Maddie’s World
In her weekly column, Maddie Grigg shares tales from her life in rural Dorset . . .
THERE’S a queue when we get up to the hall for the Over Sixties’ outing. And we’ve just minutes to spare before the coach leaves.
I’ve taken the day off, lied about my age and booked seats for Mr Grigg, Mr Loggins, Mrs Bancroft and myself. We’re off to Plymouth for the day.
When I heard that’s where the Over Sixties were heading, I just couldn’t resist going on the trip. You see, I trained as a reporter in this seafaring city nearly 40 years ago, and I’d like to go back.
Mrs Hayworth, who runs the trips, knows I’m not yet of age, but says she’s glad to fill the seats.
So the four of us get on the bus and walk down the aisle, sitting at the back, then settle down for the journey.
“Are you excited?” Mrs Bancroft asks.
I must admit I am. I’ve been back in Plymouth a few times since qualifying as a journalist in 1982, mostly for reunions with some of the people I trained with.
It has been great to meet up with them, especially as nearly all of us are still doing writing of some kind.
Before we set off, the bus driver introduces himself.
He’s called Gerry, but he tells us not to worry if we forget his name as we can call him anything we like as long as it’s not late for dinner.
He then confides that he also drives the school bus and is used to being called all sorts of things.
We give him a few names ourselves under our breath when he takes us the long way to the main road, which must add at least half an hour to the journey.
Just over an hour and a half later we stop in Plymouth at what Gerry says is Derry’s Cross. I know for a fact that it isn’t, as Derry’s Cross used to be the home of Westward Television and then TSW.
It was the address you would write to if you were sending a children’s birthday request to Gus Honeybun, a puppet rabbit and the stations’ mascot from 1961 to 1992.
In fact, we’re close to St Andrew’s Cross, with its striking 1950s building which is now home to the Royal Bank of Scotland.
Much of Plymouth city centre was bombed during WWII, but the wonderful Hoe, which looks out across Plymouth Sound to the open sea, and the Barbican still retain their charm.
The four of us head off in the rain up past the nowempty Civic Centre and then to the Hoe, where we stop for a coffee, a cake and a comfort break.
Then it’s down past the Royal Citadel, and towards the Mayflower Steps, where the Pilgrim Fathers (and Mothers and Children) set sail in September 1620 for a new life in America.
We’re making for the Plymouth Gin distillery, which has been in operation since 1793. My neighbour Champagne Charlie was sorry he couldn’t be with us, as he’s something of an expert on the stuff.
After a fascinating tour, followed by a gin and tonic each on the house, we emerge from the distillery, laden down with purchases from the gift shop. It’s bright outside now, as the sun is shining.
Down the Barbican’s cobbled streets, we bump into two passengers from our bus, who recommend a nearby fish restaurant for lunch.
Inside, we look out from the window to the quayside and harbour. It feels more like the French Riveria than South Devon.
It’s not long before we have to head back to the bus stop, where we exchange stories about the day with the other passengers.
We win two prizes on the raffle and then settle down for the journey home and a nice sleep.
I think I’ll be doing this again. n