The first time I made the trip, and I stood in the bus queue, observing the locals chatting together as they also waited, I remembered making similar trips more than 50 years previously. Of course nothing will ever quite recapture the leisurely pace of travelling on a country bus in those days, but it came sufficiently close to make the old memories resurface.

It was just like when I was a little boy. At each pick-up point, regulars joined the bus, and, after paying their fare, they'd leisurely pass down the passageway to find a seat. The search for a seat would be an opportunity for a little chat with friends and neighbours that had joined the bus elsewhere, but no one seemed to be in a hurry for the bus to get on its way. After the bus recommenced its journey, intermittent fragments of blackbird song could be heard as it rattled along the narrow country lanes, brushing overhanging branches of hedgerows. Farmyard smells would sometimes invade the bus as we passed. People waved from their garden as the bus passed and the driver waved back with a smile. Someone commented, "Old Jack's roses are looking good this year aren't they?"

"Beautiful, but have you seen Miss Goodbody's, no-one can grow roses like hers?"

"That's right, but then her Dad was really the gardener, wasn't he, now when he looked after that garden . . . . "

All the passengers, clutching their empty shopping bags, were talking and laughing nineteen to the dozen about all sorts of trivial nothingness, without, it seems, a care in the world. And so it all continued, until we arrived at our destination. That recent trip from Thornbury to Gloucester is a remnant of Englishness from a forgotten era that somehow has managed to survive into the modern age.

Now that I've rambled off the subject of bus stops onto the Thornbury to Gloucester bus run, I must tell you more about that first time I made the trip. I could tell you lots of things about it, but I've promised myself I must stick to just bus stops! To start with, the driver, 'Old Stan', as he was affectionately known, was a story in himself. Just before visiting the UK on that occasion, I'd been watching a TV series called 'The Vicar of Dibley'. In fact, I think it was my telling my Mum how much I'd enjoyed it that she had suggested I take the bus trip. When I found it intersected the Cotswolds Way, the famous walk, at several points, I decided to take the bus and walk between the intersections. I'd then rejoin the bus on its return late in the afternoon.

Well to start with, 'Old Stan', the bus driver, just had to have been the model for the old stuttering yokel in the series that prefaces each of his sentences with, "Nooo, Nooo, Nooo."

"Is Upper Walden under the Wall the next stop where I get off for the walk up to the folly on the top of East Nibley lookout over the Cotswolds?" I asked him.

"Ah, nooo, nooo, nooo, well yes, you can get off there, but probably it's better if you get off the next stop after that. Then you can get a cup of tea before you start the walk; that is if you like tea. (A thoughtful pause.) But maybe you'd prefer a beer. Now if you prefer a beer I can recommend a good pub, 'The Red Lion'….."

"The White Hart's a better pub, Stan," cut in one of the passengers, who'd been listening.

"Nooo, nooo, nooo, well yes, if you like that Foster's muck," said Stan, who then realised it was an Aussie accent that had asked him the initial question. (Another pause). "Nooo offence meant, sir, I hope. You are Australian, aren't you? Or is it American? I find it hard to tell the difference……." And the conversation drifted on as I visualised us having gone at least three stops past where I should have got off!

"Now what was it you were asking me?" he said, so I repeated my question. "Nooo, nooo, nooo, well yes, that's the stop you want. Lucky you asked me. We've just passed it!"

As I was just about to explode with frustration, he stopped the bus. He smiled a rather wicked smile, and winked at one of the passengers, "We don't have bus stops here like in the cities. I just stop the bus and pick up or let people off where they want. Much simpler really I think, don't you?"

When I'd finally climbed up the steep densely wooded hillside and arrived at the lookout over the Cotswolds, I realised what he meant. Maybe Stan had got it right and I'd got it wrong about what's important in life. Maybe I should have had a cup of tea first. Grandad would have. Like most of us today, I'm in too much of a hurry to really take time to see where I've been.

The view was magnificent. Better than any photograph or TV series could ever capture. The sky was blue. The sun was shining and butterflies fluttered over the lush green grass of the knoll where the tall stone folly stood watchman over the beautiful surrounding countryside. As I stood looking and wondering what the hell life was all about, I heard my first cuckoo for many a long spring and realised that this was exactly the picture Delius had been attempting to paint with music. I was so impressed with the experience of my solitary walk that Helen and I repeated it on another trip we did together a few years later, and it was again equally uplifting. I'd recommend anyone take the trouble to walk in the Cotswolds in the springtime and appreciate the peaceful quiet of nature far from the maddening crowd.

