s annoyed voice shouting “Roll Call!” By this time I had resorted to making bird-like “Cooo-ooo!” noises because I wasn’t brave enough to go loud with words or bang on the door. Eventually George identified who was missing. I heard women chirrupping “It’s the new girl”, “wonder where she went” and “she was very quiet on the bus”. Meanwhile the men were split between “is that her down by the sea with the three dogs?”, “she can catch us up, it’s her own fault” and “what time does the pub open?”
The Wasted Tears
Of course finally I was found; George was ex-army and he wasn’t going to leave anyone behind. In a rescue operation worthy of any Steven Seagal film, one chap climbed onto the wash basin, slid swearing into the taps a couple of times but then was hoisted by the ill-placed hands of George’s lieutenants at such speed that he ended up straddled across the top of the cubicle door with a wincing jolt.
“Jesus Christ Boys! Not so fast!” he yelped, “let me get straight!” and he wiggled himself into what I guess was a more comfortable position before slithering down the panels to stand next to me. Very close next to me.
Can I just say at this point that if you’re a woman reading this, you already know that cubicles in ladies’ toilets are – at best – snug and you will be able to imagine fairly easily how the overweight, shy, 20 something me reacted to being jostled and jammed between a toilet and a toilet roll holder by a bloke I’d never met before.
“Alright, love?” he said. “Not upset are you?”
“How’s it going, Ron?” came George’s voice. “Are you in? Is she upset?”
“She’s being brave, aren’t you love?” answered Ron. “George, you’re going to have to give the door some welly. It’s stuck fast. Christ knows what she did to it. Stronger than you look, aren’t you love?”
Throw the past out
Ten minutes later and I was outside. So was the door, door frame and side panels of not just the cubicle I had been stuck in but of all three which had once formed the inside arrangements of the ladies’ toilets at Broadhaven’s public conveniences. Everything was placed in neat piles on the ground as if plumbers were expected at any moment to see to installation. Ron came out of the building wiping his hands on a rag and shouted “I switched the water off at the stopcock – it will all drain away soon enough. Christ knows what those women had tried to flush. Just as well the door jammed because that was going to back up something awful sooner or later.”
“Let’s say no more about it,” replied George, looking at the all the women, not just me, with distaste. “Least said, soonest mended.”
Ron regarded the 4 panels, 3 doors, 3 toilet seats and bits of plumbing ephemera that littered the grass.
“I don’t think the council will see it that way,” he said.
I don’t regret a single day
Even though I had lost any hope of being welcomed into the group as one of them, I stayed with the Ramblers for a couple more years before deciding I preferred walking alone. Are you wondering why this episode was one of the best mistakes I ever made? It’s not because I decided I should learn how to read a map so I wouldn’t be dependent on the Georges of this world and it wasn’t because I never again would allow myself to snivel in front of the likes of Ron, however kind and well-meaning Rons are. No, it’s because to this day my ability to go for hours and hours without needing to use a public lavatory is the stuff of legend and if anything, my bladder functions at a higher level of efficiency now than it did 40 years ago.
I prefer now
Thanks to a suggestion from Rebecca at Girl on the Trail I bought myself a subscription to the Ordnance Survey on-line thingummy wotsit as a Christmas present. This means that for as long as my mobile phone is at hand, working and charged I can use an app rather than unfolding and refolding a vast and uncooperative sheet of paper. No more thumbing the map to tick off features as I pass them – I’ve got a little red arrow that moves as I do, a little red arrow that takes me to medieval wells and a little red arrow that points out the nearest toilets. It’s so slick, it’s so easy, it’s so now – and it leaves so little room for any more of the best mistakes I’ve ever made.
