My journey to Winnipeg from Toronto by Greyhound bus was to take me over a day to cover almost 1400 miles of the wild Canadian landscape. Sitting near the front of the coach I bagged a window seat. Taking out my Victor Hugo’s Les Miserable’s, I settled down for the long journey.

My heart sank when a man of about six and half feet tall attempted to fold himself into the chair next to me. He looked like a half closed deckchair, but had none of the charming memories of ice cream and sandcastles that would usually go with that picture.

Turning to me he gave a smile that would have sent a snake slithering back under a rock for safety. His clothes smelt of poor standards of hygiene, stale smoke and beer. It was a long journey to be sat next to such an unfriendly character. I opened up my book intending to ignore him as much as I could.

“Going to Winnipeg?” his accent was English and that made me cringe. I too was English and I didn’t want to reveal any common ground with him. But I knew that no reply would be churlish.

“Yes.” I replied, “Are you?”

“Aah, you are English. Where from?”

“Near London.” I vaguely replied.

“Me to. I lived in Chelsea.”

At this point I was convinced he was lying, Chelsea being such an upmarket part of town, but then he added, “Chelsea Barracks, I was in the Cold Stream Guards.”

That made more sense, I reasoned, an army man.

“Oh, OK. I know where that is.” Suddenly a vision of terrified horses galloped across my mind. Their eyes flashing and their nostrils snorting in fear. A news real from the 1981 Chelsea Barracks Bombing.

“Yes most people know where it is. It was a nail bomb. I was there.”

I fell silent under his gaze. How had  I revealed my own thoughts?  I felt guilty at my ungracious opinions of him. Two people had died and he surely must have known them. Perhaps they were friends of his. But the thought just made me feel more uncomfortable to be in his company.

I retreated back to my book. The hours rolled by and I started to doze. I woke up with a start and stared into the blackness outside.

My companion began to mutter under his breath and cracking his knuckles, most of the other travellers were sleeping and the noise just seemed louder in the darkness. He also spread his large frame nearer to me. I edged closer to the window. I wanted to say “Right!  Move to another seat you are making me uncomfortable.” But I knew that was ridiculous, there were no other seats and cracking knuckles although annoying was not a crime.

We stopped at a service station for food and a chance to stretch our legs. I relaxed a little and started chatting to a lady called Michelle who was travelling home after staying with her sick mother. She was the kind of lady whose life history I knew completely within minutes, but she knew nothing about me. But it was refreshing to talk to her after the companion I had in the bus.

I wanted to take another seat on the bus rather then sit back with creepy guy but I knew no one else would enjoy sitting next to him either. Most of the people on the bus were silver haired grandmothers or perhaps great grandmothers, travelling across the massive landscape to visit family scattered  the great Canadian landscape. They sat in groups chatting with fellow grandmothers. Why would they want to sit with this man?

Once back on the bus my companion seemed to have livened up and wanted to chat.

“Have you a place to stay in Winnipeg?” he asked.

“Yes” I immediately lied.

“Oh OK, I was going to recommend the hostel I’m staying at. $2.00 a night with breakfast” he said.

It wasn’t difficult to imagine what kind of hostel would be that cheap. And I was relieved that my budget could stretch to somewhere slightly more salubrious then that.

Occasional stops were made for little old ladies to climb out to what appeared as no where. I watched their tiny frames being engulfed into the darkness.

Suddenly after interminable hours the traveller’s behaviour became more bizarre. “The bomb is timed for 6.03 precisely.” He then looked at his watch and then at the bus clock.

I was convinced he must have just woken up from a bad dream and was confused. “Just in time for Thunder Bay.” he added.

I looked around the bus; no one else seemed to have heard him.

A while later he repeated, “The bomb is timed for 6.03 precisely. Yes everything is going to plan.”

I heard an elderly lady say, “What did he say about 6.03? Are we going to be late?”

For the next two hours at regular intervals he gave a count down of the time remaining.

And I just sat there as if I was on a Sunday outing. Doing nothing, just waiting for 6.03. This wasn’t how I had foreseen my death. On a bus in the middle of Canada next to this horrible man.

Panic started to ripple through the bus. “Excuse me” I said ,“I need to speak to the driver about the next stop.”

He didn’t move, instead I had to climb over him and it made me uncomfortable getting that close to him. I literally shivered as I straddled across his huge frame.

“Bus driver you must pull over this man has planted a bomb.” I hissed.

“Lady there is no bomb” the driver replied. His voice was gruff and there was a suggestion that I was just being silly.

“How do you know that?” Someone else said.

“Do you think I would still be driving if there was a bomb? Our next stop will be 6.00. We will sort it out then. Stop worrying we are no where near in danger.”

His words placated a few of the passengers, but not me.

Rather like a little child I went to sit back down. But this time insisted the traveller get up for me. He stared at me with cold blue eyes. But didn’t move.

In a curt voice the driver said ,“Let the lady in.”

