(Cotsw)old Souls

December 2024 and January 2025

The air was frigid and the sky clear as I wandered down to the bus stop on Lewes Road in Brighton, England.

I was sad to be leaving Tom and Rosie and the amazing crew in Brighton, but somehow also sorta happy to be on my way.

I'm pretty much always like that.

I so much love connecting with people in a deeper way, which is exactly what we've all been doing. And I also love to be alone.

I actually wasn't feeling that great physically though. A lurgy had entered my system, and was working its dark magic. Plus, I'd also somehow hurt my lower back, which I never do. Quite a few normal movements, like bending and twisting, had suddenly become painful.

Soon enough I'd taken the double decker bus to the town centre, strolled to the railway station, and boarded the train to London.

Bye bye Brighton.

Zipping past Gatwick Airport.

Rolling across the Thames in London.

Victoria railway station, London.

I didn't have time to dilly dally, so made my way to the coach station.

I've been heavily coached lately.

Thames shots

This pic was taken at 2.45pm. Look how low the sun is. You get that at this time of year. The days are so bloody short.

Soon I'd made my way to Bristol, in the southwest of England, my first stop on my way to my friend Rich's place, near Stroud in Gloucestershire.

England's actually quite witchy.

Bristled in Bristol

It was cold, substantially colder than it'd been in Brighton. I've learnt that a change in temperature of just a few degrees, like when it goes from 5 degrees down to 1, can make a huge difference.

I must've visited this city in a past life, cos I certainly haven't in this one.

Downtown Bristy. Notice the Serco van. Serco is a British-based multinational company that runs prisons and detention centres all over the world. It's been involved in loads of dodgy practices, including in Australia.

Under its watch, detention centres around the world have seen significant abuse of detainees (including the sexual abuse of children), it's been fined for significant fraud, claiming to have provided services it hasn't provided, it's been found guilty of overcharging governments, blah de fucking blah.

You don't wanna be in bed with these guys.

But, despite recently being quietly (and finally) sacked from running Australia's migrant detention centres, which it ran for the past 15 years, the company still runs prisons in Australia.

A few months ago, after an inmate punched a guard at Clarence Detention Centre in NSW, 175 inmates were confined to their cells for five days. Most of the inmates hadn't even seen the assault, let alone been involved in it.

The company charged 33 other inmates, who had observed the assault, with participating in or inciting a riot, which adds time to their prison sentences.

After complaints, the NSW Ombudsman found that the company's response was completely unwarranted, and grossly disproportionate to the original offence. When reviewing CCTV footage, the Ombudsman found absolutely no evidence of other inmates participating in or inciting a riot. The company just made it all up.

Of course, locking down a whole wing of a prison for five days is an extremely good way to save a lot of money, as staff aren't required to supervise inmates during their daily activities. Adding time to prison sentences in your own private prison is also a great way to increase your income, innit.

The whole idea of a for-profit company running prisons and detention centres is completely dodgy in itself. Hello? You there? Of course they're gonna minimise costs and maximise profits, you government wanker, at the expense of providing just and good quality services to inmates.

The awarding of government contracts in western democracies is, surprise surprise, just as rife with corruption as it is anywhere else.

...So, anyway, where were we?

Ummm, really?

Curling is a Winter Olympic sport, and has nothing to do with hair. It involves teams sliding a large granite stone along the ice to a goal.

Looks interesting doesn't it.

More war victims. These are the names of people from Bristol killed by German bombs between 1940 and 1944. Crazy isn't it.

Bristol is the largest city in Southwest England. Built upon the River Avon, it was the site for many Roman villas back in the day, and, between the 13th and 18th Centuries, was one of the top three English cities, after London.

It's huge port became the centre of the Slave Trade, and between 1700 and 1807, over 2,000 ships transported an estimated half a million slaves from Africa to the Americas.

Incredible, but sadly true.

These days the port's been moved downstream, and the whole port area redeveloped. It's actually really nice now, despite its grim history.

Not sure why this is so messy.

This building was actually built in 1636.

The Temple Gate area. Lots of terraced housing and industrial warehouses were built in this area in the early 1800s, as a result of the opening of a new canal.

Heading to Temple Meads railway station.

Waiting for a train to Cam and Dursley, where dear Rich was waiting to collect me.

Riccardino

It was so great to see Rich again. The last time we hung out was in Georgia, cycling right across that great country with Brad, and I was so happy to have the chance to hang out with him again.

We have a warm easy connection, share a lot of common values, and, of course, both play music. He's a great singer, guitarist, and harmonist, and a beautiful man.

It had been a frosty night.

Dear dear Astrid. She spent a fair bit of time doing this.

And I spent a fair bit of time doing this.

The chook pen and greenhouse.

