Milton Keynes Paradise Lost

Final Blog Proper - Part 1 of 2 (This time last week - Tuesday, April 5th)

Despite the grey, blustery, chilly weather, I arrived in Milton Keynes the afternoon before the big bike ride to London full of the joys of spring; brimming with excitement for the evening’s banter and bonding session ahead.   Although we were a man down, having lost Fiona the Hamstermaster to Jaws 5 – ‘Tank Command FAIL’ … surely Annie Absinthe, Steven the UniCyclist and I could ‘ave a laugh?  Couldn't we?

The unlit bikeracks outside the Travelodge looked too like thief-magnets for comfort.  Fortunately no-one on Reception blinked as I wheeled magicbike into the lift and up to the room.   I then skipped off to check out my new environs. 

The skipping soon slowed to a trudge.  Is there a more life-sapping place than Milton Keynes?  If so, please don’t ever let me find it.   I can’t even think how to adequately describe the unyielding squareness, the relentless dullness and lack of human scale employed in designing this grim city.  Hopefully the people who live and work here see this desolate place through a different lens.  As a perennial optimist, Milton Keynes came as an unexpected shove over the border into the gloomiest pessimism imaginable.

Then came the phonecall from our esteemed leader, Steven the UniCyclist.  Having spent the last few days battered by pitiless wind and rain, cycling down the country from the Isle of Man, he cried off a meet-up pleading crushing exhaustion.   Not at all unreasonable, but the seeping misery with which Milton Keynes was infusing my brain turned to a steady flow.  I dragged myself back to the Travelodge and sought the help of facebookers to find an activity other than chucking meself off the nearest multi-storey car park.  Exhorting a sortie to the pub, little did they understand ... Milton Keynes has none of these basic human amenities - not because it’s a dry town, but because … well, I don’t actually know why … perhaps because the town planners simply hated people.   I mean really, really hated people.

At last the evening hour of Annie Absinthe’s delayed arrival from Warrington drew near, and I set out for the station … but unconfident of my unfamiliar surroundings, decided to check with a lone passerby whether I was headed in the right direction.  He completely ignored me.  It was as if I didn’t exist.   In that moment, I wished I didn’t.

When Annie finally appeared through the barrier, I clutched her warmly and perhaps a little desperately, looked her in the eye and said “we have to get out of here”.  We fled by train to Leighton Buzzard, an attractive little market town brimming with pubs (or so my  husband had assured me, anxious to help me escape MK's wretchedness).

Stepping out of Leighton Buzzard Station we found ourselves in an exquisitely English version of ‘The Wire’.  Leaning nonchalantly against a silver Daewoo Matiz stuffed with spotty youth, a gangly lad asked insouciantly: “Would you be needing any crack or, um, anything?”

This cheered us immensely, and we set off laughing on a small pub crawl, which included a lovely nuzzle with a big cuddly pub sheepdog.  Weirdly, we were the only women in any of the pubs, we suspected some sort of Stepford Wives scenario to explain the lack of birds (Leighton Buzzards?) – but the locals were friendly and our faith in humanity was restored.  

Until we went to catch the train back to MK.  The departure board said Platform 3, the train pulled in on Platform 1 … we ran … the driver saw us … and closed the doors in our face as the rain fell steadily on our gasping chops.  Being charitable, perhaps he was trying to spare us spending the night in the dreaded Milton Keynes.

Eventually, we made it back to Gulag MK Travelodge, ready to ride out next day ...