My companion  got up and I sat back down in my seat. And so for what appeared an interminable time. The traveller continued a count down to 6.03.

At one stage the clock on the wall above the front windscreen said 5.45 but mine said 5.48. That was the difference between life and possible death. Three minutes.

“18 minutes till explosion.” I heard from the seat next to me.

Slowly the landscape became more and more built up, street lighting and pavements, shops and homes, we were nearing Thunder Bay. The clock said 5.54, my watch said 5.57.

An orange glow was spreading across the sky, sunrise, but its beauty was lost on me, it just meant we were nearer to what I convinced was the inevitable.

There was stillness on the bus as time and the coach marched on. We pulled into the coach station. My watch shouted 6.00 at me. Outside there were police cars, fire engines, ambulances and an army truck.

Relief started to wash over me, the driver had radioed ahead. I just had to hope that my watch was fast.

In what now I realise was lightening speed we were ferried off the bus and round the corner to the departure lounge. I clambered down to safety. To a blanket and hot coffee. Knowing that if there was an explosion I was now out of harms way.

There was no bomb I found out later. It was just a sad, traumatised, retired soldier reliving a bad experience on a bus through Canada.

I and my fellow travellers were put up in hotel for the night and then those of us who had to continue by Greyhound, had a replacement bus the next day. I had no choice my budget wouldn’t allow for an alternative form of travel.

Michelle the lady I had spent time chatting to on the coffee break decided against continuing by bus. We exchanged addresses and she said, “Write to me about your travels. I can’t believe you sat next to him for all that time so calmly. He was so scary.”

I didn’t reply, and watched her walk back into the hotel. I knew everything about this lady. Her mother’s cancer, her daughter’s pregnancy, the cat with weight problems, the unfaithful husband, the messy divorce, her own fight with breast cancer. I knew all this in the space of a 15 minute coffee break but the man who had sat next to me on the bus for nearly a day I knew nothing, except that he had been in the Chelsea Barrack bombing back in 1981. Perhaps I should have put the hand of friendship out to him. But I hadn’t, I often wonder if that man had seen into my own eyes and saw the flared nostrils of those horses and their eyes hot with fear.  Or perhaps just the journey across the wide Canadian landscape had opened his own barely healed scars. I will never know.

Climbing on to the bus the next morning, the first thing I did was put my watch back by three minutes to fit with the coach clock.

I shone the torch up into the rafters of the wooden room. Yes it was definitely there. I counted ,one, two three, four, five, six, seven, eight legs spread out from its fat juicy body, tarantula! And then I shone the torch to another post, yes there was number two.

Just what on earth had possessed me to come to the Ecuadorian rain forest with a phobia of spiders? Tarantulas are the King of the arachnids and here they were bedding down with me for the night.

My guide had been extremely honest when I had asked about the chances of encountering tarantulas’ whilst on my rainforest trip.

“You will definitely have them in your room at some point. But that is good because they will eat all the unwanted insects. It’s not like a James Bond movie you know?”

No I mused it is not, no chance of Daniel Craig rescuing me from deadly spiders in the night. That scene of him walking out of the sea in those shorts flashed across my mind. Why hadn’t I booked a beach break? Too late now though.

And then I thought – What the hell kind of insects would there be, that having a tarantula in your room would be a good thing?

The guide had also thrown in the mention of scorpion spiders. My imagination ran amok at what that would be.

“Did I want high adventure?” The travel agent in Quito had asked. And I had rather rashly said, “Yes”.

The high adventure had started out inauspiciously enough, although the usual three hour canoe trek morphed into a grueling seven hours because the rains had come very late and that meant in places we had to carry our own canoe.

But along the route our enthusiastic guide pointed things out that would have escaped the usual grumpy tourists. I remember from a trip to Costa Rica that you can tell a good guide from his enthusiasm. Well on a scale of 1- 10 this guy was 11. His eye sight was better than spider mans.

He pointed out things that would have escaped any mere mortal. Orchids of the most miniscule size were suddenly glaringly obvious. Birds camouflaged high in the trees were suddenly as clear as if in a cage in front of us. Monkeys that were discreetly watching us were at the “watching you, watching me”, stage.

And so eventually we arrived at camp.

My hope had been to see a jaguar whilst there and as soon as our evening meal was over and the beers were being opened I immediately asked our guide, “So what are the chances of us seeing a jaguar?”

He looked a bit solemn and said, “Well there was one in the area but unfortunately my brother who works at the local petrol plant, was out pig hunting with his friends and shot it.”

My heart immediately sank, there was no chance of seeing another jaguar on my trip, they are so rare and so allusive and then I felt angry. Why had his brother shot it?

“He had gone hunting for pig with his friends and they had found no pigs, but on their way home they had spotted a jaguar, they saw it as a gift from the gods and they shot it.”

I wanted to cry. Such a beautiful creature to be shot because it was seen as a gift from the gods!

