Back to the Country

It's not everyone's cup of tea but, for me, one of the nice things about this life on four wheels is the freedom of the countryside.  This week has been a good example, taking me to two places I'd never heard of, and to another that I visit only rarely, and that on the way to somewhere else.

After two days of unexciting routine, an early start led me to the village of Moreton-on-Lugg on Wednesday morning, where I was supposed to collect a small piece of machinery that was wanted urgently by our client in Stevenage.  And where is Moreton-on-Lugg? I hear my reader asking - just a little way up the A49 from Hereford.  Once I'd found the particular building, in a factory complex that half-filled a former airfield, I discovered the little chap, strapped to a pallet and all ready to be lifted into my van ... and there was a burger van just down the road for breakfast!

On Thursday afternoon, I took a metre-length of brass rod to a factory right next to the railway line at Overton, in north Hampshire.  Built on a slope, its front door bore an unusual notice - "All deliveries to be made downstairs at the back door."  Unexpected, but straightforward, and with a lovely view over the fields.

Yesterday was a busy day, more like the Fridays of yore.  I was out at 8.45, for a succession of local jobs that fell upon each other, adding wisdom to my decision to switch my computer off rather than leave in on stand-by as I do sometimes when going 'local'.  Then, about lunch time I set off on two 'proper' jobs, one of which carried a story that merits a blog to itself.  The first delivery was to High Wycombe, and I then set forth for Little Kimble, where I was to deliver a small roll of material for the print industry.

Now, Little Kimble is on the far side of Aylesbury (if I were coming from home) but attacking it, as I did yesterday, from High Wycombe it's before Aylesbury.  I don't think I've ever gone to it, and only pass through it if I'm going to one of those places in south Oxfordshire like Didcot, Abingdon or Wallingford, that aren't more easily reached by using a motorway.

I first discovered it when I had a girl-friend who lived in Didcot, back in the days when I was in Norfolk, and not so motorway-aware as I am now.  The only way to get to or from hers was, in my mind, the nearest I could find on the map to a straight line (no wonder the journey took me several hours!)  This led me through Luton, Dunstable, Aston Clinton, Prince's Risborough and Chinnor ... and on the way would come Little Kimble.  Not that I knew its name then - it was just the place where my route zig-zagged under a railway bridge.

So there I was yesterday afternoon, looking for an address, 'Crossways, Little Kimble'.  SatNav took me to the 'homeward' side of that railway bridge, to a small lane that led only to a few cottages; nothing that looked remotely like a printing works.  I turned tail and looked around.  I passed through the bridge, and tried the road that seemed more in the direction of the village than away from it.  As I did so, I spotted a spritely lady of late middle age, making her way towards me on the opposite side of the road.  As she approached, I wound down my window and asked if the firm's name or the address meant anything to her.  They didn't, so I carried on, found myself unproductively passing a few more cottages and at the end of the road - appropriately I thought - the undertaker's!

I turned around and, as I made my way back to that now famous railway bridge, I saw my erstwhile friend coming back.  I prepared to make a gesture indicating 'no luck', but before I could do so, she flagged me down.  She explained that she'd only gone just beyond the bridge to the pillar box, and noticed that the name on the cottage gate just before it was 'Crossways'.  It was worth a try.  I thanked her profusely and back the way I'd come.  Sure enough, on a gate so shabby and overgrown as to be unnoticeable to the casual passer-by, was the name I sought.  I parked by the roadside and approached it.  On the door of the cottage I found an even more encouraging note.  'Deliveries to the back, down the lane.' 

A short way down the lane, I found a gate and walked in, about to go to the rear of the cottage.  As I did so, I passed the door of a small, purpose built structure housing the very business I'd been looking for.  I entered confidently, presented my package, and amused the occupant with my story of how I'd found him.  He was not only impressed by the tale, but also by the apparent speed with which his delivery had been made.  Exchanges like this can be added to the list of good things about the courier life.

And today?  No football this week.  Instead, it's been the bellringers' annual autumn outing, with which I shall not bore my readers.  Suffice to say that, after a day's driving on country lanes, interspersed by several bouts of unaccustomed physical exercise and a pub lunch, energy levels are sadly depleted, and bed will provide welcome relief!