Big Bus Safari

by Janice Booth

It was too good to miss. When the new pensioners’ England-wide bus pass was announced early this year, we decided to celebrate in style. We sharpened a pencil and drew a beautiful straight line on a map of England, linking the far west (Land’s End) to the far east (Lowestoft). The other half of “we” was my friend Hilary Bradt, of Bradt Travel Guides, whose journeys more often involve exotic destinations like deepest Madagascar; but she gulped bravely and down-sized.

Our plan was to start from Land’s End on 1 April when our passes became valid and take eight days travelling along our pencil line to Lowestoft, using various local buses and with spots of walking and/or hitching thrown in. We checked out the main buses via www.traveline.org.uk and www.visitbritain.co.uk, pre-booked half of our overnight stops and planned some “treats”, otherwise left the details to chance. Carrying just small backpacks made us flexible.

Land’s End on 31 March was grey and stormy. Avoiding the brash, unappealing tourist “attractions”, we reached the cliff path that would take us down to Sennen Cove for supper. On the way we passed England’s true southernmost tip: the hunk of rock called Dr Syntax’s Head. As the views unfolded, wind in our hair and breakers lashing at the rocks below, we spotted a pair of choughs and our spirits rose. Over supper we watched surfers in the bay, playing the waves like a pack of exhibitionist seals. Our B&B (Weavers) was a chance “blind date” that quickly became a friendship: traditional farmhouse, cosy room, friendly owners and lots of thoughtful touches.

1 April was even stormier. Hilary was to write the trip up for The Observer and they’d sent a photographer; cold, windswept and dishevelled we posed for him against stone walls, bus stops, sign posts and the bleak horizon. Our bus arrived, and the driver submitted – with some surprise – to being photographed as we flashed our passes at him. Then we were off, along one of Cornwall’s prettiest routes, heading for St Ives. Our Big Bus Safari (safari means “journey” in Swahili) was under way.

The sun began to squeeze through the clouds as we rattled along narrow, twisty roads, between high hedges, past hidden hamlets of pastel cottages and finally through the beautiful, golden landscape near Zennor, with its soft hills and open fields. No time to stop and visit Zennor’s mermaid, but at St Ives we swapped wheels for feet and took to the South West Coastal Path, stripping off anoraks and sweaters under the now hot sun. We pampered our feet by paddling along Porthminster beach and eventually spotted the spire of Lelant church – our next bus location – in the distance. Never able to resist an old English church (St Uny’s dates from Norman times, and a few centuries ago was almost buried by sand blown in from the shore) we went inside, and found the choughs had followed us from Land’s End: there they were again, in one of the stained glass windows!

What with the sun and the paddling and enjoying St Uny’s we’d become over-relaxed about timetables; our bus from Lelant reached Truro too late for our planned connection to Bodmin, our overnight stop. As we were walking to the central bus station to look for alternatives, we spotted our Land’s End photographer on his way home to Tavistock – and begged a lift to Bodmin. No, it wasn’t cheating: we’d always intended to hitch if necessary, and how could we possibly ignore such blatant good luck?

In fact we did then end up in jail, but only because the old Bodmin jail (www.bodminjail.org) houses one of the town’s best restaurants. The imposing jail itself, already a popular tourist attraction, is being imaginatively restored by its present owners, both as an educational resource for schools and – eventually – as a Museum of Cornish Life. Completed in 1860, on the site of an older jail built in 1779, it was in use until 1927. It’s among the UK’s most haunted buildings (you can spend a scary night there...) and, during World War I, the Domesday Book and state papers were held there for safety. In the dark, atmospheric warren of passages are tableaux and panels illustrating the Victorian conditions: treadmill, oakum picking, diet, punishments, executions and suchlike. The prisoners’ stories are documented and some are sad; for example, one young woman killed her child because she had no home or money and couldn’t feed him, and juveniles were jailed for small crimes like stealing apples. Of the 56 hangings at Bodmin between 1785 and 1909, only 26 were for murder; others reasons included sheep-stealing, forgery, bestiality and burglary. A 23-year-old man was hanged for stealing a watch. Harsh times...

We also ended up in a really super B&B (www.bedknobs.co.uk – just say “Bedknobs B&B in Bodmin” quickly a few times and you’ll remember): a rambly 168-year-old house, carefully renovated, wrapped in a deep-green garden with secret corners. Landlady Gill entered wholeheartedly into the spirit of our safari (we’re still in touch) and has just emailed proudly to say she’s been listed in Alastair Sawday's 2009 Green & Organic Europe Guide.

Bright sunshine the next morning gave us itchy feet; we abandoned our bus in a village just beyond Liskeard and set off along smaller lanes. From the bus we’d spotted The Hurlers, a group of local villagers turned to stone by St Cleer many centuries ago because they’d skived off from church on a Sunday and gone hurling, so we were careful to think good and sober thoughts. Our aim was to walk for a couple of hours cross-country to Callington and catch a later bus from there. It was a green and golden landscape, the sun picking out the beginnings of spring and fields stretching gently into the hilly distance.