I could just imagine the conversation round the dinner table at our guide’s family home on Sunday.

“So my lovely boys, how has your week been?”

“Well mum my friends and I went out pig hunting; sadly we didn’t find one pig. But we saw a jaguar and we shot it.”

And my guides reply. “Well mum I had a group of very angry and upset tourists, because they didn’t see a jaguar on their trip. My brother had shot it.”

The guide raised my spirits slightly by telling me dolphins had been seen lower down the river and there was also high hopes of us catching piranha for tomorrow evening’s meal.

The death of the jaguar had caused me to forget about the prospect of spiders in my room. But on arriving at my room it all came back to me.

Whilst preparing to crawl under the mosquito net I realised there would be no electricity, after 10.00 the generator would be switched off.  The arachnids would be free to roam and devour me in their own sweet spider time in the dark. Bang on cue the lights switched of and I was left in darkness.

And then I made the mistake of turning the torch on. And that’s when I saw them.  And that’s when I heard a scream from another room. I listened out, the words “spider”, “crawling”, “me”, flitted through and then all was quiet.

As I placed the torch by my side my hands shook, the torch rolled away under the mosquito net. I heard a thud on the wooden floor and it rolled, presumably under my bed. And I was back to darkness.

In the silence I could hear it, one of the spiders was moving. I knew what it was; only something with eight legs could make that sound. I remained still waiting for the “coup de grace”. Nothing!

I must have slept because I heard a cacophony of whooping and howling, building in to a crescendo of deep barking. It was the howler monkeys bringing in the dawn. Never had I been so relieved to hear the sound of monkey conversation. I had survived the night of the spiders.

I learnt a fundamental lesson that night, tarantulas are not the man killers depicted in silly horror films. They didn’t devour me in a feeding frenzy, they left me alone.

My fear of spiders has dramatically reduced since that night in the rain forest. And although I would never embrace them as my favourite species of wildlife, I understood them slightly better.

Even to the point that when a scorpion spider was pointed out to me later in the day, I could actually peer at him and recognise a certain beauty in the specimen. With only a few shivers down my spine and a cursory thought – Had that too been in my room last night?

Standing waiting outside Jaffa Gate – the entrance to The Christian Quarter of Jerusalem, I once again checked the time. The driver was now over 30 minutes late, and I was beginning to think I would never get over to Bethlehem for Christmas day. There were now a group of about six other people waiting for the same car. And it had been established that a man from the tour company was on his way over to sort the problem out.

When he arrived he apologised profusely telling us that, “This is the Palestinian Territories for you, they are never organised.”

I thought it a bit lame to blame the Palestinians but remained silent. He continued with his apology and finally said, “Those of you that have only booked to go to Bethlehem can go to Jericho as well for free.”

At this point his offer seemed superfluous as Bethlehem hadn’t even been reached. Finally after an hours wait our driver turned up and I climbed into the people carrier with three Americans, a south African and two French people and we headed off to Bethlehem. I considered the number of jokes that could be eked out of the balance of nationalities but decided better against saying them out aloud.

My recollections of Bethlehem when I lived in Israel in 1987 was of  a rather sleepy little town that on religious days became swamped with pilgrims. But that was before the partition wall was erected from 2002 onwards and as we approached the border checkout I was shocked and saddened to see just how close the great concrete monstrosity was to the town. Bethlehem was slowly being suffocated.

At one point as we drove we were so close to the wall that I could clearly see the graffiti covering most of the concrete slabs. Even Bansky had made his mark here on a visit. One piece shows a soldier interrogating a donkey  and another a soldier being frisked by a young girl. The wall made me feel sad for the Palestinians.

Once we had been checked through the border crossing we stopped at a shop to pick up our guide and to change cars, the first of many bizarre vehicle changes during the day.

I don’t know why I thought Bethlehem on Christmas Day would be easy, and why I thought it would be a spiritual odyssey because it was quite clearly not going to be either of these.

On arrival at the Church of St Catherine’s, situated  at the end of Mangers Square it was obvious that there was little chance of getting anywhere near to the crusader remains or the main alter. The Church was literally packed to the rafters. From the back we could hear vaguely the Christmas day service being  held but it was just a sea of people and after a few minutes our guide motioned for us to all fight our way back out of the door where still more pilgrims were attempting to come in.

Then we were rushed towards the Church of the Nativity and we were told we wouldn’t be going in because there was a three hour wait. And indeed by the looks of the number of people waiting outside the doors I think that perhaps three hours was being overly optimistic.

At this point the two French people started to whine, like a couple of huge animated mosquito’s. Our guide looked apologetic but as he explained, “This is Christmas Day. What did you expect?”

I declined to reply that we obviously expected to go into the Church of the Nativity. Already disillusioned and disappointed we headed for the Milk Grotto down Milk Grotto Street, lined with shops selling olive wood and mother of pearl carvings which the town is famous for and  although it was good to see the shops doing such a fantastic trade we were again met with hoards of pilgrims at the Grotto. We had a few minutes to pass by the place where Mary’s milk fell to the rock and turned it from red to white. The rock not the milk.

