Battle

by Lucius Crushbollock

In March 2012, I attended a course at the James Anderson Golf School in West Sussex.  I have been to the school many times and enjoyed it immensely: for five days in a row you get tuition all morning, followed by a delicious lunch and then you go out and play the game all afternoon. In the evening you eat an enormous dinner and drink lots of wine.  All in all, if you’re a devotee of this ridiculous game, it’s about the best fun you can have with your clothes on.

Shortly before noon, on the penultimate morning of my stay, I injured myself slightly so decided that, rather than aggravating the injury further by playing a round of golf in the afternoon, I would take time off to visit the nearby historic site at Battle.  In case you don’t know, this is really where the Saxon King Harold faced down the Normans in 1066 - not at Hastings as has been recorded in some unreliable history books. The reason for this persistent historical error is that The Battle Of Battle has rather a silly ring to it, which is why they decided to call it The Battle Of Hastings.

And so, after a decent lunch, I headed off into history.

Upon arrival, I discovered that this culturally important and, of course, irreplaceable site is owned and maintained by English Heritage. This is A Good Thing.  Thus, pleased that our great nation’s most valuable historic site was in such safe hands and my excitement now reaching fever-pitch, I marched excitedly to the ticket office.  Here I was met with the familiar Tourist Centre scenario: an overstocked Gift Shop, full of the usual tat, and a smiling, albeit today rather lonely, ticket-lady, sitting at her till, reading Cosmo. I thought I would brighten up her day, so I approached her with a big, hopeful, friendly smile.

‘Hello’, I beamed, ‘Could I buy a ticket?’

‘We’re closed, I’m afraid’.  I turned around to see who she may be talking to; but I was the only one in the shop. It took me a while to realise she was addressing me.

‘Sorry… did you say “closed”?

‘Closed, I’m afraid. Open again in April.’

‘But that’s a fortnight - I can’t wait that long!’

‘You can buy a souvenir.’

At this point I conducted a quick debate with myself vis-a-vis educating this person on the meaning of souvenir - but decided against it.  It’s funny how fast air goes out of a balloon.  I also debated with myself how on Earth they could just shut a 200-acre piece of England: I mean, this wasn’t a pub or restaurant or something, this was a decently large bit of Sussex, for goodness’ sake! So I did the English thing and stood there and chewed my lip. Then, rather balefully…

‘But I just got a ticket for the car park’.

‘Oh, I’ll give you a token for that.’  Well, this cheered me up. A bit. She opened the till, refunded the money I’d paid and then drew out a small, yellow, plastic coin. As she handed it over, she leaned towards me and said, ‘Pop that in the machine on the way out.’ Then, almost in a whisper, ‘You can see it from the perimeter, anyway. If you go out here, past the car park and follow the lane. Then turn left, left, left, like you’re going anti-clockwise - you can see most of it just from the path.’

‘Oh, thanks, that’s very helpful. And the parking’s ok?’

‘You’re fine for the rest of the day. Take your time.’

‘Ok, great. Thanks.’  And the air went back in the balloon.  I mean, it was a lovely, warm, Spring day and I was going to see at least some bits of the site of the Battle Of Hastings and, best of all, I had a day’s free parking! 

I found the little path which the lady had described and sauntered off. The sun was shining, the birds were singing and the trees, just coming into leaf, were casting that particular pale, translucent light you only get through brand new chlorophyll. All nature was shouting, ‘Fore!’ It was just lovely. Then about five minutes into my walk, as I rounded a bend and began heading deeper into the countryside, I felt the first murmur in my tummy. ‘Probably nothing’, I thought and carried on. But about five minutes after that, the murmur came again, only this time a little lower. This made me stop and run a quick self-diagnostic. Was it just stuff “settling down”? Something I ate, perhaps? But I didn’t feel unwell, or anything. All I felt was the absence of a nearby loo. However, once again, the feeling subsided and I persuaded myself it was nothing serious - nothing, I thought, that a brisk walk and some fresh air wouldn’t put right; so I carried on.

The path continued down and round, just as the lady had said, and now widened out into open countryside. The battleground was to my left, the other side of some low and ancient railings, beyond which was a dense hedgerow of laurel and thorn. Every now and again there were gaps and one could see tantalising glimpses of field beyond - the field where, a thousand years ago, two opposing armies had met and the future of England was decided. Even the merest sight of it was thrilling. One always imagines a battlefield as being sort of flat - a wide, flat space - but this was not like that at all; it undulated and heaved. Also, because this was out of season, all was tranquil in that early spring sunshine.

But there it was again - that rumble in my stomach - only now it was definitely moving south, meaning an evacuation would soon be unavoidable. The problem was this: should I go back, or carry on? I had been walking for some twenty minutes by now, so could probably make a successful return to the tourist office. On the other hand, I could continue all the way around the site to where I had started from. Surely it wouldn’t take longer than another twenty minutes, by which time I would have also achieved the objective of walking round the battlefield? It was a delicate calculation to make. Under normal circumstances, I suppose the choice would have been easy: I knew for certain how long it would take to walk back but had no idea at all how long it would take to walk right round the whole circuit. But when half your brain is going, ‘Woo hoo! I’m at the Battle Of Hastings!’ and the other half is screaming, ‘We need a crap!’ that’s when choices get awkward. In the end, the clincher was this: there was no-one else about and, should it become really necessary, I could simply do one in the bushes. To cap it all, I had a decent supply of tissues in my back pocket, the legacy of daily walking a dog whose bum needs (ahem) cleaning, al fresco, on a regular basis. So the decision was made - I would control my turbulent innerds and take my chances.

