The one thing I've always liked about hippie philosophising is the idea that "The Universe Provides" in response to a request or a need. It's a kind of Karmic mumbo-jumbo version of "fortune favours the brave" which seems to be the uniting force behind much of the antics in this blog/life.
And sometimes to fully realise the truth of this mantra, you've got to pay £500 for a week of Buddhist retreat in the beautiful Devon countryside, eat nourishing home-cooked and -foraged vegan food, sit for long periods of meditation, spend hours in sombre, sober silence, get bored, glum and claustrophobic and leave in a mad hurry after less than two days.
Yes, it's true. The promised new birth of an enlightened new Rob has ended in ignominious running away, dodging the morning's silent porridge breakfast, staircase hoovering, sharing circle and generally mindful drudgery. I just couldn't face it. It wasn't the Qi Gong in the drizzle, or the tears in the sharing circle about lives gone awry in as many ways as there were "retreatants". It wasn't even the narrow bedsprung single mattress, the pins and needles of the penis during a 40-minute meditation on a cushion (this is real and not at all as fun as it sounds), the bowing, the hands-to-heart-centre or the constant ringing of bells, gongs and singing bowls that seem to be the requisite accompaniments to a simple philosophy of impermanence, being in the now and breathing nicely.
No, it was just the po-faced mock-solemnity of the whole thing, and the complete absence of a twinkle in the eye of anyone, facilitators or retreatants, during the long periods of silence which were scheduled only to get worse during the week. I could have done it, I really could. I kind of like the idea of communal, silent task-doing. But it's got to feel light, fizzy and full of merriment and gratitude, otherwise it just reminds me too much of the glum, eyes-down church-of-england style processions I had to participant in as a member of "serious" chamber choirs my whole life.
There are several, separate funny stories to tell about the other participants but I'll leave those for in-person, but picture the scene Tuesday morning as I hid in my room, packing up my stuff while my course-pals ate a silent breakfast and presumably wondered where I was and why the stairs hadn't been vacuumed. I called H, the face of sanity among any level of new-age hogwash, and within an hour and a half I was safely in a cafe in Taunton, a convenient halfway point between the two of us.
We decided to make a holiday of this unexpected time together and went to a gorgeous swimming lake near her, whereupon I discovered than in my hurried departure I had not only had time for the bread to leaven, but I'd also left my swimming trunks and all my pants and socks in the bedside table back in the world of the deeply and spiritually relaxed. So I had to swim in my underwear, which was fine until we got out and had to go to a nearby Tesco where H bought me some new underwear while I sat in the car in only my towel. I was struck by the speed at which the sublime can become the ridiculous as I ate my Gregg's and pondered the comings and goings of the supermarket car park.
I spent the night at H's and decided to do a tour of The West, seeing all the people I know who live in the delightful and utterly inaccessible places around these parts. I'm now sitting on a train at Shrewsbury station on a train to Machynlleth in mid-Wales, having broken up the journey with a night outside Worcester in a small country hotel straight out of a bleak 1970s sitcom.
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| The Pear Tree Inn, not even "in" Droitwich |
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| Worcester to Shrewsbury. Who knew where any of these places even are? |
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| The Ale Hub Droitwich (see pin at bottom right). One of two places in this story which isn't even"in" Droitwich. |
The choice of Worcester as an overnight stop started with a search for "open mic nights near Birmingham". I had my guitar with me so I thought I turn up somewhere and sing a few songs an make a few friends. It turns out that the last Wednesday of the month you're spoiled for choice round here and I had to decide between a full-band karaoke at a rock venue in Worcester, or an open mic in a tiny place called "The Ale Hub" surrounded by miles of new-build estate in the nearby non-place of Droitwich Spa. When I asked the guy in the pizza parlour in Worcester what he thought of Droitwich, he was most un-encouraging about the prospects for night life. But I made the call that even though the Worcester option would be livelier, I was far more likely to get chatting to people in an out-of-the-way open mic night than in an actual rock venue.
It so it proved to be. The venue was tiny, with about ten tables, many of which were filled with old dudes and their guitar cases. But the atmosphere was good and the standard not too bad. I immediately got chatting to some friendly Brummies next to me and later ended up sitting with a man and his daughter who'd come in from Worcester for an evening out. It transpired that he'd done some performing in the past, but was resistant to my suggestion that he try something with me accompanying him on the guitar. But later on his daughter came over saying that she wanted to take me up on the offer, and did I know Elastic Heart by Sia. I didn't but a quick listen off my phone in the car park and I found out it only had four chords, so we had a little practice then did it live, with me on the guitar and trying to put in some harmonies where I could remember the melody line.
I announced that "Rob" was now "Rob and Nicole", did my little set (Pray by Take That, Nothing Compares 2 U) then Nicole joined me and we busked our way through the Sia belter. It all went very well, and the 20 people in the room were all very impressed, with the dad beaming with pride right at the front.
This cemented us as firm friends and after the show was over, we decided to go together back to Worcester to see if the rock karaoke was still going on. The dad had had a serious car accident 9 months ago and was on crutches but was getting free taxi rides as part of the legal settlement, so I got a free ride with them into town. The rock venue was pretty busy and very much in full swing when we arrived, and long story short I ended up closing the show (purely by coincidence of how late we arrived and signed up) with a version of Sledgehammer by Peter Gabriel which I'd been belting out in the car for the last month or so, so knew well enough to really do with some energy. The band were extremely nice about it (straight after the last chord, the keyboard player shouted "where the fuck did YOU come from?" and they all wanted to know if I lived in Worcester and would I be coming again.
We ended the night saying goodbye to our new best friends in the band, and going to a kebab shop with my father and daughter pals being sweet with one another, and generally excellent company. Numbers were exchanged and there were repeated cries of "If you're ever in Worcester again..." etc. etc. It was the universe answering my call for spontaneous joy and merriment of the good old-fashioned beer, music and friendship fuelled variety, with not a singing bowl or a lowered gaze in sight.