We headed out towards the “Shepherds field”,  where as the Christmas carol goes, “While shepherds watched their flocks by night, the angel of the lord came down and glory shone around.” Except when we arrived the field was closed. At first I though it was a joke, but no our guide explained, “The Catholic Church had closed the field to visitors.”

How on earth anyone could close a field Catholic or otherwise was beyond comprehension, but it was indeed closed.  I mentioned that there were in fact three Shepherd Fields. I remember visiting two of them on my previous foray into town but our guide shook his head and said, “No there is only one field this one. Why would there have been three?” Yes I mused. Why indeed would there be three and why is this one closed?

At this stage I worked out that we had spent all of  three minutes in a church and three minutes in a grotto and that concluded our tour of Bethlehem. The French were ready to begin their own mini riot and I was ready to begin laughing hysterically at what had become  a farcical tour of Bethlehem.

We were driven back to the same shop that we had first been picked up from and were told another car would pick us up to take us to Jericho. At this stage I decided that it would be more productive for me to go back to Jerusalem. But I was told no I have to go to Jericho.

“But I don’t want to go to Jericho. I have been to Jericho and I don’t want to go again “ But our guide was adamant, “No you must go to Jericho. The cars have been arranged.”

“What about the local bus?” I persisted.

“No its Christmas day no local buses.”

Meanwhile the two French people on the verge of rioting had clambered back in to the car. They had insisted on being taken back to the Church of the Nativity to wait upwards of three hours to have a glimpse of  a fourteen pointed star that marks the place of Jesus’ birth.

“They will only get three seconds”, the guide solemnly said as we watched them drive down the road with the same sombre mood of  a funeral possession.

“Why can’t I have my own car like the French.? Why are they so special?”

Before the guide had time to answer, an army tank pulled up and soldiers climbed out armed and ready for action.

They blocked the road off with tanks and motorbikes and I now could see that we were going to be here for some time neither heading for Jerusalem, Jericho or anywhere else for that matter.

I walked up to one of the soldiers and asked “Why the blockade? What’s gong on?”

I was informed politely, “The Palestinian President is in town and will be driving past. Very lucky for you.” the soldier grinned.

I had a different opinion of what he perceived as luck .

By now all I could think of was food. The group had been told that lunch was to be included for free. But I was getting the feeling that would be another  pipe dream.

After what felt like an eternity a cavalcade of cars, bikes and army vehicles began to pass by. It was pretty obvious from the number of security men that in one of the cars behind the blacked out windows there was a person of relative importance but whether it was indeed the Palestinian President could not really be established.

Once they had all disappeared and the tanks had driven off, a car arrived to take us to Jericho via a place for lunch. The car drove into what could only be described as the Palestinian equivalent to the British Greasy Spoon Café. Something was said in Arabic and then we drove to another place ironically called the Shepherds Field  which was open but where we were told we would have to pay for our meal.

After arguing with the restaurateur that we were not paying for the meal, we were given a kebab and a beer for what I suddenly remembered was my Christmas dinner. Whilst at lunch the group had a chance to find out a little bit about each other.

There was Peter an Evangelical from America. He was considering buying an apartment in the new Jewish settlements that were being built on Palestinian land. Dan a young American Jewish boy studying Hebrew in Israel who blamed the Germans for all the problems in Israel. His friend David who thought the Dome of the Rock should be bulldozed down. And the south African lady who thought the four religious quarters of Jerusalem which had established and grown since 1187 should be abolished and merged into one.

And of course me, who tried hard not to voice her opinion, it was after all Christmas day, even Israel deserved a break.

After our meal we were then ferried into another car to be taken to Jericho. The oldest city in the world. On arrival we were told we had forty five minutes and then we would be going back to Bethlehem to be picked up by another driver to then be taken back to Jerusalem.

I tried to show enthusiasm for the old city of Jericho, but once again my memories of the lazy days spent here as a young woman refused to have any connection with what were quite clearly a pile of rocks that could have been from any period in history and there was no proof that these rocks were the ones that Joshua brought tumbling down.

We had no time to visit The Hisham Palace, where I remember the beautiful preserved stone mosaics.

Climbing back into the car we returned to Bethlehem again but this time we were driven down into an underground car park where I can only say my imagination run riot that we were on a drugs pick up. We came to halt for a few minutes and a parcel wrapped in brown paper was handed over and then we drove back to where we had begun our Bethlehem adventure to be picked up by yet another driver and taken back to Jerusalem.

I calculated five cars for one trip. We had spent more time changing cars then visiting the sites of Bethlehem.

Jerusalem is often called Hysterical Jerusalem, but after the insanity of a day in Bethlehem I was relieved to return to what appeared now as the relative calm of the city always at war with itself.

