Crossing the water

Journeys are such powerful things. We recall journeys of the past, relish those of today, anticipating real or imagined journeys we have yet to take. We might even think life a journey.

This photograph, a selfie I took holding a pint of beer in a typical English pub garden, represents one such journey. Not the most important trip of a lifetime, but certainly one to remember. If only because it marked the beginning of the end of restrictions imposed during the Covid-19 pandemic.

I Don't often take photographs of myself and I have always felt a little uncomfortable with my own likeness. I have put forward this photograph for the Vocal Through the Lens challenge, not because I particularly like the picture, but because of what it represents. It represents the delight of enjoying a cool, crystal clear, foaming glass of English beer, in a pub in North Lincolnshire, during a fun and fabulous journey. It represents the unlocking of the 2020 lockdown. It represents reconnecting with family and a much anticipated return to Scotland.

In the summer of 2020, I took a long ride on my motorcycle. Just the kind of journey I bought it for. I rode from my home in the Kent suburbs of South East London, first to North Lincolnshire and Yorkshire, then on to Dunfermline, Scotland. It is the longest and best bike run I have ever made, since first riding a motorcycle in the 1970s. A round trip of some 1,000 miles, not including detours, of which there were many. I stopped riding a motorcycle sometime in the 80s, resuming only for a daily commute to work in 2008. In recent years, I have ridden mostly for fun.

What made this trip so special? Well, apart from visiting some wonderful places in Lincolnshire, Yorkshire, some of the wonderful Scottish lowlands and highlands, I also managed to catch up with family. My brother and his wife, my nephew and his wife, and not least my daughter, who was at the time staying in Dunfermline for an extended period of professional training.

Humber Bridge from the South at low tide, 2020. Photo: RGT

While visiting family in Yorkshire, I decided to stay in a bed and breakfast in North Lincolnshire. This allowed me to visit other places I wanted to see. I got to cross the mighty Humber, via the Humber suspension bridge, for the first time. The Humber is a broad body of tidal water between North Lincolnshire and South Yorkshire. A glorious place to visit, best described in this poem by Becky Fawcett.

It was during my stopover in Barton-upon-Humber that I visited the White Swan. A typical English pub, if there is such a thing, and certainly one that served good, traditional English beer.

During the afternoon, I had enjoyed a splendid walk in the shadow of the magnificent Humber Bridge. The state of low tide allowed me to see a lot of wildlife, mostly wading birds, on the mud banks. I was also delighted to find the poem shown written on a board and tied to the railings, for all passers by to enjoy. Becky, if you ever read this, bless you for sharing your wonderful verse. I think this poem was instrumental in me taking more of an interest in writing poetry and certainly brightened my day.

After all that walking, I was thirsty and in need of some refreshment. I was not sure if I would be able to find a place that was open and had sufficient space to allow me to go in for a pint, given Covid restrictions still in place at the time. As it happened, there was not only sufficient space at the White Swan, but they also had a 'beer garden', an outside drinking area, which is where I took the photo for the featured image. I have been using this photo ever since, including my Vocal avatar, as you may have noticed. I hope that it shows the joy of the journey, the pleasure of being in a welcoming pub in a welcoming place.

Neither the journey, nor the joy, stopped there. After spending some time with my Yorkshire family, I went on up to Dunfermline. As I crossed the border from England to Scotland, I stood up on the foot pegs of the bike and raised an arm of greeting, hailing my arrival in Scotland after too may years.

In Dunfermline, I stayed for a few nights in a bed and breakfast. The breakfast being cooked by the owner, who also worked as a chef. A great breakfast it was too. On this leg of my journey, I was able to spend some lovely time with my daughter, walking the hills and taking in the charms of the town. We also drove out to a remote seaside town and enjoyed fish and chips sitting on the beach.

On a previous visit to Scotland with my then fiancée, over 30 of years ago, we drove over the breathtaking hills between our holiday cottage near Blairgowrie, and the town of Pit Lochrie by the river Tummel. The rolling, winding road, I recall thinking at the time, would make a great motorcycle ride. And so it was that I returned on two wheels after three decades. The ride did not disappoint.

The final leg of my journey, the return home, began at around 4.00 in the morning. Leaving a sleepy Scottish town behind to cross the Firth of Forth in the growing misty dawn, I headed back to the border and through the length of England, driving south towards Kent and home. Riding first through darkness and then a golden summer morning was delightful. Eating up the road through several English counties, I was soon well on my way. Only when I approached Cambridgeshire, in the south east, did the traffic start to slow around major roadworks. Little did I know that there were worse to come.

My route continued through London and should have been an easy crossing of the River Thames by way of the Blackwall Tunnel. There was, however, a major hold up, and I was stuck outside the tunnel, in blazing sunshine, if very heavy, black protective clothing. I should have taken the Dartford Bridge Crossing, further down river, as I had on my outward journey. Eventually I gave up, decided to park up, and go visit a nearby McDonald's. I think it must have been the magic in Becky's poem, with its mention of Mac-a-Dee, that conjured up the thought. I was certainly grateful for the respite.

By the time I returned to the road, the traffic had started to move again, and I was able to complete the final part of my journey, and return to my home and loved ones.

It was a great journey, cutting a swathe through two countries, crossing three great bodies of water each way: Thames, Humber, and Firth of Forth. Perhaps one day I will head North again, and see if the White Swan still serves a pint to make it worth the road rubber.