Taking Astrid for a walk. That's her way up in the distance. Unfortunately I wasn't feeling good at all, fluey, and my back was really sore, severely restricting certain movements.

Walking felt ok most of the time though, luckily.

The view from the top of the hill.

A very handy gumboot remover. Or wellies remover, I should say.

Many foods are labelled as "British" here, even if that's not actually true. The criteria are very loose. Either the ingredients have to be at least 50% British, or the product has to have been "substantially changed" in Britain. But what constitutes "substantially changed" is completely open to interpretation.

Many "British" products have no British ingredients whatsoever, but are just packaged here.

But when Rich goes out shooting wild boar with this, they're definitely British.

Nah not really.

Strolling through downtown Stroud.

We met up with Rich's ex-wife Solbritt and her partner Phred, for a coffee (well, I wasn't well, and had a turmeric almond latte to try and give me a kick), in a cute little hippy café.

That night Rich had invited his two sisters over, Deb and Alison. Deb is a professional singer, and we had an amazing time all jamming together. Deb also plays guitar and piano well, and, with Rich's guitar playing and voice, we produced some really good music, in my humble opinion.

Those guys were really getting into it, and, as much as I was loving it, I was slightly subdued, as I was feeling pretty sick.

Rich slicing a Scottish salmon he caught in a English store.

I've heard some stories lately of people in England who've been given ridiculously long prison sentences, just for protesting against the continued use of oil - particularly members of the group Just Stop Oil.

History will look back on those people as brave heroes of our generation. I certainly do.

Rich and Sarah tucking into their muesli.

Snowy eve.

And morn.

Heading up the icy hill, past the woods behind the back of the house.

After a couple of days of hanging out together, Rich and Sarah left for France. Rich's daughter is working in a ski resort town in the French Alps, and his son also went over to meet them all there.

My job was to look after Astrid, the dog, Fast (Slow) Eddy - Rich's cat, and the house.

I was feeling pretty unwell. My fluey thing had completely sapped my energy, and my lower back seemed to be getting worse, it was really sore and sensitive. Pretty much most movements began to cause me pain - but, luckily, walks for an hour or so were generally sort of ok.

It appears that, when subconsciously faced with a choice, often your body will get sick when it can. And this was the perfect time for me to get sick - there was no one around, I didn't need to travel anywhere (except walking Astrid), and so my body really let me have it. I was pretty out of it for a few days.

But rest, healthy food, and not really having to do too much was just what the doctor ordered, and the lurgy didn't knock me for six, like it did for Rich, who'd had it the week before. And my back started to slowly heal too.

There were some very big bulls up the hill. Fenced off, luckily.

A waxing moon. In case you've never noticed, the moon shadow in the northern hemisphere is opposite to what you see in the southern hemisphere.

The front of Rich's house.

I wonder how many London Roads there are in the UK. Actually I just Googled it, and there's 26 of them just in London itself. There must be hundreds of others, all over the ex-British empire.

Thrupp Lane.

I'm never on fb, but I opened it up the other day to check out a link. This woman appeared. Really sounds like fun doesn't it, sleeping with 5.8 men per day, for 21 days straight. As if.

Social media is so full of shit sometimes.

Bathing

Luckily for me, my amazing friend Dave, whom I'd met in Pushkar in India, lives in Bath, which isn't too far from Stroud (although the transport connections are crap, and it costs a fortune to get there). We've kept in touch since our India days, and he invited me over to visit him.

So on the weekend I happily headed over by train.

Downtown Stroud.

False. It's Antarctica. And the European country is Portugal. Apparently. The answers were on the poster too, sideways.

The southwest English countryside.

Bath, in the county of Somerset, is named (and known for) its Roman-built baths. The city itself is absolutely stunning, and in 1987 was declared a UN World Heritage Site, partly because it's so beautiful, but mainly because my friend Dave lives there, as he's a person of exquisite natural beauty and global significance.

The man himself kindly met me at the station, and we immediately went for a long stroll through the city.

We began by canal crawling.

World Heritage Dave. He's a super nice and interesting guy. Dave's spent a long time travelling, lived in Moscow for many years, working there and in many other places as a tour guide, and he speaks fluent Russian. He knows Central Asia well too, and has been all over the place.

He's also hilariously funny, and has great taste in music.

By the way, I have the best friends in the world.

But you should already know that because you're one of them.

The city of Bath lies on the River Avon, and I could often hear her calling. The canals, waterways and historic buildings are beautifully picturesque, so I was forced to take pictures.

The far canal.

A glimpse of the town centre.

So cool. I haven't met many drag Poles lately.

So humane of them to save drowning people.

A lot of people live on cute skinny barges here, but you have to watch out if you're on a boat in the farcanal, as they tend to barge through.

