Is Your Journey Really Necessary?

In 'What Do You Want?' – 'Information!' , I told you about the getting-blood-from-a-stone-like process of trying to find out details of bus services in England when I was phoning from Wales. That was nearly six years ago. I've no idea whether things have improved since. I might give them a call when I can face another uphill struggle. Subsequently I've highlighted the inadequacies of the Traveline Cymru website, and the paucity of information on bus company websites. The situation is exactly the same once you log off and return to the Real World. In my local area (Aberdare), Stagecoach drivers occasionally have timetable booklets which passengers can pick up. Occasionally… However, these – by definition – list only the Stagecoach services. The various buses operated by Globe Coaches, N.A.T. Group, First Call and other local companies don't merit a mention. In fact, unless you happen to see one of these buses while you're out and about, you probably won...

I was awake early again on the Monday morning, after my rather haphazard exploration the day before (see  …And Also The Trees .) When I looked out, a good number of the other tents had gone, and my own looked rather sad and lonely in the field. I gathered a few things together and walked down to the farmhouse for a nice hot shower. There were a couple of children playing in the next field, and there were signs of life in a caravan parked next to the fence. The chickens were roaming around in the yard, and I muttered a quiet curse towards the cockerel, who had woken me for the second day running. I emerged from the shower room refreshed and ready to face the world. It was only about eight o'clock. I decided to hit the road early and aim for the 0925 bus to Monmouth. Even though I wasn't in a great hurry to get back to Aberdare, I could feel the usual post-trip-away-comedown coming on. I wasn't looking forward to the next job of the day – dismantling the bloody tent. It was s...

Having breakfasted in fine fashion at the Log Cabin near Symonds Yat Rock (see Rocking Around the Forest ), I retraced my steps through the trees and eventually emerged onto the minor road to Coleford. It didn't take me long before I found a signpost. It wasn't a great deal of use, to be honest – I already knew where I was, and travellers wouldn't exactly be spoilt for choice. To the north lies the village of Symonds Yat; to the south lies Coleford. There's not much in between, unless you count Berry Hill/Christchurch. But it confirmed that the strange twisting path through the forest hadn't totally confused my sense of direction. I was heading south, exactly as planned. The signpost also advised me that Coleford was two miles away. Once again I found myself in the unenviable position that Achilles had been in when racing the Tortoise. I was pretty sure that I'd walked a lot further than two miles to get to Symonds Yat in the first place. I looked at my phone an...