As a writer I find that a change of scenery is one of the best ways to induce new ideas. On one such “change of scenery”, I booked myself into a retreat in the North Norfolk village of Walsingham. A religious establishment attached to the “Our Lady of Walsingham” shrine.  I had stayed in a convent in Rome and it had been a most creative and enjoyable stay. And I saw no reason why this weekend should be any different.

But my first impressions of the retreat in Walsingham were that the place was rather sinister. It had a very much closed atmosphere. I guess this was made worse by the fact it was mid-November and Norfolk can be a rather cold place even in summer.

The village was prime twitching net curtains terrain with I am sure dark deeds going on in the dank cellars of the chocolate box style cottages.

I was somewhat shocked to discover that there were no cash machines in the village and there was a red old fashioned public phone box in the square opposite my hostel. It was a twenty minute drive back to what many would call modern facilities. I thought how much can change in a 20 minute drive. I was now in a religious retreat and could in all honesty be in an episode of Mid Somer Murders. By tea time someone in the Roman Catholic Shrine to our Lady of Walsingham would be dead. In fact probably six or seven would be dead.

Even the receptionist was creepy with his odd, very odd nervous laugh. I couldn’t decide if it was the fact I mentioned being a writer that made him nervous or if that was his usual disposition. Or perhaps when he handed me the times of the religious services on a sheet for the weekend it was the way I dismissively said. “Oh no I won’t be needing them.” was what caused him to start coughing nervously.

It was fortunate that I had packed light, because he showed no sign of assisting me to take my case up the old wooden stairway to my room.

 He showed me to my cell and I could see that very little inspiration would be forthcoming from there. I was disappointed with the crucifix that hung on the wall over my bed. I had wanted a wooden crucifix that I could wax lyrical over how the carpenter had brought the piece of wood alive with the spirit of Christ, but instead I had the strange feeling that Jesus resembled an Aussie surfer; his loin cloth seemed to have morphed into a pair of Bermuda shorts.

At the evening meal it became apparent there was a fundamental flaw in my religious retreat idea. How on earth was I going to pretend to the other guests that I was a real Roman Catholic Pilgrim? I decided to admit pretty quickly that I was a writer who had come away for a much needed rest.

I have to say I had a great evening chatting away to a lady from Malta and a postman who had just returned from a trip to Israel, where he had upset the Israeli customs by saying his mother had packed his suitcase for him. Which if he were sixteen may have been acceptable but he was forty!

The pleasant evening was almost aborted by the postman suddenly saying to me, “You know at your age, taking holy vows would be the best thing. You would be looked after in your old age. You wouldn’t need to think about a care home.”

Did I blink an eye before I replied? Well almost, I think a nervous twitch began to form around the eyes and my mouth. And the thought that it was now glaringly obvious why the Israeli customs were so annoyed with him.

“I don’t think I am a suitable candidate for the bride of Christ.” I demurely replied.

“No but you could repent of your sins, and the convent would look after you, a job, a roof over your head and three meals a day until you die.”

I already have died I almost said. A vision of a life that I had never contemplated flashed through my head. I hadn’t been able to commit to one mortal man, let alone one allegedly immortal one, that even rose back from a possible deadly smack on the head with a frying pan!

Fortunately for the postman, he was such an endearing character I let the whole thing pass swiftly over my head. After all this was a religious retreat and he was genuinely a pilgrim. I didn’t mention that I thought that the representation of Jesus hung on my wall resembled an Aussie surfer either!

The situation over the lack of cash machines worried me so much so that at seven o’clock in the morning I crept out of the place like a teenager who had spent a night of debauchery with her boyfriend whilst his parents were away, to search the North Norfolk coast for a cash machine.  Fortunately I didn’t need to drive too far. And I soon returned back to Walsingham, and headed for the library to embark on some serious writing. And for 2 and half hours I studiously word pecked. I wrote the first draft of a short story called The Mermaid Hunters. The lead character recently divorced woman encounters the ghost of a fisherman on the salt marches of Wells next the sea. His boat is called the “Mermaid Hunter“.  I felt rather pleased with myself. And at lunch time I headed for one of the typical English pubs in the village. It was called the Black Bull. And that’s when things became really strange.

The pub was busy with customers who I assumed were regulars. I found a table and ordered a large glass of wine and Sunday lunch. Whilst waiting for my food to arrive I watched the rather bizarre scene of several young men kissing and hugging the local Bishop whilst he tried to eat his meal. The language and the banter were lewd to say the least but the Bishop seemed to endure this with a certain amount of stoicism. Even the, “Ooh come on kiss me Bishop, hard on the lips. You know you want to.” seemed not to faze him at all.

Although the sight of the young man trying to force his tongue through the Bishops pursed lips fazed me a great deal.

My meal came and I ordered more wine. And then a fabulous idea came to me for a story, The Taking of Walsingham” where the inhabitants are taken over by dark satanic forces rather like the “Midwhitch Cuckoos” and only one new resident, a lonely newlywed from London remains untaken.