********

Yet although it's nice to get away and just be completely on your own with only the sound of the birds and the insects and the breeze through the trees, it's also good to be in the midst of noisy clamouring throngs of people going about their business. Mind you I hate the mindless noise pollution we're so often subjected to today. You know, ghetto blasters on the beach, SKY TV in the pub, the next door neighbour's Sunday morning exercise when he decides to try out his new chainsaw on a nice old maple tree you'd thought looked nice even if it did block the sun a bit. I mean, good old-fashioned noise like used to be experienced at Romford markets on a Wednesday before they closed down the livestock section just after the war.

One early childhood day at the markets is a vivid memory. After we'd moved back to London we'd go fairly regularly to Romford Markets, but I can only remember one trip when the live stock sales were on. We must have still been living at West Mersey and it must have been one of the old Grey Greens that took us there.

I know this because when it came time to go home we were waiting at the bus stop on the side of the road that led to Chelmsford and Colchester. Later when we lived at Goodmayes and later still at Chadwell Heath, we caught the 86A to Limehouse around the corner and went home in the direction that led towards London.

It was one of those stinking hot summer days. And that's exactly what it was, the noise and the smell of the cattle, the pigs, the chickens, and other sundry livestock, together with the shouts of the stall-holders, and the shoppers, literally hurt my ears and made me feel sick. Hordes of flies descended on us as we waited in the hot sun with our shopping bags full of produce to take home. "If I can't get a drink soon I'm going to faint from exhaustion," grumbled my Nan.

"Whose Idea anyway was it to come all this way just so we can buy things we can get home at cheaper prices," grizzled my Aunt Dolly. But she grizzled about anything.

"If Nan's going to have a drink, can I have one too?" I asked.

My mother said nothing, staring fixedly in the direction the Grey Green coach would come from. I looked up at her and could see from her expression that it would be best to not say anything more. It was the end of a long day and we were all tired and irritable, but, for me, it had been wonderful.

Until the war, Romford had still managed to retain its rural Essex atmosphere as one of the centres surrounding London that produced the food that fed the Capital. The farms were small and all manner of things were produced. Potato and cabbage fields were next to dairy farms and piggeries. Tomato sheds were next to cornfields. Little groups of workman's cottages and pubs were near the bus stops. But that was only in areas away from the train lines. Rows and rows of ugly terrace houses had been built on large developments during the period between the two wars.

If you were 'working class' you lived on one of the Council house estates. If you were a little more affluent, you lived on one of the estates at places like Upminster or Brentwood. It was very depressing taking a train trip on the outward journey from London and passing through places like Chadwell Health or Dagenham. After going through either of these stations, even though they were different train routes, all that could be seen was rows and rows of houses abutting the railway line. As the train went over bridges and embankments one could see further than the backdoor of the houses adjoining the railway line, and green fields and sometimes woods became visible. All have now gone as country towns like Romford have become engulfed in greater London. God knows what would have finally happened if the Government hadn't brought in the 'Greenbelt' policy, in an effort to restrict urban development. But, even until the early 60's, it was still easy for us to 'go hiking' from our home in Chadwell Heath up to remnants of nearby countryside such as Little Heath or Hainhault Forest.

At that time Romford still had a cobbled market square surrounded by, at one time, twenty-three pubs. Most of these old pubs were still there up till the mid-50's. The early parts of the town, that is, on the London approach side, were still much as they had been for centuries previously. Old and crooked shops and warehouses overhung the pavements and traffic had great difficulty negotiating corners. I remember on one occasion waiting at the traffic lights at the entrance to the Market Square. A double decker bus turned the corner and it clipped the corner of the overhanging upper story of a beautiful old half-timbered bank building, bringing down a shower of rubble on the pedestrians below. It's all gone now in the name of progress and a wide street allows entry to the market square, sans cobbles and most pubs. The old church in the corner is still there and the church hall, where we gate crashed, without paying, the Saturday night dances after the pubs closed. Well it was still there last time I saw it. Man, that was more than twenty years ago now. So that's probably gone too or maybe it's an Indian take-away.

But on that day, many years ago, when we went to the market, some things are still fresh in my memory. The older people from the farms stood out from the rest of us. They dressed differently: corduroy trousers with string tied round the legs under the knees. I asked Mum why they did that but Aunt Dolly cut in first. "Maybe it's to stop the draught," she laughed. Mum frowned and I knew Aunty Dolly was saying something I shouldn't hear.

The livestock was at the far end of the Square. I suppose that was because most of the farms were up round Chelmsford way and it made it easier for access. Fruit and vegetables were in the middle of the Square, and clothing, confectionery, and anything not perishable was on the London end. Some time in the early 20^th century the market had been extended with an ugly covered arcade area that was intended for butchers, fish shops, grocery shops and that sort of thing. They must have knocked down at least two or three of those lovely old pubs I was talking about to make room for it. It had ugly cement rendered facade with mock Georgian gables that had much too shallow a pitch to look authentic, but of course I didn't realise all that until years later. What I did notice was the huge poster of a man who'd had his glass of beer pinched by a cheeky seal. Someone told me it was a 'What Knees' advertisement. I couldn't figure what was the significance of a 'What Knees' advertisement. "What Knees?" I asked.

