A dream of 78

I was in Botesdale, looking up the hill towards The Bell. The ale glowed in my stomach as I watched a long line of lights come down the hill.

A large yellow truck rambled past and stopped by the Fish and Chip shop, while the others still weaved between the parked cars. There were shouts as people from the yellow truck dived into the shop. Next an old Ford truck with a windmill on its back, resembling a drilling-rig on the move, shuddered to a halt. Then another shout and the yellow truck pulled away, diesel fumes pouring from its exhaust. The windmill slowly, like its sails in a light wind, started once more.
Screams from the Land-Rover driver added urgency to the painful uphill start. The Land-Rover, followed by its cabin-like trailer which swayed from left to right, refused to stop. The tail-board of the trailer was just about touching the road- no sign of working lights. A brownish substance slid down the road as the trailer went up the hill, lending a slight odour to the night air.

The Hillman Imp limped its way past, headlights dangling from their holders, the rust on its once white body showing many years of use. I can't quite remember this dream of mine, but I think there were three, no maybe four Morris 1000's steaming in a line, travellers and vans. A tint of rust showed them common to a cause. Following them came a large grain-lorry, only bound to this rustic convoy by its load of poles and timber. Its driver, clean­ shaven and of smart appearance, did not tally with the looks of the others. This lorry took the hill with ease, and I looked to see what was next.

A gap had developed in the slow but sure progress of the long and ungainly snake. Then, green under the street lighting, it's windows curtained, was a double-decker bus. It seemed so English and yet the language was not of Suffolk or England. I caught the cry of a child as a white Volkswagen passed by with only one headlight, then there was another yellow truck. I thought it would go on forever, there were so many odd lights coming down the hill, but eventually the last vehicle that seemed to belong finally passed. A thick-set, blonde white haired man driving a freshly painted old ambulance, perhaps more loved than the other vehicles.

Was he the boss? Was this another peace convoy?

Derek de Gale

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