It was time to leave Bridgwater and head back towards Southampton, but naturally I wasn’t going to take the most direct route.

Where would be the fun in that?

I’d arranged to meet a friend for lunch near Bournemouth, and there was another little place I was rather keen to visit while I was in the area.

More about that later.

So Christine and I set off through the Somerset and Dorset countryside, heading towards Dorchester.

And once again, I found myself remembering just how beautiful the English countryside can be.

Lovely winding roads, little villages, old cottages, hedgerows and the sort of scenery that makes you want to stop every five minutes to have a nosey.

Then I took a wrong turn.

Now, normally this would be mildly irritating, particularly when you’re trying to get somewhere at a particular time.

But this particular wrong turn took me into Charminster.

Oh, what a gorgeous little place!

It was like driving straight into somebody’s romantic idea of an English village.

The sort of village where you fully expect to find a summer fête on the green, complete with homemade jam, a tombola and the Women’s Institute giving a spirited rendition of Jerusalem.

There would obviously be a village cricket team.

And naturally, their headquarters would be the local pub.

I could almost imagine the entire village turning out for the annual fête, somebody winning a slightly questionable fruitcake in the raffle and the vicar being persuaded to judge the largest marrow competition.

It was absolutely lovely.

Sometimes taking a wrong turn is the best thing you can do.

Eventually, I found my way back onto the correct road and continued towards Bournemouth.

Where I encountered another little British mystery.

Parking at Lidl.

I’d arranged to meet my friend nearby and discovered that apparently I needed to buy a loaf of bread in order to park the car.

Fine.

I can buy bread.

I understand bread.

What I hadn’t anticipated was that I would also need to know my car registration number in order to activate the parking.

Oh.

Now, I know this probably sounds perfectly reasonable to most people, but I was driving a hire car.

Christine and I had only recently become acquainted, and I certainly hadn’t committed her registration number to memory.

Fortunately, when I’d first collected her, I’d been so concerned about losing her in the airport car park that I’d taken a photograph of her number plate.

At the time, this seemed like a slightly ridiculous precaution.

Turns out it was a stroke of genius.

So, armed with a loaf of bread and photographic evidence of Christine’s identity, I managed to negotiate the parking arrangements.

Honestly, you need qualifications to park a car these days.

Now for lunch.

I was meeting somebody I’d never actually met before.

Which sounds rather odd, considering we’ve been friends for more than two and a half years.

We’d got to know each other through the infected blood community and had spent a considerable amount of time chatting on Messenger and through our campaigning work.

But we’d never been in the same room.

That’s one of the strange things about friendships these days. You can know somebody really well, have hundreds of conversations, share stories, frustrations and laughter, and yet have absolutely no idea how tall they are.

I can now confirm that he is considerably taller than he appears on Teams.

Who knew?

It was lovely to finally meet in person, have a proper chat and enjoy lunch together.

Another one of those connections that this trip has made possible.

And then it was time for the other reason I’d been looking forward to Bournemouth.

The Southern Ukulele Store.

Oh. My. God.

Imagine taking a five-year-old into the world’s most wonderful sweet shop and telling them they can look at absolutely everything.

That was me.

Except instead of sweets, there were ukuleles.

Beautiful ukuleles.

Shiny ukuleles.

Gorgeous blue ones.

Sumptuous purple ones.

Ukuleles with finishes that looked as though somebody had taken photographs of distant planets and wrapped them around musical instruments.

Everywhere I looked there was something else I wanted to pick up, admire or try.

I was in heaven.

And that was before I discovered the strings.

Now, this probably doesn’t sound particularly exciting to anybody who doesn’t play the ukulele.

But I live in New Zealand.

Getting hold of the strings I want can be a bit of an expedition.

I normally have to order them, often in bulk, and then wait.

And wait.

Sometimes more than six months.

Which is not particularly helpful when you actually want to play the instrument.

So imagine my excitement at standing in a shop with an entire selection of strings available.

Right there.

On the shelves.

No international ordering.

No bulk purchases to justify the postage.

No wondering whether they’ll arrive before Christmas.

I could just pick them up and buy them.

What a concept!

Naturally, I decided to make the most of the opportunity.

I bought strings for all my ukuleles.

I have about ten.

Yes, ten.

Before anybody asks, they’re all different.

And yes, I do need them.

Anyway, having stocked up on enough strings to keep a small ukulele orchestra going, I was already feeling rather pleased with myself.

Then the lovely people at the shop gave me some complimentary goodies.

A bag.

A T-shirt.

Stickers.

FREE STUFF!

Well, that finished me.

I’d gone in like a five-year-old entering a sweet shop and came out like one who’d been given the sweets, the jar and a party bag to take home.

I was absolutely glowing.

Eventually, I had to tear myself away and head back to Christine.

Fortunately, I’d resisted buying another ukulele.

Although I can’t pretend the thought hadn’t crossed my mind.

I headed back towards Southampton for my final stay with Julie and her husband before the next part of my travels.

And as I drove, I thought about what a lovely day it had been.

A wrong turn into a gorgeous English village.

A loaf of bread that doubled as a parking permit.

A friend I’d known for years but had finally met in person.

And a ukulele shop that had made me ridiculously happy.

Nothing particularly grand or spectacular.

Just one of those days when a few little things come together rather nicely.

And I now have enough ukulele strings to last me quite some time.

Assuming, of course, I don’t buy any more ukuleles.

Which is probably a rather dangerous assumption.