We're at the train station, on our great journey to the festival. Sal booked our tickets, she planned every stage of our itinerary, which has already gone horribly wrong. We were to meet her there, she said. She had to work, and she'd make the journey after work. Meanwhile, we were to make the journey without her.
Didn't she book us an early morning bus? But we couldn't find the bus, or the bus station. Didn't she book us a place on the festival bus, at the bus station at the other end? But we will have no truck with buses. We're men of the train, W. says. You can buy gin on the train, for one thing. Plymouth Gin, which they sell only in this part of the country. We sip our gin on the train, and admire the views.
How he loves this part of the country, W. says. There's nowhere as glorious as Devon. Of course, he'll be forced out of Devon soon, he knows that. His Devon days are numbered, which makes him love the county with even greater ardency. How fragile it is, his Devon existence. It's a bit like my Newcastle existence, W. says, he knows that. It could end at any moment!
That's the trouble with living at the periphery. You're vulnerable, dreadfully vulnerable. What will happen when the storm comes? Will we survive in our obscurity? No, we say, shaking our heads. We won' t survive. We'll be the first to go.
We've reached Somerset. Not far now. We have to meet the festival bus somewhere, but where? We search for cider to still our travel nerves. Where can we find some Somerset cider? We walk up and down the town. Nowhere. There's no cider to be found. So what will do? We're beset by travel melancholy.
Where are we going, and why? Where's Sal to guide us? Didn't she print us our tickets? Didn't she write down our itinerary? Why can't we follow instructions? Why is it always a fiasco, time after time? Why do we never learn from our mistakes?
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