A WEEKEND IN ESSEX

The Bank Holiday weekend was, for once, actually spent doing something as we went to visit friends in Essex. Not specifically my friends of course. Those very special types are as rare as hen’s teeth and I seldom bother them with an actual appearance preferring instead to remain a fond(ish) memory rather than have them face the horrible reality of what I have become.

No, these are friends of the beloved, and, whilst it is always interesting to ponder upon the “cause and effect” of them happening to meet twenty years ago after happening to go to the same college leading to a five hundred mile round trip being made on a Bank Holiday weekend in 2012, it is also rather unlikely that any of us ever meet at all, really. One small change, one day of deciding not to do something or other and your entire life might be completely different.
 

But I must refrain from pondering upon the imponderables again… Well, I say I must, but I seldom listen to myself any more, so what I suppose what I’m trying to say is that I need to tuck that little nugget of sunshine away for another day, and concentrate instead upon the main thrust of what I meant to talk about today instead…

Or should I…?

After all, “A weekend in Essex” is what it is, and my own experiences of doing such a thing are neither more or less interesting than anyone else’s are, I suppose. I mean, I imagine that they’re more interesting to me, of course, but I’m sure that there are millions of other experiences of “What I did over the weekend” out there, all of which are equally valid, were equally enjoyable (if not more so), and could fill page after page of the great unfolding story of humanity, if told to the rest of us.

We are, after all, insatiable.

I might have told you of the strange phenomenon of there being so many cornfields in contrast to the hills around about where I live and how that sudden splash of yellow on a remarkably flat landscape (has there ever been a book called “The Hills of Essex…?”) is somehow life-affirming and cheering as you rattle along the motorway after a five hour drive following a working week.

“We don’t have any of this ‘yellow’ nonsense oop north, tha’ knows…”

I might have decided to tell you that asking for directions whilst your companion is eating a sweetie, or has “something” in their teeth, creates and instant and impressive approximation of the local dialect, especially over the word “Rahnd-a-baht” but that would no doubt be offensive to someone or other.

I might have plunged into the depths of the darker side of my mind and fretted over being the oldest person in the room (by some considerable margin) and how their general air of confidence and enthusiasm combined with looking young, physical, and capable dragged up hitherto unheard of feelings of inadequacy which will no doubt resurface in another posting on another day.

I might tell you that perhaps the main reason for our visit was to finally take the opportunity to see the house that these lovely friends have bought after several tough years of scrimping and saving, even though it is already nearly two years since they actually moved in which only goes to show how truly dreadful we are at making the time to see people as we let the years of our lives slip away at such a speed that you hardly notice them passing you by.

Instead, amongst all the fond new memories of fine food, good company and excellent beers and wines, the trips to towns like Harwich and Wivenhoe, the mandatory ice-cream cornets, the visits to lightships and bookstores, the generally disappointing photographs, and the general lift in the spirits of being near to the sea, I find myself pondering upon a small Bank Holiday Monday exhibition we strolled around in Wivenhoe just before heading off homewards.

This was a couple of rooms in what I think was usually the public library packed to the gills with people’s personal archives. Photographs, scrapbooks, models and documents from all through the lost and living history of one small seaside town, all brought together by the local historical society and presented, as they do every year apparently, for the benefit of locals and visitors alike.

Now I don’t suppose that many places could put on such an “unglamorous” sounding event and expect much response, but those couple of rooms were chock full of people showing a real interest in the history of the tiny little dot on the map in which they live, and it really made me get a sense of people who felt that they “belonged” somewhere which, to an old “outsider” like me, managed to make me feel both rather forlorn and rather comforted at the same time, especially as I have never really ever had that feeling that I “belonged” anywhere.

Oh, I’ve put down “professional” roots and all that sort of thing, so much so that people have wondered whether they would ever be rid of me, and I tend to stay put in most places mostly out of a combination of habit or laziness, but I don’t even now ever really feel that sense of “belonging” that appears to come so easily to others.

Perhaps it’s because they’re prepared to work so very hard to make it look as if it comes to them so easily...?