Now, Hilary has this tiresome adventurous streak. She’s 67 to my 69 and doesn’t she know it. Just as I’ve settled into a comfortable rhythm and am ambling along happily, a glint comes into her eye and she veers off piste. In this case, she took a sharp right turn down what looked to me like a gully carved out by a flash flood: steep, wet and stony. Not uncomplainingly, I followed. It ended in a stream. Hilary insisted it was a legitimate footpath (actually she was right) so we took off our trainers and waded across. Clear fresh water, sunlight, mossy tracks, birds, the whispering of woodland around us – and I stopped grumbling.

However, we were cutting it fine for our next bus. A couple of muddy fields or so later, we hit a road and decided to hitch. A woman in a capacious 4 x 4 beamed happily at us as she revved past, but an elderly Sir Galahad was kinder, piled us on board and stepped obligingly on the gas. It wasn’t his fault that we missed our bus by two minutes. We bought hot pastries and munched them in Callington’s bus shelter beside the Town Hall – which sported a neon decoration of Santa and his sleigh. Well why not, in April. Passers-by stopped to chat and our next bus was superbly punctual. As usual, the driver examined our passes with interest: the first he’d seen.

We were into the swing of it now. In the mornings we caught the first bus for which our passes were valid, then sat back and enjoyed the passing views until we wanted to stretch our legs or explore. These were small local buses, winding their way through villages, so there was always something to watch: gardens, trees, thatched cottages, old churches, small market towns, farms, strangely named pubs and just the gentle beauty of rural England. We were never bored. People were friendly and chatty, both in the buses and at bus stops, and most days had some new treat built in.

The next of these was Glastonbury, which I had feared might be tacky or over-hyped but which won me over completely. The view from the top of the Tor is a stunning panorama of greens and browns and misty distance; while among the ruins of the massive abbey, where H V Morton wrote in 1927 that “the shadows of the yews lie in long pencils over the smooth grass”, echoes still linger of the town’s ancient importance as a religious centre and place of pilgrimage. Frances Underwood described it so well in VISA 80 that I won’t start again here; but yes, as she says, “whichever way you look, the people are different”, and the sense of history and legend is very strong.

Avebury (photo: Helen Matthews

Avebury took us even further back in time, with its prehistoric stone circles. Part of the village is actually inside the biggest of them, up to 400 metres across, originally consisting of almost 100 rough sarsen stones averaging 3–4 metres high. They were placed around a deep circular ditch whose bank rose nearly 17 metres above its base. Inside are two smaller circles. From the large circle, an avenue with up to 100 pairs of stones stretches southeast for about 2.4km. Although many of the stones are missing, strolling among the remaining great, grey guardians of this ancient landscape is still a heart-stopping experience. There’s also a good museum, and a peaceful little church, St James’s, dating back to about 1000 AD. The National Trust owns 1,500 acres of Avebury land, and manages the museum and archaeological sites in tandem with English Heritage (www.english-heritage.org.uk). Nearby is mysterious Silbury Hill: it’s the tallest prehistoric man-made mound in Europe, but no-one knows why it was built.

The helpful little Tourist Information Bureau, tucked away inside a church, recommended us another gem of a B&B (www.tealcottage.co.uk), just outside Marlborough, for the coming night. Our bus driver dropped us at an obscure turning; we crossed an old stone bridge over a stream, passed a tiny village green, and rounded a corner to find a stylish, welcoming stable conversion in a pleasant garden. Later we strolled along leafy lanes and across a river into Marlborough for supper, and in the morning ate far too much breakfast because it was so good.

That afternoon, we watched the Grand National in a betting shop in High Wycombe! Two wrinklies with backpacks didn’t quite match the rest of the clientele, but they shifted up companionably to make room for us. Of course we didn’t win. The following morning we awoke to a cold white world, and crunched our way through deep virgin snow to our first bus stop. In Aylesbury, damp and frozen-fingered, we found a Café Nero complete with hot croissants. After more coffee and cake with friends near Leighton Buzzard, we arrived at Whipsnade Zoo; it was planned as one of our “treats” but turned out a pretty chilly one, with animals crouched in dejected huddles and ring-tailed lemurs trying sadly, arms agape, to bask in intermittent rays of wintry sun. Delays for roadworks in Luton meant that we watched our connecting bus pull away just in front of us, despite our kind driver flashing his lights to make it wait. We dived into a nearby Pizza Express for more comfort food – it was that kind of day – and sheltered there until another bus came. This wasn’t exactly the prettiest part of our trip and it was hard to feel enthusiastic about stopping somewhere for the night, but in Hitchin the church bells were ringing a Sunday serenade out over the central square, so we settled there.

