Chapter 3

2006

Having been dropped in the centre of Birmingham I chose to get out near The Bullring. I was becoming nervous about leaving any trace of my movements and was well aware of the plethora of CCTV cameras around main line rail stations. Even in 2006 Britain had more CCTV cameras per head than any other country.

I was within walking distance of New Street Station when Verso accelerated away. I had selected the point as being equidistant from there and Digbeth Coach Station* to which I now headed. The coach station was located in a temporary yard pending its rebuilding, but it was still busy enough for me to be lost in the crowds. Just in case somebody tried to track me I bought a ticket to Portsmouth Ferry Terminal and waited for the #303 bus from Birkenhead.

There was no way I was going to make it easy for anybody to follow my route. Whilst on the journey I took my time referring to a number of timetables and brochures that I had grabbed. I was due to arrive at Portsmouth on the south coast at a quarter to seven, but just two hours before that time, when the bus arrived a few minutes early at Basingstoke, I alighted together with the person sitting next to me.

My whole plan was to make it impossible for someone to follow my tracks. My fellow passenger was a local who knew his way around the town and accompanied me through the pedestrian precinct pointing out the direction of the nearby rail station.

Entering it, I paused to adopt my bright red anorak only having needed my sweater up to that time. Yeh, you buggers try to recognise me now!

I just managed to get catch the next train bound to Southampton Central. I was getting quite tired, but at the station I had time to grab a couple of guidebooks to the New Forest National Park. Rushing out of the bookstall, I caught the next train with a ticket to Brockenhurst. It wasn't a long journey but, as before, I didn't use the full distance that the ticket provided for. Even better, there were no other passengers getting off at the small halt of Beaulieu Road.

Lyndhurst is a small town, though some insist on calling it as village. It is in the approximate centre of the New Forest. Beaulieu Road Rail Station is situated about three or four miles away. Beaulieu Road itself, is the B3056 which, as anyone familiar with road system in the UK knows, is a minor road. This particular thoroughfare appeared to go to nowhere according to the maps but divides up into other B roads leading to minor towns and villages.

Where the road crosses over the railway is the station and within a few hundred yards there is a cluster of three or four houses, mostly in one terrace, presumably once owned by the local railway company in the heyday of steam. In the copses of trees are hidden two tourist inns and, apart from that, there is nothing else in the locality at all.

The Drift Inn offered meals but I gave that a miss. The Beaulieu was a three star hotel and there was no way I could afford to stay there, anyhow I wanted to make it as difficult as possible for anyone to follow me. Instead, I hefted my rucksack onto my back and utilised the ramblers' maps I had bought before following a footpath from one of the free brochures issued by the local tourist board.

Just for people who do not know, I'd better tell you; the New Forest isn't all that new by some standards. It was so named as far as I can remember because it was designated a royal hunting ground by William the Conqueror: the last successful invader of Britain, who came over from Normandy almost a thousand years ago.

I'd always wanted to go there after loving the story of the royalist Children of the New Forest, the romantic book written by Captain Marryat about the time of the English Civil War in the middle of the Seventeenth Century. I chuckled as the similarity of that tale and my own predicament occurred to me as I, too, was going into hiding in the same area.

Very quickly, I was off the road and making my way over the moorland. My anorak and rucksack let me settle into the scenery as if I had planned it all. For the first time I knew I would now be seen as a one of the many outdoor types walking in the area, though I came across no other ramblers this late in the April afternoon. The tranquillity led me to relax for the first time as I saw my first herd of the semi-wild New Forest ponies that roamed everywhere.

I reckoned it was three miles by road but it took me a long, two hours to reach Lyndhurst just as night was beginning to fall.

According to my pamphlets there were about half a dozen B&B's in the locality. There were a number in Lyndhurst itself but I steered away from the built up area and selected one of the smaller ones. I didn't want a small private home with a couple of rooms let out. Previous experience told me that elderly proprietors of such places tended to chatter at the family dinner table and I didn't want to tell the truth nor spin a load of yarns that might trip me up.

I chose one of the smaller 'professional' B&B's and followed my map, skirting the town to the left towards an area called Clayhill. Just for one night, it cost me forty pounds! I suppose it might be worth it, but in my book the stay offered too much scope for meeting other people who might want to talk. I wanted to avoid personal contact as much as possible while I decided on my next move and it confirmed my determination to find a remote camp site

After a shower, I put on a chequered shirt, trying to change my appearance as much as possible, and found a local pub for a cheap meal. It was not very appetising I'm afraid. I must admit that a few years later I returned there and was pleased to experience a drastic improvement in the standard of the Crown & Stirrup's food.

Notwithstanding the poor fare, it served my purpose as I was ensconced in a corner without hiking gear and brought my attention to nobody. I slipped back into the bed and breakfast and, quite tired out, turned in before ten,