I began to write freely and with a certain amount of speed knowing the literary juices may just stop flowing at any time.  Writing about how the local butcher’s window no longer contained meat, just the faint sinister promise of something more. A pink dyed sheep’s fleece and the dark tan hide of a cow. Shrines that had once been adorned with summer marigolds, void of all embellishments. Or still with the dried remains of the last visitors offerings, slowly crumbling into decay.

Wooden status of the virgin Mary were made up like harlots, their lips painted red, cherry red, blood red, scarlet, all shades of red that a woman could use to snare a man with.

My writing flowed like it rarely did after a day’s work at home. I was completely engrossed. A few hours later I left the pub and returned to my room. Afternoon drinking has always made me sleepy and so I had a late siesta.

I awoke to darkness and to find I had missed the chance of an evening meal. So I left the hostel to search for a place to eat. The whole village seemed closed up. No lights in the quaint cottage windows. No signs of noise, no dogs barking, no cats fighting and caterwauling, no wayward teenagers loitering on street corners. I found a pub called The Golden Lion, empty of customers, but the barmaid seemed cheerful enough and I could at least get a sandwich and a pint of decent cider.

Walking back to my retreat I pondered on this village where the only shops sold religious artefacts of the crucified lord and his virgin mother. The village had a feeling like it was wrapped in an invisible shroud. But not one of purity, something musty and fetid. Its soul had died. I wanted to just leave and arrive at the chaos of my Uncles place in Taseborough where life was loud and chaotic and emotional.

Monday morning revealed the rather annoying fact that the notes written Sunday in the pub had become virtually illegible after the 2^nd large glass of wine, but I decided to give the pub another chance. And I returned for lunch on Monday afternoon.

There was no sign of the Bishop or his irritants. I pondered on my weekend’s literary attempt and concluded that all in all, baring the illegible notes it had on the whole been a success. I had two first drafts of two stories. Not bad.

The following morning I drove across the bleak Norfolk landscape to drop down to my Uncle and Aunt in Taseborough.  As I left Walsingham I peered out my rear view mirror. Slowly people were coming out of their weekend slumber, standing in the square looking round them almost as if they were saying, “Just how the hell did I get hear? And how the hell do I get out?”

I didn’t stop and I have to say I was relieved to arrive at my Uncles. And it was now my turn to behave like the local lads had done in the Black Bull. Except rather than irritate the hell out of a Bishop it would be my Uncle I would be annoying. And that was really fun and not an Aussie surfer in sight!

The start of my trip round Mongolia had unintentionally become a case of chasing Vinnie Jones.  He was doing a “SKY” travel documentary. And he was at every camp I turned up at. The film was primarily about Vinnie horse riding, but he did not, by all accounts like horse riding, he wanted to fish, but that didn’t make exciting viewing. His demeanor was constrained compared to the press stories back home, but the constant scowl on his face suggested he could turn at any moment.

The film crew insisted that the group I was travelling in remain out of shot at all times. So on this occasion we stood by, waiting for Vinnie to appear to lasso his horse for riding. Of course it was a Mongolian horse handler who actually caught the rather feisty little horse.

Mongolian horses are left most of the winter to roam the snow covered steppes the way nature intended, wild and free.  Come the spring they are corralled in and then domesticated for the summer, but they never really lose that untamed feral nature, which is why I wanted to ride one, I guess. To really experience a horses true wild spirit.

So I waited for the bad boy of football (Was it Fulham that first signed him up all those years ago?) to ride off into the wild Mongolian steppes. But he was obviously not going to so with the same flair and gritty confidence of John Wayne in one of his old westerns. Or by the look on his face as he trotted by, with much good humour.

“Come on Vinnie, give us a smile” one of my travelling companions Saphira good naturedly shouted as he went past. Later that evening she would unsuccessfully attempt to get into his sleeping bag. Needless to say he didn’t oblige her with a smile; in fact I am sure his scowl intensified as he went by.

It came to my turn to mount my horse. Mongolians have two speeds of horse, slow for elderly women with young children and fast for everybody else.

Until I had planned this trip to Mongolia I had only ever been on a horse once, add a few donkey rides on Bognor Regis beach on summer holidays and that was the sum total of my horse riding abilities.

I had taken a weekly horse riding lesson on a rather grumpy old horse at a local

stable back in Epsom. And over the weeks learned to love his character, and could see a world weary old man in him. Sometimes he just didn’t want to get up out of bed to have some silly woman ride him round the training arena. But I learnt it was all about me persuading him, not the other way round. Rather like telling your grand dad it was good for him to come out and take a walk with you.

Now, here in the land of the Mongols, I wasn’t sure I was up to a fast horse, and so I had somehow been able to explain I wanted a slow one. The kind for the old and the infirm.

Another thing about Mongolian horses is their size. They are on the small side. Many people have despairingly called them ponies. But they are not; they are extremely sturdy and feisty horses.