"That's right, a Whatney's ad."

"But what knees?" I asked again, in my childish questioning.

"That's right love, Whatneys."

Years later I'd see the "Wot no Whatneys" from the back of buses, newspapers, and the underground. It seemed the cheerful little man reminded me of my Grandad a bit. And the seal seemed to be winking straight at me.

I remember something else about that covered market area that later irritated me. Years later, when I was bout ten I guess, I was looking at it and noticed it didn't say 'Romford Markets', it said 'Rumford Markets.' "Look Mum, they've spelt Romford wrongly," I said.

"Didn't you know they used to call it Rumford."

Years later again I found it hadn't been called Rumford for about 400 years. The ugly, phoney market arcade seemed even more ugly and phoney after that.

*********

Sometime when we were living at Goodmayes Avenue, soon after I'd had measles, we were waiting at a bus stop and Mum asked me what was the number on the bus coming towards us. She'd do this to check my reading skills.

"I can't read it yet Mum."

"What do you mean, you can't read it?"

"It's blurry."

The exercise was repeated a few times and before you could say Jack Robinson, I was at the Clinic down Goodmayes Lane having my eyes tested. Soon I was wearing ugly national health glasses. Little round bits of glass with wire frames.

"Ha, ha, look at goggle specs Painter," the kids at school would chant. I hated wearing glasses and it wasn't long before they got broken. I guess my eyes must have improved because I didn't wear them when I went to high school.

*********** 

After Dad died I'd go with my Mum to the market at Upton Park, I think it was. It was a long bus ride there, but the food was a lot cheaper and we didn't have much money. I remember we'd go after lunch on Saturdays. We'd take about half a dozen large empty bags on the bus with us. By the time we'd finished our shopping it was dark, but the market was still in full swing. It wasn't like the old Romford Market with the country market atmosphere. Even the stallholders were different. These were raucous cockneys, aggressively friendly, and doing a roaring trade under conditions where you could hardly move for the crowds. Soon they'd light Tilly lamps with broad shades that reflected the warm glow of lamplight over the produce. When that happened, the ugliness of the area disappeared and it assumed a different atmosphere. One time when we went there to do our Christmas shopping, I remember it had started snowing. Everyone was in a festive mood and the glint of the lamplights on the fresh snow was magical.

I can't remember exactly where the markets were but I think they might have been close to where my Aunt Anne, Mum's sister, lived. Once Aunt Anne took us to a pie and eel shop that was truly a blast from the past. It was just an open shop front with wet fish sales on marble slabs out front, like lots of other wet fish shops that still existed. But this one was different. You'd go through that area into an eating area broken up into eating cubicles like railway compartments. It was all ornate cast iron dividers with a marble-topped table in the centre of each cubicle. The food was basic - hot jellied eels with white sauce and mashed potato, or hot meat pie with white sauce and mashed potato. The food was just dished up with a wallop, using a big spoon, onto your plate from chipped enamel washing up bowls! But the queue stretched out into the street. Everyone was jam-packed like sardines and the air was thick with tobacco smoke.

In those days no one seemed to care about tobacco smoke in restauraunts, but if someone used bad language in public it was considered disgraceful. Nowadays it's the complete opposite.

I can remember that meal of jellied eels and mash to this day. In fact my mouth is watering right now as I think of them.

****

When I was a kid, you could buy fresh eels, or jellied eels, just about anywhere in London. Last time I was back there I had a craving for them again, but couldn't find them anywhere. Shop-owners gave me a strange look which said, 'Why do you want to eat that dog vomit when there's a nice clean McDonalds around the corner.' Finally in desperation I asked an old London cabbie where I could buy some.

"You must know what I'm talking about. Don't you remember, jellied eels. You know, those things your Dad bought you to eat whilst you waited outside the pub while he popped inside for a quick one."

He laughed. "I know exactly what you mean mate, but I don't think you'll find them. They went out with the Crazy Gang." He considered for a while. This was clearly something he'd not been asked in a long time and he appreciated the challenge.

"Well there used to be a stall at Smithfield Meat Markets on Tuesdays. But I don't guarantee he's still there."

So I took a trip to Smithfield markets just to have some jellied eels; but I couldn't find them. Finally some-one said, "Oh yeah, that was old Bertie. He's gone."

I sighed. I guess Bertie just got fed up pushing his barrow and found it easier to go on the dole and watch the telly!