A Bus Journey Through Britain

Day Seven - Brighton to Leatherhead Brighton marks a turning point in my journey to John O’Groats. From here I head for London, which means that for the first time the route before me is pointing northwards. After a week gently pootling around the lanes of the West Country and along the South Coast of England, I'm at last heading for Scotland and I feel ready for the road ahead. So I'm in an optimistic mood as I make my way through the early morning streets towards The Old Steine and my first bus of the day. And it is here that a surprise awaits me –two, in fact. The Old Steine is a traffic-strewn area of lawns and flowerbeds that at one time was Brighton’s village green and was used by fishermen to dry their nets. During the 18th century, this area was gradually encroached upon by the town’s foppish and fashionable visitors until it became less of a village green and more of a well-tended square bordered by grand houses. And surely none more grand than the e

Day 6 - Ryde to Brighton After the ghostly creakings of the Angel Inn the night before I should have been ready for a good night’s sleep. But anticipation kept me awake. I can't think of a more odd, a more exciting form of public transport than a hovercraft. I'd blithely assumed that these eccentric machines – something between an aircraft and a boat - had been consigned to history years ago and it was only when I began researching possible routes for my journey that I discovered that one service - between Ryde and Southsea - still operated. So obviously I had to try one. The hovercraft was the brainchild of Christopher Cockerel who had been experimenting with the unlikely theory that a large vehicle could be made to float on a cushion of air which would enable it to pass from solid ground onto water, or mud, or pack ice, or desert – or any combination thereof – with no change in speed or control. He experimented first with an empty cat food tin, a hair dryer an

Day 5 - Lymington to Ryde I’d like to say that I'd spent a pleasant night at the Angel Inn. On the face of it, it didn’t look at all bad – low-ceilinged rooms, oak beams a-plenty and the floors so warped that a stroll down the corridor gave you the feeling of being cast adrift in a storm. Perhaps that’s one of the reasons why each bedroom is named after someone associated with the sea – my room was called ‘Captain Tom Johnstone' who, I discovered, was a notorious local smuggler and a man of great charisma who was reportedly adored by ‘women, children, dogs and horses’. Horses? Really? What really cost me an easy night’s sleep, though was it’s other residents.  Two weeks before starting my trip, I began typing out an itinerary to remind me where I would be sleeping each night. I couldn’t find my booking details for Lymington so I did a quick internet search to find the address and, lo and behold, there it was: “ The Angel Inn, Lymington, reputed to be one of