Chasing Dennis to Dawlish

I’m off to see my Mum in Devon today. There are dire warnings about Storm Dennis threatening to disrupt travel so I thought I’d let the train take the strain. We will see how that slogan from the 1970s pans out as we go.

Armed with a small suitcase and a rucksack, I get on the 9.41 from Newcastle and find that someone is sitting next to the seat that I’d reserved. Of course I don’t ask her to move so I could get in. Far too English for that sort of nonsense. Anyway she looks so comfortable, and as I am on the large side, there isn’t that much room for us to be seated side by side without – God forbid – accidentally touching each other. So I find another empty seat nearby and settle down. At this stage of the journey there are plenty to choose from. I hope she gets off at Darlington and then I’ll sneak back in.

We arrive at a rain-soaked Darlington and there’s no sign of movement from her. This town is I suppose the home of the railways but it seems all its glory days are behind it now. It looks grim, sitting as it does this morning at the edge of Storm Dennis.

Before we get to York, I must tell you about the conversation that one of the lads in this coach is having with his mate. On Face Time or Skype or something. They treat us all to their exploits at their last drinking session I think – the talk is loud enough to be irritating but not loud enough to be comprehensible. But they are both making the occasional Oí Oí noises that lads make when trying to impress each other. Welcome to the Quiet Zone!

And we arrive in York, seconds after being treated to the sight of a fully fired up steam train waiting to leave the adjacent National Railway Museum. My companion though seems unmoved, and remains firmly in her seat. I’ll go back to my book as I haven’t been turfed out of mine yet.

Leeds. City of dirty, underachieving football teams. So many people get on here that it’s time to go to claim my reserved space. It turns out that the girl now next to me is going to Oxford vía Birmingham. And she’s very personable. Every other seat in this coach is now taken, and there are even some folk standing. Outside it’s wet but there is still no sign of Storm Dennis. My companion launches into a coughing fit. Either she’s allergic to me or she’s got the Coronavirus. If this is my last post for a bit you’ll know it was the latter.

I arrive in Wakefield at 11.20. The standing people have all found somewhere to park their collective arses, and the beer monsters are getting into their stride. Two local men with thick Yorkshire accents are getting through cans of red stripe with some enthusiasm in the seat in front of me, and talking about football. Please send chocolate. No, hang on – it’s rugby league, not football. So it doesn’t count. I switch off and go back to my book as we head towards Sheffield.

An alarm goes off, sounding like someone strangling a duck. I look outside for signs of things floating in this alleged storm, but everything seems anchored to the ground and nothing floats past the window. There must be a person in distress in the loo, which makes me more relieved than ever that I don’t work on the railway and I don’t have to deal with it. Not that that’s something that keeps me awake normally.

We seem to be making decent progress. Just before noon and we are almost in Sheffield. The sky is grey, wet and heavy. So is the city by the looks of it.

At Sheffield station there’s a man wandering about the platform. He is some sort of official, because he’s wearing a bright orange vest, a expression somewhere between bored and angry, and the legend “EMR” on his woolly hat. I wonder what EMR stands for?

The beer monsters reveal themselves to be nice guys. They give up their seat to a girl who was struggling and engage her in friendly conversation. They also turn out to be Huddersfield Town supporters on their way to Derby, so not rugby league at all. I hope Huddersfield win for them today, I’ll keep an eye out for their result. I went to Huddersfield last year and found that it was a friendly ground, and these guys are typical.

The girl they are talking to turns out to be from Newcastle, and works in a café in Jesmond. They establish that the café does “fancy sandwiches,” and tell her that they were given a “cheese and grape effort” when they were last in the Toon in 2008. When she wants to know more one of the guys said he was sorry but “you can’t expect me to remember the details of a sandwich I had twelve years ago!” Their red stripe fuelled laughter fills the coach. The Quiet Coach, remember.

Dozens of people get off at Derby. The football chants start on the platform, so I suppose that’s where everyone is going. Although Derby also offers other delights – the University of Derby being one of them. The next calling point will be Tamworth apparently. Sounds like a threat.

Before Tamworth I decide to get something to eat. I negotiate my way along three carriages, all of them quieter than the one I’m in, while the train rocks from side to side like a ship in a storm. Storm Dennis maybe.

£6 lighter, but with a sandwich and a coffee in a bag, I retrace my steps. There is an announcement to the effect that this train is missing one of its carriages as it’s off being serviced. That explains why there are so many people standing I suppose. They apologise for any inconvenience caused, etc etc so that’s all good. At least the sandwich (BLT) is decent. I hope I don’t have to remember the details in years to come.

