By Ray Wilson
After leaving the A303, our road to the sun is narrower and calmer, more indicative of earlier times—more suited to a horse and cart rather than a motorised vehicle. Our motorcycle combination purrs along the lanes, weaving through the picturesque countryside as we soak in the peaceful surroundings. We are staying in a quiet place—far from the madding crowd on a smallholding. Our shepherd’s hut has everything we need. No television or radio to drip feed us stories of concern—to plant the seeds of worry.
Our government demands that we worry; they feed on our fear. Our fears of war, fear of famine, some new plague, death, terrorists, and the weather—by those means and many others they seek to control us—it’s a people farm, and we are the livestock. But here, in our secluded retreat, we are free from the constant barrage of fear-inducing news. Instead, we focus on the simple joys of nature and each other’s company, finding peace in the present moment.
“It’s so good to see you both,” Kit begins. “I was in a rush this morning and forgot to leave you some milk.”
“We picked up some raw milk, eggs, and butter from the little wagon farm shop just down the track,” my missus tells her, “they have everything there.”
“What are your plans while you are here?” Kit asks.
“We thought we might pop in to Lyme Regis—the Jurassic coastline is always inspiring—Mary Anning and all of that.” I say , thinking about the fossil hunting and beautiful views. “And maybe we’ll take a walk along the river,” my missus adds with a smile.
“Have you seen that film?” Kit asks, “It took a genuine friendship between Mary and Charlotte and turned it into a lesbian romp.”
“Is there any historical evidence for it?” my missus asks. ” I believe the main stream media who legitimise paedophilia have an agenda to sexualise everything, especially our children.”
“When women like Mary and Charlotte have their story corrupted and sexualised, it diminishes their impact in fields like science, doesn’t it?” Kit looks thoughtful. “They are drip feeding it in everywhere, aren’t they?”
“I think it is an orchestrated attempt to indoctrinate children by our governments at the behest of their handlers—as in the cultural revolution in China in the 1960s, they indoctrinated their children—our children are the future.” “It’s a form of social engineering, shaping the minds of the next generation,” I add. “We need to be vigilant and protect our children from this manipulation.”
That night the aeroplanes could be heard above the clouds, dispensing aerosolised chemicals in strands of gloop.
“You heard them, didn’t you?” my missus asks.
“Yes,” I reply, looking out of the little window—rivulets run down the glass; rain fell with intensity, hammering down on the hut.
After breakfast, I walked the hound along the lane; the skies cleared and the rain abated.
The sunshine warmed us as we got our motorcycle gear on—the hound hopped into the sidecar and we were off—to the town—to the coast—the world our oyster.
It was another Sunday, another afternoon in September 2021, when we last walked on Seatown beach.
“Two pound for a motorcycle combination; park where ever you want,” the attendant smiled broadly, putting down her phone.
We parked on a grassy verge—the hound jumped out—we put our motorcycle helmets in the sidecar and closed the canopy.
“What was that series with the sidecar called now?” she asked as my missus handed her the coins.
“On the buses—with Olive in the sidecar?”
“Who? Yes, that’s right—I love that one—Olive and Arthur, wasn’t it?”
“Oh, it’s great life on the buses,” I said. “There’s nothing like it, you agree. Just take a ride up on the buses. Because there’s plenty you can see.”
“No worries about political correctness back then,” my missus looked at me and at the attendant and said, “You would be imprisoned for posting that nowadays, wouldn’t you?”
The attendant chuckled, shaking her head. “Times have certainly changed—no offence taken,” she remarked, “posts and a-fence—the only place for those is in the garden.”
“We have got “On the Buses” on DVD—our grandson used to come over on the weekend to sit and watch it—he was 10 years old at the time—he’s twenty something now. He loved all the characters—Stan and Jack, always up to no good.
My missus told her all about it, “And Blakey, of course.” The attendant noded, reminiscing about the popular British sitcom. “Yes, Blakey and his catchphrase, ‘I ‘ate you, Butler!'” she laughed. “It’s a classic, that’s for sure,” the attendant added with a smile. “Those were the days.”
We walked down onto the beach. The sun was breaking through the swathes of cloud. The sound of seagulls filled the air as we found a spot to sit and watch the ocean.
“I am going to walk the hound a bit further along,” I said.
“I don’t remember us walking this far along when we last came here—did we?”
“Yes, I think we did—so many people—the stand in the park group—so many animated conversations—time and distance were changed somehow,” I mused.
That day a troupe of 50 like-minded people was talking excitedly about new projects and new revelations—the sadness of family splits—but a new family found. As I walked further along the shore with the hound, I could’t help but feel a sense of peace and contentment. The waves crashing against the rocks created a soothing rhythm that washes away any lingering worries or doubts. It’s cooler this September of 2024. Cooler sun blotted out swirling grey bundles of cloud and massing on the cliff edge, inexorably becoming a critical mass and tumbling over the edge. I wondered back with the hound where my wife was resting up.
“Pull me up,” she said. The rain began in ernest and we headed back to the car park.
“Three years ago, on a Sunday like this, we were here with the stand in the Park group in Bridport,” I said to the attendant.
“Many of the groups are fragmenting,” I told her.
“They are still going strong here—big numbers now—I don’t come as often, but they meet up in the pub every second Tuesday of the month—the landlord is really on board with it,” she explained.
“I am following news of the wars—I am happy sitting here in my cosy little booth—I enjoy talking to the visitors—in the quiet times I do my research,” she told us . “It’s a nice change of pace from the chaos out there in the world,” she added with a smile. “I feel like I’m making a difference, even if it’s just in my own little corner of the world.”
“I haven’t worried about the vaccine stuff for a while—so many of my friends and family—injured—harmed in many ways—and some have died. I’m just trying to focus on the positive aspects of life right now,” she continued. “It’s important to stay informed; sometimes it’s so dark and overwhelming, but also to find joy in the little things.”
“The guy that just left—dunno if he was winding me up said there’s a dig going on. Apparently—they’ve excavated a big area, and its a massive find. I might have to check that out during my next break,” she mused. “It’s always exciting to hear about new discoveries in the field.”
“Who knows it might be on par with the finds of Mary Anning’s day,” I suggested.
Cars exited the car park in droves, and as we talked, the skies cleared—the sun bursted through its intense heat and immediately warmed us.
Strangely more cars drove down the narrow road and crossed the little wooden bridge into the car park.
“We had better leave you to it,” I said. “Looks like you’re busy all of a sudden.”
“Shall we walk down and confront this monster?” I asked my missus.
“Why not?” she replied, “We need all the practise we can get.”
And turning to the parking attendant, she said, “What time are you here until?”
“I normally head off at five; the car park is open until nine, and then it closes for the night.”
“It was nice talking… to… er..normal people—next time you visit, the parking is free.” The parking attendant smiled and she waved as we headed towards the beach.
“Perfect, thank you,” my missus responded before we started our walk towards the monster waiting for us at the end of the road. The anticipation of what lies ahead filled us with a mix of excitement and nervousness as we made our way down the path. This is why we were at this particular place at this particular time, unfettered by the reductive friction of fear.