The Romans built their baths here in 60 AD, but the place was known for its hot springs well before then. It became really popular as a spa town in the Georgian era, which is officially the period from 1714 to 1837, during the reigns of the various King Georges, believe it or not. But William IV also ruled during the Georgian era, so work that one out.

An appropriate place for Dave.

The city became super trendy and arty-farty in the 18th Century, and even Jane Austen lived here. Some streets have been preserved, without any modern structures or even infra-structures, so filmmakers can happily film their period dramas there without having to bother with post-production editing.

This is Great Pulteney Street, and is often used in films and series. It's featured in Bridgerton, Les Misérables, Barry Lyndon, The Remains of the Day, etc. Maybe you recognise it, if you're into that sort of thing.

The Bath Museum. It was closed by the time Dave and I got there, as we were in the remains of the day.

The River Avon cascades down very cutely in the town centre.

The smallest pub in town, the Heart of the Lion. We wanted to have a beer there, but there was no room.

Bath Abbey, a Gothic masterpiece.

We saw the tombstone of the lady who invented Pringles.

And we went to The Raven for a pint.

Raven on.

It's a great pub, there's even a library, on the 2nd floor, up the rickety stairs.

I recognised most of the books, they were all classics.

They even had some brilliant literature from the colonies.

And some classy lounge chairs.

Dave invited me over for dinner with him and his (just) 20 year old daughter Becca and her best friend Martha. We ate delicious food and played the card game of Shithead (I got thrashed, as usual), but it was an absolute hoot, with some pretty funny conversations going on, all embellished by the benefit of having Alexa (yeah, the Amazon one) in the room, which enabled each of us to choose whatever music we liked without having to pass a phone around or get our arses up out of our chairs.

The Thai curry Dave cooked was absolutely sublime, and included (believe it or not), Brussel sprouts, avocados and kiwi fruits. It was seriously one of the best Thai curries I've ever eaten.

And I mean that.

Dave's got some great things lying around.

Becca's birthday card to Dave when she was littler. Page 1.

Page 2.

This is a comic magazine in the UK I know from years ago.

It's out there.

Dave in his icy back yard.

Off To The Footy

On Dave and his friend Barry's suggestion, the next day we went to an English football game in Bristol, an FA Cup Third Round tie between Wolverhampton Wanderers, who are currently sitting a long way down the table in the top English division, the Premier League, and the local team, Bristol Rovers, a mid table team from the next division down, the Championship.

It was great to meet Barry. He's a judge and barrister, but he didn't seem to judge me at all. He used to work with the current UK Prime Minister, Keir Starmer, in the Crown Prosecution Service, and knows him quite well. We didn't have a lot of time to chat, unfortunately, but I really hope we can meet up again sometime, as I really need to find out what the hell's really going on behind the scenes in UK politics.

This photo was taken at 10.30am in a pub outside the stadium. We appeared to be the only ones for whom it was too early for a beer.

There was a band belting out covers of songs like "And I would walk 500 miles ....", you know, that Proclaimers song.

Never seen this Tragedy Abuse sign before. Neither had Dave. It's illegal to sing chants or make fun of various tragedies that have occurred over the years within football stadiums, or in relation to particular football teams.

For example, at Hillsborough Stadium in Sheffield in 1989, the police outside the ground, worried that too many Liverpool fans were congregating in one place, opened one of the stadium gates, and a huge crowd of them surged inside. The problem was, there was not enough space inside, and the fans already in there had nowhere to go, as riot fencing all around the ground prevented them from escaping onto the pitch. Tragically, the ensuing crush killed 96 Liverpool fans.

Not really something to make fun of, is it. But football fans, especially the hooligan type, aren't always necessarily the most sensitive bunch.

English football games are definitely a tourist attraction.

The players warming up.

They're away.

It was a good game. The local team lost 2-1, but it was quite a spectacle, and particularly fun when Bristol scored their goal. The Wolves travelling fans, who have a reputation for being rowdy, had some pretty funny chants.

After the game we took a double decker bus back to the railway station, and then wandered around.

Ever wondered where this band got its name from? Portishead isn't far from here.

Shots from the streets and waterways of Bristol.

Dave and I went to Arnolfini, an art gallery space, where there was a really amazing exhibition by the Japanese photographer Rinko Kawauchi.

Light metal.

St Mary Radcliffe church, yet another Gothic masterpiece.

Eventually it was time to say goodbye to Dave, unfortunately. I'd love to spend more time with him. I hope it happens soon, although he's a little committed with work for the time being. I made my way back to Temple Meads station, for the convoluted train slog back to Stroud

The Skiers Return

Late on Sunday night Rich and Sarah appeared, back from their French skiing holiday.