Until now, local buses had gone wherever we wanted, with only small deviations from our pencil line, but getting from Hitchin to Bury St Edmunds without using National Express, where our passes wouldn’t be valid, looked harder. Traveline told us by phone that we’d have to go via London, which seemed silly, so we caught a bus to a few miles beyond Hitchin and then – yes, started hitchin’. Sorry. A businessman took us to Saffron Walden, choosing the scenic route in order to show us various attractions. I remembered the etiquette of hitching from almost 50 years ago: make conversation in such a way that the driver enjoys your company and feels good about having stopped for you. In Greece in the 1960s, I even learned enough Greek to praise the car and its performance, which was always a winner! Maybe I’m a touch more sophisticated now.

After a stroll around Saffron Walden, and a visit to St Mary’s (the largest parish church in Essex), we found our bus stop – complete with chatty fellow passenger – and continued towards Bury St Edmunds, via Haverhill and (unexpectedly) Cambridge, because we missed a connection at Haverhill and had to improvise; this was the only time during the safari that our bus was crowded, with afternoon shoppers and commuters. In Bury there was still just enough daylight for us to explore the extensive ruins of the old Abbey, hazily grey in the dusk, where birds treated us to an evening concert, before indulging in our biggest luxury: the Angel Hotel (www.theangel.co.uk), just across from the ruins. It has been sheltering travellers and pilgrims since the 15th century, and does it in great style and comfort. Good restaurant too, with prices lower than the quality suggests.

The Bury tourist office bustled helpfully the next morning, setting us off on one of my favourite days: visiting village churches. I love these peaceful, patient little buildings, blending so completely into the English countryside, some crouched low in their graveyards, some with spires peeping above the treetops, all filled with the centuries-old ghosts of worshippers who trod the same path to their doors as we tread today. I hope the ancient craftsmen who built them, lovingly, stone by back-breaking stone, can look down on their work and feel proud. Visiting them is an endless pleasure; each one offers some different charm or quirk or discovery. Partly by bus and partly on foot we went to All Saints’ in Beyton, its churchyard a designated wildlife site with more than 50 species of wild flowers and grasses; St Ethelbert’s in Hessett, with medieval stained glass and lively original paintings; and wonderful St Mary’s in Woolpit, with wing-loads of benevolent carved angels and a fine medieval porch. I’ve since discovered the very browsable website www.suffolkchurches.co.uk, full of temptations for a future trip to the area.

At the approach to Hessett village, a sign had warned us to “Beware of Children” (whatever do they get up to, those Hessett kids?), but far more intriguing were the green children of Woolpit. Sometime in the twelfth century, so the story goes, harvesters found two frightened children crying in a field. They wore strange clothes, spoke an unknown language and their skins were green. Initially they would eat nothing but beans. The boy soon died but the girl survived; eventually her green colour faded. When she had learned English, she said that she and her brother had come from a land of twilight where the sun never shone and the people were green. The legend appears in various forms; it’s well covered on http://anomalyinfo.com. A similar event allegedly occurred seven centuries later, in Spain, but descriptions of it are suspiciously like those of the Woolpit tale.

We were due in Lowestoft that night and time was running out. Hilary had arranged with BBC Radio Suffolk that we’d reach Lowestoft Ness, the official easternmost point, at 10.00 the following morning, where they would interview her live by mobile phone. We caught a bus to Eye (beautiful church) and another to Diss, but onward connections from Diss’s bleak bus station weren’t promising. Traveline suggested we go via Norwich, arriving in Lowestoft late at night, which wasn’t appealing. A woman waiting at the bus stop for her husband spotted that we were in trouble, popped us in her husband’s car when he arrived, and drove us to Harleston. There we unearthed our black felt marker, wrote our hitching signs “Direction Lowestoft, please”, stuck out our thumbs and waited, smiling sweetly, beside the relatively busy A143. Three lifts later we were in Lowestoft, in good time for supper.

The next morning we walked from our B&B to England’s easternmost point and reached the end of our safari. Hilary had her radio interview. A student was sitting in a car, revising, and we roped him in to take our photos by the marker plaque. Then – I hesitate to admit it – we caught a train back to London and went our respective ways.

Had it been fun? A resounding yes! Would I do it again? Like a shot! We’ve already had one “bus day” since then, just catching buses and walking in between routes, out of nostalgia. We plan to do it in the Lake District, round the Cotswolds, in Northumberland... the possibilities are endless and enticing. What did we learn? So many things! That the English countryside is wonderful (well, we already knew that), that the Traveline phone number (0871 200 2233) given on bus stops is a good source of information, that it’s wise to go to the loo whenever the chance arises, that missing a bus needn’t be a disaster if you’re flexible, and that strangers can be wonderfully kind and helpful. We’d worried that we might be taking seats from fare-paying passengers, but this never happened; many buses were half empty. Despite government subsidies, some district councils have expressed concern about the cost to them of refunding bus companies for so many non-fare-paying passengers, and who knows what cuts may be made in the future; so, if you’re old enough for a bus pass, do make 2009 the year that you dust off your backpack and climb aboard...

First published in VISA 82-83 (Dec 2008 - Feb 2009)