Having reached Stonehenge, I thought I may as well wander on a bit further, so I turned southwards for the cathedral city of Salisbury. I found a route consisting of quiet minor roads that once again faithfully followed the River Avon. All the way along I was accompanied by the sounds of the British army practising to kill people: a thud and the brief sound of a shell arcing through the air followed by - up to a minute later - a dull thump as it hit its target.

I passed through the Strike It Lucky villages of Upper, Middle and Lower Woodford, stopping in a pub at the latter called the Wheatsheaf, which was a wolf in sheep’s clothing. From the outside it looked like an old country pub, with its stone walls and weatherbeaten sign. But on the inside, it was packed to the rafters with “young professionals” - a strange breed of people who spent nearly forty hours a week in a place called an “office”. They had clearly been lured here by the melamine wood flooring, the Ikea spotlights and the signs devilishly suggesting why not try a Chardonnay? I eyed them suspiciously as I put away my “rustic” cheese and chutney sandwich (with “rustic” fries).

Salisbury was not far now. I wandered past Old Sarum, a raised, circular Iron Age hill fort used by all sorts throughout the ages, including the Romans and the Normans, and into the city centre, full of people milling about the lop-sided buildings and, er, Tesco.

Being a tourist town, I was back on the hostel grid, meaning ultra-cheap B&B action. I plumped for the YHA (Youth Hostel Association) hoping that they would let old farts like me back in as a member. Thankfully, there was no age limit, as was amicably demonstrated by my sixtysomething dormmate, who was stopping over for an orienteering day in the New Forest.

I chipped out for another circuit of the town, ambling down towards the  Cathedral, which appeared to be getting a facelift. The difference between the soot-blackened and freshly-cleaned areas (between which two workers high up on scaffolding were busy scrubbing) was startling. The occupation of Church Washer seemed an interesting one, and so I added it to my list of fake occupations to consider giving at the next hostel registration (today I had been a Public Telephone Sanitiser).

I was too mean to part with the £5 “donation” for entry into the Cathedral, but too guilty to walk in without paying, so I skipped its innards altogether. Besides, I figured there would be many other churches to check out on my tour through Europe, and I didn’t want to catch ABC Syndrome too soon into my trip (ABC Syndrome is thought to have originated amongst Australians when returning to visit their mother continent as backpackers, and is an acronym for Another Bloody Church).

The biggest benefit of being back in a hostel was the opportunity to meet some real people. In the TV room that evening I had a good old natter with a Swiss girl, an Aussie chap and a crazy German woman with a broken leg who spent the entire evening constantly flicking through the TV channels for a better reception that never occurred, whilst talking to us (and the TV). Still, she was far better entertainment than Emmerdale. I used the opportunity to get in a few hours of IT freelancing work on my laptop, which is helping finance my wanderings: unlike the young professionals of the Wheatsheaf, my office is now anywhere I choose it to be.

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