DiaCon diary, day one, part one
Jul. 29th, 2011 10:09 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
fpbAll right, let's do this another way.
Last week, on Thursday morning, I set out for Canterbury.
Thursday 21
I
I was surprisingly anxious. At 49 years of age (actually about to be reached - my birthday was on Sunday), and having travelled several times and in four continents, one would not think I would be so nervous at a four-day break a couple of counties away, most of which had been set up by others. But I was. This was the first time in my life that I had arranged, paid and set out entirely on my own. As a rule I tend to travel with members of my family, and at any rate, living in London and being able to put up in Rome at a moment's notice means that more things come to me than I need to go to them. Case in point: next year Rome will see what seems like an incredible exhibition of manuscripts and documents from the Papal Archives. I dare say that there are university professors from great universities who will have more trouble getting to see them than I will: I just got on the phone, rang up my mother, and asked her whether she would put me up at the appropriate time. Afterwards, I imagine, I'll book a Ryanair ticket and that will be all.
So travelling to Canterbury was different. I had nobody to come with me - although I counted on meeting friends at journey's end - and I had to trust that organizers I had never met would do a good job. I had to make sure I was never late or missed any connection. Worst of all, I didn't know what impression I would make, and between my serious overweight problem and my native tendency to anger, I feared I might ruin the convention for others. As a worrier by nature, these things pretty much took me over. Already a few days before departure I was thinking of little else.
I had been there before, and indeed I'd gone there on my own, more than once. That was more than thirty years ago, when I went to improve my English with a wonderful English Catholic lady called Lorna Villeneuve in Fordwich (an honest-to-goodness real working English village three miles down from Canterbury) and then to study in an amazing place called King's School, Canterbury, of which more later. And in travelling alone in those pre-internet, pre-Ryanair days, I had made every mistake under the sun. The second time I got to London, I managed to lose myself (by misunderstanding the difference between "terminal" and "terminus") and ended up making my way from London to Canterbury alone. I got to Fordwich at midnight, having dragged my trunk all the way from Canterbury Coach Station, to discover that Mrs.Villeneuve (who spoke no Italian) and my parents (who spoke almost no English) had been terribly concerned about me and that the phone lines between Rome and Fordwich had pretty much been burning. Those were the days when I felt pretty much invulnerable - no worrying fits when I was fifteen! - and I rather fancy that my unspoken reaction was to wonder why everyone made so much fuss. A year or two later, having come to Canterbury a few hours too early, I spent a January night in the cloister of Canterbury Cathedral, waiting for King's School Canterbury to open. NOT comfortable! And I was scolded for it later, too, being told that they would have let me in one evening too soon without a second thought. Which, by the way, was typical of the way I tended to misunderstand practically everything about the very unusual world of English boarding schools.
The coach line still existed, as I expected, although the price had become mutant (that's the best way I can express it). On the other hand, one could save a lot if one made one's order online and undertook to travel at a definite time, not sooner or later. (The train I never considered; train tickets, these days, can't even be described as mutant, but rather as a peculiarly perverse manifestation of British wit.) This was one reason why I was anxious, and why, of course, I went out of the house early on Thursday morning. I intended to give myself all the time in the world, and in fact I got to Victoria Coach Station in time - if without the generous waiting time I had wanted. Evidently I had left later than would have been wholly safe; suppose there had been a halt on the Tube?
One unhappy feature of the journey which I had certainly not considered - not that I could have done anything about it - is that the road to Kent goes straight through my old quarter, Lewisham, from which I was very painfully ejected last year. It was the first time I'd been back there except for a couple of visits to my sister, and it bloody well hurt to see that great, plebeian, dirty, colourful quarter once again. I was happy enough to get out.
(First part - to be continued)
Last week, on Thursday morning, I set out for Canterbury.
Thursday 21
I
I was surprisingly anxious. At 49 years of age (actually about to be reached - my birthday was on Sunday), and having travelled several times and in four continents, one would not think I would be so nervous at a four-day break a couple of counties away, most of which had been set up by others. But I was. This was the first time in my life that I had arranged, paid and set out entirely on my own. As a rule I tend to travel with members of my family, and at any rate, living in London and being able to put up in Rome at a moment's notice means that more things come to me than I need to go to them. Case in point: next year Rome will see what seems like an incredible exhibition of manuscripts and documents from the Papal Archives. I dare say that there are university professors from great universities who will have more trouble getting to see them than I will: I just got on the phone, rang up my mother, and asked her whether she would put me up at the appropriate time. Afterwards, I imagine, I'll book a Ryanair ticket and that will be all.
So travelling to Canterbury was different. I had nobody to come with me - although I counted on meeting friends at journey's end - and I had to trust that organizers I had never met would do a good job. I had to make sure I was never late or missed any connection. Worst of all, I didn't know what impression I would make, and between my serious overweight problem and my native tendency to anger, I feared I might ruin the convention for others. As a worrier by nature, these things pretty much took me over. Already a few days before departure I was thinking of little else.
I had been there before, and indeed I'd gone there on my own, more than once. That was more than thirty years ago, when I went to improve my English with a wonderful English Catholic lady called Lorna Villeneuve in Fordwich (an honest-to-goodness real working English village three miles down from Canterbury) and then to study in an amazing place called King's School, Canterbury, of which more later. And in travelling alone in those pre-internet, pre-Ryanair days, I had made every mistake under the sun. The second time I got to London, I managed to lose myself (by misunderstanding the difference between "terminal" and "terminus") and ended up making my way from London to Canterbury alone. I got to Fordwich at midnight, having dragged my trunk all the way from Canterbury Coach Station, to discover that Mrs.Villeneuve (who spoke no Italian) and my parents (who spoke almost no English) had been terribly concerned about me and that the phone lines between Rome and Fordwich had pretty much been burning. Those were the days when I felt pretty much invulnerable - no worrying fits when I was fifteen! - and I rather fancy that my unspoken reaction was to wonder why everyone made so much fuss. A year or two later, having come to Canterbury a few hours too early, I spent a January night in the cloister of Canterbury Cathedral, waiting for King's School Canterbury to open. NOT comfortable! And I was scolded for it later, too, being told that they would have let me in one evening too soon without a second thought. Which, by the way, was typical of the way I tended to misunderstand practically everything about the very unusual world of English boarding schools.
The coach line still existed, as I expected, although the price had become mutant (that's the best way I can express it). On the other hand, one could save a lot if one made one's order online and undertook to travel at a definite time, not sooner or later. (The train I never considered; train tickets, these days, can't even be described as mutant, but rather as a peculiarly perverse manifestation of British wit.) This was one reason why I was anxious, and why, of course, I went out of the house early on Thursday morning. I intended to give myself all the time in the world, and in fact I got to Victoria Coach Station in time - if without the generous waiting time I had wanted. Evidently I had left later than would have been wholly safe; suppose there had been a halt on the Tube?
One unhappy feature of the journey which I had certainly not considered - not that I could have done anything about it - is that the road to Kent goes straight through my old quarter, Lewisham, from which I was very painfully ejected last year. It was the first time I'd been back there except for a couple of visits to my sister, and it bloody well hurt to see that great, plebeian, dirty, colourful quarter once again. I was happy enough to get out.
(First part - to be continued)
