Keep Playing Until You're Unplugged

Seven and a half years ago, two girls and a springer spaniel walked into a pub. No joke: that's the fact. But it's only the beginning of the story. 

That pub turned out to be The Best Pub in the World. 

The Horse and Groom at Westbury in Wiltshire is the pub in question. You can read about that first visit here: 

http://vintagegnome.blogspot.com/2015/04/the-best-pub-in-world.html

Now it's time for the sequel. 

It was the weekend after my birthday. My 40th birthday in fact. I've been thinking back to my mum's 40th birthday when I was growing up. She was livid when she came home from work and found we've hung banners and balloons from the house. I'm awful at recalling memories (hence the need to record here) but my brain is burned with the act of her ripping the celebratory decorations from the ivy-clad archway. 

I could never understand why she didn't want everyone to know how old she was. Was it a secret that she had been born? Was the ageing process not there for all to see? Her memories, her experiences, her children, her loves, her losses, her grey hairs: surely they gave the game away? Not our banners. We just wanted to celebrate that she'd been lucky enough to live for forty years. 

Instead of balloons out the front of my imaginary house, I celebrated my birthday by being taken on a surprise road trip into deepest, darkest Wiltshire. Dark being the key word on this particular Sunday; about an hour into the road trip, the drizzle descended and visibility was tricky at best. 

Light was thrown on the situation when we pulled into the White Horse car park and I was met with the sight of my waterproof-clad friends. Damp hugs and a quick trek up to "see" the horse completed, someone then made the all-important call. 

"Pub?" 

"Pub." 

A simple descent of the hill leads you to The Horse and Groom, the reason for the trip. 

It then became apparent we were visiting on a particularly important day. Nothing to do with my birthday. That day was the scheduled memorial for the beloved Nigel. 

Now, if you read the previous installment, you will remember my instant love for the harmonica wielding musician that first fateful afternoon of our visit. He was my hero. This was Nigel. 

Jen filled me in on the details she'd discovered when booking the table and enquiring about the Sunday afternoon music sessions. Yes, there would be music, but it would be different to usual. This Sunday was the memorial for the much-loved Nigel. 

Nigel had died a few months previously and this was a chance for his friends to come together to celebrate his life and his music. We had made it back to say farewell to a legend. 

I had no idea how much of a legend he was, but I was about to find out. 

Above the bar, there was a beautiful photo of him in all his glory. He was playing the harmonica and had his utility belt of the instruments on full display. We grabbed a drink to wash down our roasts dinners (delicious and plentiful FYI) and squeezed into the room to pay our respects and enjoy the music. And squeeze in is the right phrase. The room was packed. You could tell how highly thought of Nigel was. People had come from all over to return to The Best Pub in the World to celebrate Nigel and his music. 

We sat with a couple who had moved away from the area but said they needed to come along on this day. They told us their memories of Nigel and we listened with joy and sadness. Then sausage rolls and chicken wings were brought out (The Best Pub in the World remember) and Deefer was thrilled to discover an afternoon in the pub makes punters more generous with their table scraps. 

The stage area was occupied by an endless stream of musicians setting up, playing and telling their own stories of Nigel. It was very special to be allowed a glimpse into his life and the lives of his friends, all based around this pub. They talked about his work as a cabinet maker and how handy he was. Various musicians played instruments made by Nigel himself and gifted to them. He poured love and craftsmanship into all his efforts. I listened to the cigar-box guitars continuing Nigel's legacy and was moved that I got to be there for that special day. 

As the landlady walked past, we talked to her about Nigel. They'd been to plant a tree for him that morning before all decamping back to base in the pub. I love the idea of a tree growing in his memory that may one day produce wood to continue his music. 

She also recalled his last gig there. Just before he died, he wanted to come back and play once more: one last hurrah. He was quite ill so they gave him a limit of a few songs to play. He played past his limit and then some. According to her story, he was still playing hours later and only stopped when he was unplugged. Nigel was the most legendary harmonica player I've ever had the honour to see perform. 

