On the buses (or not)

I'm so glad I wore my big scarf pulled up to my ears, my beret pulled down to them, the Danish wool coat which makes me feel like I'm being hugged by a sheep and gloves lined with snuggly cashmere. The car needed to go in for a service and MOT on Monday and we woke up to snow on the ground and minus temps.  "I'll come with you, just in case..." I suggested to Mr SDS who was going to drive it there but catch the bus back from the garage in a quiet village 6 miles from us. "You know, if there was an issue getting home, at least you won't have to deal with it alone". We put on our layers for a chilly expedition.

Besides, I like a bit of bus travel - the return trip on a red double-decker out here in the sticks would take us down shiny, pinkbrown lanes, past acres of flat frosted fields, under archways of twiggy trees, all to be spied through a handmade porthole in a condensated window, against that soundtrack of strangely comforting rumbles and rattles.  I checked it all out first - the Number 43 would be perfectly timed and, just in case we missed that one, a 43a should turn up 20 minutes later.  So we left the car with the garage and headed down to the bus stop.

We didn't miss the bus.  The bus - or buses - missed us. Over an hour went by and we were still waiting. An hour?! you say - but there's always that thing in your mind, isn't there - just wait a bit longer, it's bound to turn up soon, or it will just at the very moment you decide to walk away, so...just hang on in there.  Just ten minutes more, twenty maybe, it'll come.

Nothing.  Eventually we gave up and rang for a cab - around another half hour to wait for that, then.  We stayed by the roadside so we couldn't be missed. Actually we hung around next to the public loos to be precise (they're at a convenient turning point).  It was freezing cold, did I mention that?  It was freezing cold.  Nothing to do but observe the world. A well-to-do elderly man, complete in tweed jacket and cap, exited the Gents and inadvertently set off an alarm which clanged and flashed for ages, and of which nobody took any notice.  A red kite flew low across the street, scaring off the woodpigeons high up in a nearby tree. A woman in the Medieval house opposite wandered out in her slippers, leaving her front door wide open, while she posted a letter just down the road.  Slippered feet!  Outside, in this weather!  And she didn't wipe them on the doormat before she went back in.  Then we caught sight of Mr SDS's wanky boss from a few years ago, driving by slowly in the opposite direction.  "Quick, hide!"  We ducked behind the Ladies until it was safe.

We got home eventually and I'm so glad I wore my big scarf pulled up to my ears, my beret pulled down to them, the Danish wool coat which makes me feel like I'm being hugged by a sheep and gloves lined with snuggly cashmere... It was freezing cold.

The car failed its MOT, it has a major problem and it's going to cost over £1000 to fix it.  But what can you do? - We couldn't get another car for that amount and without one here, well - sadly it seems we just can't rely on the buses.

In a roundabout way

Every Summer there’s a steam and traction engine rally event just down the road.  It’s quite a sight as they trundle by, even though our windows rattle worryingly and the walls creak with the vibrations.  The other day one on its own clattered past – painted in red and gold and looking very fancy.  The words on it caught my eye the most:

FREDERICK  SAVAGE  GALLOPING HORSES AND PEACOCKS

I had a vision of a fantastic race in which riderless silver stallions with thick, swishing tails compete against giant peacocks, perhaps with jockeys perched high on their backs shaking multicoloured reins.  A quick check on Google dismissed this far-fetched concept (sadly) although I still liked what I found out and maybe it wasn’t so distant from what I’d imagined. 

From his humble roots making farm machinery in the late 1800s, Norfolk-born Frederick Savage went on to develop traction engines and then used his flair and expertise to revolutionise and manufacture fairground equipment.  This included steam-powered galloping horses - and yes, racing peacocks - for carousels.  He didn’t stop there; he also manufactured Jumping Cats, Flying Pigs and Giant Cockerels and Ostriches.  All of these variations were known simply as ‘Gallopers’.  (Ah, I want to change my profession!   I wonder how easy it would be to make and paint fantastical creatures for merry-go-rounds…)

On another note, they may not be racing around on a merry-go-round but I've also been delighted to see peacocks of a different kind in the garden at last.  Peacock butterflies have made a welcome appearance again after what seems to have been a dearth of flying beings this Summer.  Along with the now abundant Red Admirals, their hues and patterns are as rich and vivid as any roundabout models.  It's not difficult to imagine tiny passengers on their furry backs, clinging on as these colourfully winged creatures take them on heart-stopping flights that would far exceed the thrills of any fairground ride.  Although... I do rather like the thought of riding on a steam-powered Flying Pig.

The Hollies: On A Carousel

(and what a nice quality clip for this great song)