Reasonably busy, but by the time that I can remember, having been engrossed for some time in the newspaper, I just had a chap across from me and a lady across the corridor. Both in their thirties (or so), both friendly. The chap, with whom I thought I had chatted before, got out a cigarette and lit it. Then he seemed to remember where he was and quickly dropped it down the middle of his shirt, without appearing to stub it out, without comment, without pause in the chat.
At this point I realised we had gone past Clapham Junction, where I was supposed to be getting out, and was out in the country somewhere. They commiserated. We stopped at a station and I clambered out with my various packages, almost failing to get across the two or three feet gap which appeared between the carriage and the platform. I make it, but only by pushing a small guard down onto the tracks on my way. He doesn't complain, just slopes off somewhere.
A rather old-fashioned station, but one without signs saying where it was.
I acquire my bicycle from somewhere and lock it to the railings of a small stand in the middle of the small, open-air concourse area, maybe 30 feet square.
I emerge into a quaint market town. All antique yellow stone and market stalls. Stalls selling the sort of stuff they mostly sell in the farmers' market at Epsom, that is to say bread, cheese, olives, cakes and other baked goods, these last both sweet and savoury. Not a farmer in sight. I associate now to Chippenham, where I once bought a fine chunk of Double Gloucester from a caravan in such a market and where I subsequently fell for a new raincoat from one of those provincial gents. outfitters you still get in such places. Coat now retired. I think the label said 'Wellington'.
Back in the dream, I try to get orientated and work out where I am, but fail. For some reason, I don't like to ask. Eventually I find my way back to the bicycle stand, and my bicycle is no longer there. Still in the dream I get muddled up. Had I thought to lock it all? Was I going to go to the bother of making an insurance claim? Was I covered? Did I have my bicycle with me at all, as I didn't remember getting it off the train?
Then I start to worry about whether they are going to charge me for the journey from Clapham Junction, given that I had left the station.
Confused, I make my way back into the station and find myself in a rather odd ticket hall, involving more antique yellow stone. Fail to find my way back to the platforms, but I do find my way into a labyrinthine country hotel, with lots of bars, restaurants, tea rooms, reading lounges and so forth.
I emerge through some French windows in a further attempt to get back to the platforms, to find myself in an avenue in a wooded park. All very green, very dark. Views of various rather precious looking housing estates tucked into clearings. Fake red brick cottages, probably very expensive. Once again I try to get orientated and see the tower of some town building, neither church nor castle, over and beyond all the trees. Try to head for that, instead wind up in the middle of one of the precious looking housing estates. This one more antique yellow stone, very Cotswolds.
At which point I give up and wake up.
PS: the snap above was my first sight when I opened up Edge, illustrating a bit of Microsoft News, culled from the Daily Mail. An ancient, derelict theatre which had been converted into a cannabis factory. Well, not quite, but I did associate to the ancient, derelict theatre in Ryde (on the Isle of Wight) which seemed, all things considered, very apt for such an operation. The theatre illustrated used to be in Deptford, now demolished, with the factory in its large basement , still there but just covered over with shops in the 1960's.
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