So, I climbed on to my very short horse and kicked him in the flank and he slowly trotted off, slow being the operative word. My two new travelling friends Isabella, a French tour guide on holiday and Saphira, the granddaughter of a Prussian princess, were both adept riders. They had chosen fast horses and had already disappeared into the remote landscape. I meanwhile was left looking most ungainly on the back of the slowest horse in town. And believe me its was a very small town.

With somewhat random hand signals I eventually pointed to my horse and then to the now rapidly disappearing figures of Saphira and Isabella. With a curt nod the horse handler showed he immediately understood. Another little brown horse was saddled up, looking remarkably like the one I was on previously.

But when I kicked him in the flank, he was off like a rocket. I sped off with a brief moment of euphoria, brief moment because I suddenly realised I was going off in the wrong direction to where my friends where headed.

How could I stop him?

I pulled on the rope that represented the reigns and it snapped in my hands. We continued at a gallop and it was then that I realised there was nothing between me and the Chinese border, which I hazarded a guess, was fifty miles, maybe more away.

No trees, no homes, no roads, nothing, to impede this almost feral animal’s journey.

Suddenly the beauty of the big space called Mongolia – land of the blue skies – became unnerving. The lush green steppes that would in a few months be layered with thick white snow could see me lost forever. Would he stop before the border?

I then- in a flash of inspiration, tried my first words of Mongolian – Zogs ! (stop).

The horse stopped, literally, nearly sending me over the top of his head. My first attempt at the Mongolian language had been a success, albeit with a horse. And I concluded that on first impressions, riding had not been a total disaster. I was after all still on the horse! Although slightly bemused what to do next.

Just then galloping up with more aplomb then I could ever hope to muster, came my trusted Mongolian horse handler. In my head I had already called him “Genghis”, simply because it was the only Mongolian name I knew.

He jumped off his horse, whilst it was still in motion, strode forcefully towards my horse and inspected the reigns. From out of the pocket of his tunic he pulled another piece of rope, which he tied to the broken piece attached to my horses head. And I was back in control of the reigns, if not the horse. Without further ado, Genghis enthusiastically whacked the rump of my horse and we went back on the gallop, this time going in the right direction.

Finally after weeks of lessons in riding back in leafy suburbia I was riding a Mongolian horse across the green steppes and I felt exhilarated. This would be the closest I would ever come to being on a real wild horse.

We rode at a pace and I caught up with Isabella and Saphira down the in the valley, resting their horses in a meadow. I stared for a few seconds slightly disorientated; we were in an English meadow of flowers. Flowers of every colour, cornflowers, poppies, marigolds daisies and the aroma of sweet marjoram and wild strawberries wafted up from under my horses’ hooves.

When we got back to camp a few hours later I was all fired up with my success at riding a Mongolian horse. But the main topic of conversation was Vinnie’s riding abilities. By the sound of things he had not enjoyed his first experience as much I had. I tried really hard not to gloat really I did.

Saphira and I commandeered the last bottles of wine on the camp site and probably in all of Mongolia and we celebrated the start of our  journey round  the land of blue skies. I was of course blissfully unaware of just how much my muscles would ache the next morning.

But I did have the added bonus of seeing Vinnie Jones walking like John Wayne when he came in to the main tent for breakfast. Still with a scowl on his face though. I couldn’t suppress a cheeky grin.  Ride Vinnie ride!

A conversation at work about living up on Box Hill prompted me to download my story published in Surrey Life 2010 and in Country wise Anthology 2010. As they say “the truth is out there”

                                                                The Beast of Box Hill

Box Hill is an area of outstanding beauty in Surrey. For someone fortunate to spend their life up here, the best time to appreciate the beauty of the hill is early morning or late evening. When the family picnics on the old donkey green have been packed up and the 4×4’s have descended back down the hill to join the M25 home.

Standing one warm summer morning at the look out point, the mists were hanging low over the Dorking Valley and although already dissipating, they showed  signs of hanging low across the landscape for most of the morning. I had seen this view many a time and it had become almost second nature to me. But this was the day I first realised just how easy it is to believe you know your environment so well  and yet be so completely wrong. And how nature still has so many secrets to be fathomed. This was the day after I first saw the beast of Box Hill.

Eight years of living on the hill and I have only seen the creature twice. The first time I was driving back up from working in the vineyard down in the valley. The mists that had been hanging low in the morning were still suspended above the lower lying bushes but this did not suggest that anything untoward was going to happen. I had just taken the first bend on the Zig Zag road , suddenly a creature jumped from the bank side  and stood in the middle of the road. I stopped and stared through the windscreen at what looked like a wolf. It had the same lopping stance as one, but I knew in my head it was not possible. This was Surrey and although Box Hill was home to lots of wildlife, a badger was probably the most exciting thing you would  see. I continued to stare and caught its eyes, they were the shape of almonds and the colour of amber, it had to be a wolf. The long muzzle and the shaggy grey coloured  fur. Was I so tired that I was now hallucinating?