Now there’s a French couple behind me. I catch the occasional word – “vous,” “je” and so on but can’t make any sense of it. It sounds sexy though, so maybe I’ll have a go at that once I’ve cracked Spanish.

The next mass exodus is at Birmingham New Street at just after 1pm. This includes my travelling companion. I’m now wondering who will replace her. I sip my coffee through a lid and keep an eye open, although not so much as to actually make eye contact with anyone of course.

After Birmingham I can fully start to think that I’m in the South West. In just three and a half hours I should be in Dawlish. Still no storm. And no new travelling companion. It seems my one eyed coffee drinking antics work! Then again, the train is now practically empty and there are plenty of other seats to choose from. Next stop, Cheltenham Spa. Lovely.

The industrial estates and car showrooms of the North and Midlands are now giving way to farms and large country houses of Worcestershire and Gloucestershire. Rolling fields replace roller shutters. Houses look tidier, neater.

Still no sign of the elusive Dennis, and it’s now 1.40 in Gloucestershire. (Well, obviously 1.40 everywhere in the UK. Except maybe Norfolk, where it’s closer to 1955).

Arriving in Cheltenham just before 2, we are treated to a different announcer on the tannoy, who sounds like Katie Boyle, the TV presenter from the 1960s. She has an accent like cut glass, I believe it’s called, and it’s very appropriate for this town. Behind me, in place of the French accent, a fat man is eating crisps. Even before I turn to look I know that because I can hear them and smell them. They should be posh vegetable crisps in Cheltenham but no, it’s plain old Walkers. And by the odour coming from them his flavour of choice is “Old Trainer”.

It’s getting stormy outside now. The rain is lashing the windows and the fields have pools of water in them. Hello Dennis. What took you so long? It’s so wet in some of the fields that I’m wondering if they’ve considered growing rice.

Somewhere between Bristol Parkway and the gloriously named Bristol Temple Meads, the train crosses a busy road. All the cars have their lights on and the road is shiny and very wet. I’m glad I got the train now.

And so to Bristol Temple Meads. Where it’s raining. I mean, really raining. Look…

Bristol has the highest incidence of graffiti in the World. That’s not a well known fact, mainly because it’s not backed up by any evidence or scientific investigation. But there does seem to be a lot of it about here. Banksy is from Bristol. Maybe that’s a factor?

The second apology of the trip from the train crew is for the fact that the fridge isn’t working. Any beer sold today will “not be at fridge temperature.” They know how to wound don’t they?

A middle aged woman with a Yorkshire accent got on at Bristol and despite there being plenty of seats available, sat next to me. Thankfully, when the train started to pull away, she said “oh, I forgot we’d be going backwards” and promptly moved away. When did I become so anti social? I’d never make a vicar.

We are heading across what must be the Somerset levels now, as the next stop is Taunton. If I was stopping with my brother Alan instead of Mum this is where I’d get off.

It’s good to know that we are still moving well and are keeping to time. That same could be said of Alan and me I suppose, but for now I’m talking about this train. The Somerset Levels took a real hit a few years ago in the floods so it’s a relief to get past them today, and Dennis isn’t stopping us with his wet and windy hand.

For the record, there’s no smell of cider in the air here. Not even from any of my recently boarded fellow travellers.

Now approaching Tiverton, so I’m definitely in Devon. They are building loads of houses here…

The trees keep brushing the windows of the train now. They must have been pushed sideways by Dennis. But luckily they aren’t yet blocking the way.

Seems now quite likely that I will miss the connection to Dawlish at Exeter as we are all of a sudden ten minutes late. I may have to find a pub while I wait for the next one. Shame, that.

Nope, I manage to catch it. It proudly proclaims on the departures board that it is on time, and even though it plainly isn’t – I’m still sitting in it at at Exeter 5 minutes after it should’ve left – I’m grateful. I’m ready to stop travelling now and I’m sure you’re ready to stop reading about it.

This is a local train service and the travellers are of a very different ilk. The average age must be about 15, and they are all like, feet-on-seats laugh-too-loud phone-in-hand teenagers coming back from an afternoon in Exeter. I did the same when I was 15. Without the feet or phones, and usually with an LP under my arm. And in Eastbourne, not Exeter. Otherwise it’s exactly the same. Er…

The wind is absolutely battering this train. It runs along the coastline in a while so that will be interesting. Powderham Castle fields are under water. It’s amazing that the trains are still running to be honest.

And so I arrive in Dawlish. Wet, windy, flat and grey Dawlish – but I’m very pleased to be here. I’m going to be spending the next three days with my Mum and who wouldn’t want that?

PS – it finished Derby County 1 Huddersfield Town 1. Red Stripe must only have limited powers…