The path now continued almost due South, down a long slope, at the bottom of which I again stood and admired the wonderful view. There was no-one else about - not a soul - and all was eerily, spookily, majestically quiet, save for the clucking of an occasional blackbird, the murmuring of early bees and a rather odd gurgling sound now coming from my bowels.

There is a sort of sharp mental focus that comes upon you when you’re in desperate need of - but a long way from - a loo. Stuff has to be addressed - and quickly. The main thing, of course, is “where’s a good place to go?” Happily, on this occasion, that was fairly easy because, about fifty yards away and about a hundred years ago, some thoughtful and kindly soul had planted half a dozen chestnut trees. I now headed towards this copse whilst addressing the remaining questions: was there anyone about and how would I clean up afterwards? Luckily, both of these were easy. There was absolutely no-one in sight… oh, hang on… well, there was someone in the distance, in a bright red tee-shirt, coming down the slope; but I figured he was at least ten minutes away.  Plenty of time.  And I could see nobody approaching from the opposite direction.  As to the second part, fortunately, and as mentioned earlier, I had about half a dozen tissues in my back pocket, from regularly having to clean up after the dog.

So, in an oddly calm frame of mind, I set about my business. I chose a very nice spot behind the largest of the chestnuts, took a hasty look around to make doubly sure I was alone… and let go.  And what bliss it was!  But as I squatted there, serenely contemplating the next, slightly awkward, part of the operation, I heard a noise on the path.  Now it could have been a bird, or a squirrel or something and for a moment - just a fleeting, happy moment - I decided that’s what it must have been.  But the moment passed.  What I had really heard was the sound of approaching footsteps. 

There was nowhere to hide and nowhere to run - especially as my trousers were around my ankles.  Honestly, I didn’t know what to do - and those footsteps were now very close.  In a flash, they came into view - not an elderly, slightly blind, slightly deaf couple, but a young man and woman, hand in hand.  As they came into view, they looked straight at me… but I had just enough time to grab my jacket off the ground and hold it up, like a cape, thus shielding my otherwise exposed arse.  What I could not shield from them, though, was my sense of utter embarrassment.  They obviously knew what I was doing but, to give them their due, they didn’t break stride for a moment.  Nevertheless, as they passed, they looked at me, each with an expression that betrayed no amusement whatsoever but, instead, a sort of weary surprise mixed with no small amount of disgust.  And as I stood there, half standing, half squatting, with my jacket held out in front of me to protect what was left of my dignity, all I could think of to say in order to counteract their obvious disapproval, was a half spoken, half whispered and thoroughly dejected, ‘Sorry’.

They said nothing; there was no acknowledgement of my apology - just a look in my direction that implied, ‘Oh, for God’s sake’ and then they were gone, leaving me there, frozen in shame, still pathetically holding my jacket.

After a few moments, and another furtive look around, I slowly un-froze and attended to the clearing up.  Happily, this was fairly easy: I used the tissues in the proscribed manner and pulled up my trousers. Then, being a diligent and thoughtful soul, I picked up the whole affair in a dog poo bag.

Having left the scene of the crime I felt much better, so continued on my walk, cheerfully swinging the turd, certain that there would be a waste-bin somewhere close.

The path soon came to a somewhat abrupt end.  What now formed the next part of the route was a busy main road.  In order to avoid this road, I would have had to hop over a set of railings and enter the grounds of the site itself.  I was reluctant to do this, as it would have constituted trespass and the last thing I needed now was the cops.  I could already hear the arresting officer’s voice: “Hullo, hullo, hullo.  What have we here?  Looks like a clear case of trespass… and what do we have in that bag, sir? Been poachin’, ‘ave we?”  It was too much to contemplate.

So I set off along this road.  The day was now hot - stupidly hot for March - and I was soon sweating; not only sweating but becoming increasingly anxious for my own safety.  There was no pavement of any description; every few moments I was obliged to crush myself to the hedge in order to avoid being mashed by speeding vehicles.  The road seemed to go on for ever and still no pavement in sight.  For a few yards now and then, a raised bank would offer some respite but, for the most part, there was no escaping the relentless onslaught from passing vehicles, some of which slowed down a bit, or gave me a wide berth but most of which barely acknowledged I was there.  And as I continued walking I couldn’t help thinking, “It wasn’t supposed to end like this - smashed to bits on a busy main road, in the middle of nowhere, carrying a bag of my own shit.” 

And still no waste bin.

Eventually the road widened and, at last, there was some pavement which I now leapt upon with much celebration. I had survived!  The traffic was slowing at this point and soon I reached a T junction, where I turned left, towards the town.  There were lots of people around now, some of them, I imagined, wondering, “Where’s that bloke’s dog?”  But I was past caring.  In any case, I soon - finally! - came upon a litter bin into which I threw the offending article with, on reflection, perhaps rather too much of a flourish, causing some passers-by to look at me with alarm and probably wondering if I hadn’t just been released from some nearby asylum.  Thus unburdened, I sauntered jauntily back to the car park, gave the Tourist Office one final sneer and burnt rubber all the way back to the Golf School.

Half an hour later, as I showered, I reflected on the day’s events and, of course, began to see the funny side.  Naturally what delighted me most was that I had escaped being smeared all over an A-road by a speeding truck; but I also couldn’t stop thinking of that line from Rupert Brooke, only this time it read: “...there’s some corner of a Battle field…”