Suddenly the creature lunged toward the other side of the road, and as quickly as it had come down the bank, it disappeared into dense trees, further down. I sat in the car staring into the foliage hoping I would catch another glimpse of it, but deep down I knew it had gone. I continued up the hill to my home. Just what on earth had I seen?

The sight of that creature remained  indelibly marked in my psyche. I knew every each of the hill. I hiked out every chance I got. I knew where all the badger sets were. I knew when there were fox cubs down on the donkey green. I followed the flight of the bats nesting in the old unused fort. Saw the roe deer down by the old brick kilns . In spring I would take the riverside walk to see the new rabbit kits that were for a few days unafraid of humans.  And watch the baby blue tits revel in their new found ability to fly. There would be no way that a creature like that would escape my notice. I had spent time tracking in South Africa and had been taught how to spot wildlife, how to spot changes in the landscape that would reveal a cheetah or even rarer a leopard. I had not noticed anything untoward up here.

The National Trust  had sheep grazing on the open slopes and an animal like a wolf would need to eat and sheep would be its ideal prey. Yet there had been no reports of attacks. And no half devoured carcasses. That time of year – mid summer there were numerous  day trippers to the hill and almost every inch would have been tramped upon, it would not have been able to hide. I reluctantly deduced that no, the mist had been playing tricks on me or perhaps tiredness from holding down two jobs had overtaken , yet its eyes seemed so real so wolf like.

Years went by and although I never forgot the appearance of the creature. I felt I would never see him again. The one autumnal day I saw him .

 November was a glorious month for the fall up on the hill. I walked out one Sunday to clear my head after a rather boozy drinking session the night before with some friends. I decided I would take the long walk that could be considered quite a challenge , which consisted of Box Hill, Mickelham Downs and Headly Heath. A good five – six hour walk that would definitely work off a hangover.

Because the weather was so damp there did not seem to be that many hikers and of that I was relieved. I am very much a solitary walker. As I walked up Juniper Hill, my heart started to pump and I was working up quite a sweat. I paused at one point to catch my breath. Amid the profusion of golden and russets leaves on the trees a very cocky robin who was not flying south for winter flitted. He bravely sang his song, plumping up his red chest chirping out his little tune “I am the King of my castle, Get down you dirty rascals.” His song hung ruby rich in the air . As he flew away I followed his flight and then suddenly,  I could see through the russet colour of leaves a darker shape, an animal. I was immediately thinking roe deer, and crouching down as low as I could I crept nearer and nearer.

It must have smelt me, because the creature looked up, it was no roe deer, I stared into the amber eyes of a wolf. For a split second we both were motionless. This was incredible, here I was in Surrey face to face with what was most definitely a wolf. I just couldn’t believe it. I gazed at the magnificent creature literally spellbound.

Suddenly the animal turned his body and with one agile jump was gone into the lower foliage of the golden beech trees. I stood back up to an upright position and looked around me. Out of the corner of my eye I saw hikers coming up the hill. Sitting down on a large upturned tree I drank from my water flask, trying to show my nonchalance as the two figures approached.  The man and woman politely acknowledged me and continued on their way toward where I had spotted the wolf.

I made my self take in every tiny detail of my environment. The smells of the wet earth,  the colours of the autumnal trees, the noise of a robin , the clothes the hikers were wearing as they disappeared up the track. Every thing even down to the mud on my walking boots.  I confirmed that however strange the sight, it was no hallucination. I had seen a wolf.

As I followed  the same route as the hikers, I looked down the slope and I saw a slight break in the landscape, a strange dark hump in the grass. Veering off the path I walked towards it, it was the partially eaten remains of  a dear. I breathed in and out slowly. This confirmed even more that there was a strange creature out here and he or she was very good at hiding of that much it was obvious. Two sightings in eight years. Would I have to wait another eight years to see him again?

I prayed that he would remain undetected, that none of the other  enthusiastic nature lovers like me would spot him. And that suddenly rather like the Loch Ness Monster, or Saskatchewan Man there would be wolf enthusiasts camping out with all their tracking gear and huge cameras. Desperate for a glimpse of the secretive animal.

From that day, my walks have been  taken nearer to evening, when all the day trippers have packed up their picnic paraphernalia in  their cars and descended down the hill. Or early morning when  the dear are surprised at human footsteps. Would I ever get another glimpse of the elusive  wolf? Somehow I thought no, not again soon, anyway. From time to time on a warm summers evening, walking back from the lookout  post when the smells of wild marjoram and strawberries waft over to me, I hear rustling in the trees alongside of me and a low growl. I stop to peer in at where the noise is coming from, I see nothing, unusual. Sometimes the tail of a newt as he scuttles away under fallen leaves. I know in my heart the beast  will only appear again when it is ready. For now I content myself in the knowledge that there is a strange wolf like creature living here and no one else knows about him. Yet……