by brightonsauce

Travelog d1 – tidy toward ‘sense.’


He emergeth from a week of long haul.

He travelled mainland, searched from a hire car for surviving relatives down South West wastelands,

‘Oy oy,’ he said, ‘yokel,’ he said from a driver side [white mondeo], ‘where be Woolfsister?’

And the ploughman roadside – pointed a finger, faraway, far far thataway.

‘Not to Cernwall, surely?’ said Maff,’

‘Ahye- ahye,’ said the [hecklety] he-hag and cackled.

‘Thank you sir,’ said Matthew and reached into his glove compartment, passed trinket onion rings, the chilli cheese bites acquired 303, he passed the paper bags to the peasant.

Maff drove on 100 miles, beyond Exeter, over Telegraph Hill, lunatics of Digby roared like lunatics, between hedgerows, dry stone walls, toward a tor, and immersed in the crack of tor, he spied – a sodden mash of reeds [that] dripped to a porch.  He approached the porch, mountaineering boots splashed through glass .   Under these white skies [he] tapped on this hovel’s knocker,

‘Family,’ he cried, and wept, finally shared scrumpy among folk [at the table]:  the pasty breakfasts.  Hairy fists of mother hobbit hovered over shoulders and conversation of the kite-surfing only variety hung in smoke atmosphere

‘Oh ye, oh ye, I hear the beach is calling,’ said his sister hobbit [squared at table], and later and most cruelly she declared, ‘and ye Matthew, how your arse has spread.  Are You no longer (kite)surfer – brother lardhouse?’

‘Get ye ta fuck,’ said Matthew.  ‘It is true, for loe I have lost neoprene rage.  Now I am authorly and farmer.  Hear my good news geschwester , listen…because…I love Sussex,’ said Matthew, his finger curled at his mug of brew.

There was an audible gasp amidst tribe, the dog growled.

‘But what about kite-surfing? ‘ said Quasi [pronounced Quami] – the Thunderman betrothen to Woolfsister, bear of man, and bear-skinned.

‘Au revoir,’ said Matthew, ‘I shall send for thee in Valhalla,’ he said.

On the road, superb wife at his side, Maff  navigated away via a satellite dashboard.  He now sought Thatcherland.  Here would be vehicle’s rest interlude, spent at the military occupation zone Wiltshire Plain Fortress:

Lightning crashed to a barbed-wire surround, and passing guardhouse, they parked deep underground, caught elevator to a sixteenth century dining parlour, under beams, candles flickered everywhere.

‘Sit,’ said the commander SAS operations and everything else, his side-parting glistened, his pink trousers shone as Portillo. ‘I have wine-tasting,’ he said.

‘Wow,’ said Matthew and ‘golly’ he said.

‘Yet I spy fluff on your chin, laddie.  Special Ops?  Please relay critical information…’

Thankfully, at this moment Wolfwife interjected:

‘Father, dear father,’ she said, ‘Maffy lost his razor visiting a so-called petrol station, it was a most arduous engagement.’

‘So be it, ‘ said Sas.  ‘I recall in the jungles of Burma, Englishmen dry-shaven, shared one scrap of bamboo pipe.  We showed no stubble for Jap bastard.’

‘Hear hear.’

They all laughed.  Then a gust of wind catched ye candle, and from low kitchen came Her majesty Sas, the casserole gripped in aga gloves:

‘Supper,’ she said, mamma she said it, ‘Grouse, pheasant, guinea fowl and kidney casserole,’ she said.

‘Oh for ye gods are vomit,’ said Matthew, and bent his fat arse far into the spindles of the high wooden chair.

‘And to wine tasting,’ said the General Sas.  ‘Claret, vines thrust deep through gravels of Gironde estuary, tell me what you taste, daughter, and you too prick husband, I would like your opinion, you you communist Osbornista, ha ha, ha ha hah.’

Wife of Matthew, she gripped crythtall goblet in litterings, ‘hew, Daddy, the taste of summer, red cherry, fruit of aftertaste lingers.’

‘I can taste the gravel,’ said Maff, your wine tastes like gravel, quite superb gravel, a gravy of gravel, yes but no?’ he said.

Commander SiS, MI, GCHQ, stood, reached for the twelve bore slung over high beams.’

‘Matthew, come with me,’ he said, ‘down the end furlong, I have something to show you…’