Birthdays always make me feel reflective. Ageing doesn't worry me. I've known people who should have had the opportunity to have more birthdays than they did, and I'm always thankful I get to each milestone. Each year, and in fact, each day we have, to do something, to play something, to create something, is a bonus. We should celebrate the fact that we are alive and participating in this great pub jam of life. Grab an instrument, make some noise and make someone's day. 

Nigel's story is one of perseverance and enthusiasm. And love. He loved his music, playing it, making the instruments and sharing it with his community at The Horse and Groom. 

That pub is a magical place and I cannot believe I was in the right place at the right time again to say farewell to someone I only met once, but who taught me so much through such a small instrument: keep playing until you're unplugged. 

Running Away from Covid

It was the last day before the Easter holidays, a time every member of school staff in the land anticipates. Two weeks of freedom. Better than Christmas (less obligations), better than the summer (less pressure) and better than the half terms (more time). 

Then the black cloud of Covid reared its ugly head. 

My housemate texted me from the other side of the wall with her "positive" news. I wished her well and plotted my escape. 

It seemed extreme to run away but it was the holidays so I was free to roam in my bid to outwit the dreaded virus. And I would probably have adventured somewhere anyway, so why not turn the running away into an enforced holiday? 

Now, I'm not an idiot. I wouldn't have gone spreading my viral load over little old lady bed and breakfasts. I hadn't seen my housemate since her positivity appeared and I was still a negative Nelly (both my general disposition and the LFT readings), so I had a good chance of evading this particular domestic strain. 

I stuffed my bag full of random clothes, reading material and emergency biscuits before heading off into the sunset. 

Now, in the media representations of people on the run, there seems to be a lot of dodgy dealings and sheltering in questionable locations. In homage to this, I booked an Airbnb in Bognor. 

To explain, I was due to be drumming at Goodwood, just down the road, on the Saturday and I bloody love the seaside so Bognor Regis seemed like the obvious choice. My single room of choice was barely bigger than a prison cell but it had a sea view - a sliver to the side, when you leaned out the window past the condensation covered glass and at the end of a wheelie-bin strewn alley, but hey, it was the sea! In fact, the name of my room (yes, it was the sort of establishment that names rather than numbers its rooms) was "Fancy". Reader, it was not. 

Yet the accommodation was incidental: I was there for the location. The weather forecast being kind allowed me ample beach wandering time in the fresh air and away from others. It was cold but bright, and once the sun had warmed up, perfect weather for sitting on the beach and reading. Or finding a cafe on the edge of a park where I could greet all the dogs out for their weekend wanders whilst supping tea from a mug and eating marmalade-laden toast. Or frequenting a kiosk on the beach serving the kids' tea of champions: fish fingers, chips and beans. Did I find these gems? Of course. Did I indulge in these delights? You bet your beach huts I did. 

For a few days I stayed beside the seaside. Walking, pausing, eating, avoiding contact with people, listening, staring and always apricating. The sun kept me company and I basked in it hoping that the rays of vitamin D would irradiate any lingering particles of the coronavirus. I'm not a scientist but it seemed like a good use of my time. 

Morning walks were best. Up and about even before the joggers. Walk until weary in either direction. There's something about a seaside town that I adore. I have a penchant for people watching and the best place to do it is by the sea. And of course, when the people drift away, there's always the sea to soothe you. Yes, the sea is magnificent wherever, but when a grand old pier stretches into it from a shingle beach, magic is abound. 

Walk under it, around it and along it. There's no view of a pier that is ugly. Second only to bridges in my top five human engineering achievements. And Bognor's is a beauty, especially in the spring sunshine. 

Buggering off to Bognor had given me time to be outside and time to think. I had a sunburnt face (never forget to panic pack sun cream). a new favourite pebble and a realisation that I have anxiety issues over Covid. By the time I had to leave, I was still testing negative but I was hoping to go back to everyday life with a more positive outlook. Sometimes life is no walk on the pier but I shall endeavour to store the optimism of a blue sky for rainy days.