The weather had been pretty crap for them, and there'd been blizzards up in the French Alps, unlike in Hollywood.

It was great to see those guys again.

The next day Rich headed off to a funeral service near Cheltenham, for the dad of a friend of his. Sarah took me to Cheltenham a little later, and kindly gave me a scenic tour of the region on the way up.

Traditional Cotswoldian villages are beautiful, and many old buildings there are made from what's called Cotswold stone, of all things.

There were some stunning oaks on the way.

Eventually Sarah dropped me in town.

Cheltenham town became known as a spa and holiday town after mineral springs were discovered there in 1716. It's also known for its British Regency architectural style, a style that became popular in the early 1800s. Cheltenham's also known for its very famous horse racecourse. In fact, a large racecourse in Adelaide used to be called Cheltenham too. But it closed down in 2009.

Classic Regency architectural style

The Crimean War was fought between 1853 and 1856, between the Russian Empire, and an alliance consisting of the Ottoman Empire, France, the UK and Sardinia-Piedmont. The real reason for the war was the weakness of the Ottoman Empire, as, after Russia and the Ottomans began fighting, the UK and France entered the fray, basically to stop Russia controlling the territories it was winning from the Ottomans.

Russia eventually lost the war, and sued for peace. It lost a whole bunch of territory as a result, and the defeat was a huge blow to the Tsarist Empire.

Another Regency building

Wandering the streets of the Cheltenham shopping district

Notice the pigeon?

Pole-axed

Edward Wilson, one of British polar explorer Captain Scott's mates, who died with him in 1912, on their way back from reaching the South Pole with their party. They were all racing to be the first humans to get there, but the exploration group of the Norwegian Roald Dahl, I mean Roald Amundsen, got to enjoy pole position a month earlier, much to their dismay.

Damn! Pipped at the post!

Unfortunately a few of the British party fell ill and died on the way back, and, a short time later, Capt Scott, Edward Wilson, and another guy, Henry "Birdie" Bowers, also died, in their blizzard-bound tent, only 11 miles from their food depot.

So near and yet so far.

Roald Amundsen's trip, on the other hand, was relatively smooth. Well, as smooth as a trip to the brutality of a frozen-over-hell could possibly be. He left his base camp with four other men, all dressed up in their Inuit clothes, and had a huge pack of 52 dogs to carry them and their supplies around.

At every stop they'd cleverly slaughter a dog or two, to feed themselves (and the other dogs). And they weren't even Laotian or Cambodian. They eventually made it to the South Pole, where they raised a Norwegian flag, and left a note for Capt Scott, which read, "neh neh ne neh ne! (raspberry raspberry elderberry)."

The Norwegians all made it back safely, with 11 uneaten (but traumatised) dogs.

King Neptune in a complete flap, as someone had switched off his water supply for the winter. This fountain design was influenced by the Fontana di Trevi in Rome. You may notice a resemblance.

But if you don't you'll be able to compare them both in a few weeks, as I'm actually gonna visit Rome soon.

The Ivy, a super interesting building, which these days is a swish restaurant

The very ritzy Cheltenham College, a prestigious boarding school

Don't you love how the Brits do their mileage road signs, in quarter, half, or three-quarters-of-a-mile bits.

Rich collected me from the College, and we went to the wake for Alan, his friend Ian's dad, which was held in a beautiful old pub up the road. It was really moving, and I felt super inspired, chatting to people about a man I'd never met, but felt I like knew quite well by the time I left.

I met some amazing people there.

Death comes at any time folks. Just saying. Better do what you wanna do now, before you kick the bucket, give up the ghost, start pushing up daisies, get six-feet under, get to the wrong side of the grass, shake hands with Elvis, take a dirt nap, start counting worms, or become The Late.

Ah, that reminds me of a road sign I once saw on a dangerous deadly highway through the Himalayas in Ladakh, India, which was trying to encourage drivers to slow down:

Better To Be Mister Late

Than To Be The Late Mister

Alan was into model railways, and this is one of his creations, complete with cork cliffs.

The Tail End Of The English Innings

Well, in a couple of days I'll be leaving the cold but beautiful hills of the Cotswolds, and will head to London to visit my dear friend Lizza.

After that I'll be leaving Ol' Blighty altogether, as I have a plan to return to the Germanic tribelands, to visit other dear friends.

What a privileged soul I am.

Having friends in high places.

In medium places.

And even friends who live way down at sea level.

I'm absolutely loving this friend-hopping phase of my trip, being able to visit people I've known for years, or people I've more recently met whilst travelling, all back on their own turf, in their homes, with their families.

Yeah, there's no doubt about it.

It doesn't matter at what altitude I've been situated, right now I'm definitely getting high with a little help from my friends.

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