I think it was Elmer Fudd, the relentless pursuer of Bugs Bunny, who once sang that he had been “workin’ on the wailwoad, all the live-long day.” It was one of my brother’s favourite songs when he was a kid. Because of that, Elmer is on my mind as I set off from Prudhoe station on a grey Monday morning to head south west via Newcastle to visit my Mum in the the holiday town of Dawlish. It’s a journey of six and half hours, plus an hour or so for travelling on the smaller wailwoad lines, and hanging around stations waiting for connections. So you can see that it might look like a day’s work.
But I’m not hammering spikes into the ground or digging up rocks. I’m sitting in a fairly comfortable (although rather ancient) seat, reading and listening to music while England’s green and pleasant land rolls past the window. So far so good.
On a journey like this, I tend to rely on my fellow passengers to create a pleasant experience. Now that’s a metaphor for life if ever there was. They seem like a fairly decent bunch so far, no beer cans popping open or children screaming. But we are only at Durham, so there’s plenty of time for the situation to change.
I had a Marks and Spencer falafel wrap and some carrots and hummus, which should come in handy around lunchtime in Bristol. Unfortunately, they didn’t even make it to Sheffield. But they were delicious, and I can but hope that by the time I get to the land of Isambard Kingdom Brunel and Banksy, I won’t be hungry again.
You know the screaming child that didn’t get on at Newcastle? Well, she got on at Leeds. Thank God for noise cancelling headphones and the Pet Shop Boys, when combined managed to drown out the cacophony. Pity it couldn’t hide the smell of somebody’s fart at the same time.
There are lots of young Japanese people on this train, who look either bewildered or excited. I suppose I would bear the same expression if I ever found myself on a bullet train in Honshu, so I don’t blame them.
I can see Yorkshire out of my window as I write this sentence. Unfortunately it’s not the Yorkshire Dales of James Herriot’s stories, nor is it the sweeping Moors of Wuthering Heights fame; it’s the outskirts of Sheffield. Warehouses and retail outlets, littered with traffic. If I was driving I would have taken the pretty way, up through tinker bell wood, and past the wobbly dum-dum tree. But that’s for another time. Indeed, it’s for another generation.
I’d reserved a seat for this journey, but the one that I had been allocated by the system was right next to a window that was so misted up for some reason that it was impossible to see out of. So straight away I moved to one marked “available” on the other side of the carriage that offered crystal clear views of the aforementioned industrial sites. I’d settled in very well, feeling smug as those who boarded the train after me wandered up and down the aisle like lost souls looking for somewhere to park their collective arses.
So imagine my surprise when I got turfed out of this “available” seat at Birmingham New Street by a bewildered, wild eyed man brandishing a ticket with my seat number on it. The sign above the seat had changed from “available” to “get out of this seat when asked, you smug git” or something like that (it actually said “Birmingham to Cheltenham”).
So the moral of this story is stay in the seat you’ve been allocated, even if it’s not ideal, or you could be shunted unceremoniously out of it at any point. At least I found somewhere else to sit. But I will always think of that station as “Birmingham New Seat” from now on (Budum-tish!)
I successfully avoided a Kit Kat from the trolley as we passed Cheltenham. The diet is going swimmingly.
And so to Exeter St David’s, where I got off to catch my connection to Dawlish. Now I ask you this. Do I look like a bloke who works on the railways? I think the answer you’re looking for is no. But the passengers on the platform here seemed to think otherwise. I was asked by one whether that train on platform 3b went to Paignton, and then I was approached by an enormous hat with a woman underneath it who wanted to know where the lift was. I of course had no idea, but I’m pretty sure that if she ever found it she would have to take her hat off first to be able to get through the doors.
I wish I could’ve taken a photo of the teenager on the train to Dawlish, the last leg of my journey. She was slumped sideways onto her Primark bags, fast asleep but with her phone in her hand, while the spectacular views across the Exe estuary sailed past her window. A good example of being glued to your mobile.
Well, with the sea’s appearance and the a briny smell in the air, I realised that I was fast approaching my destination. So I gathered my bags and shuffled off the train into the platform by the beach.
I was born in a coastal holiday town and I love being close to the sea. It felt good to be where the air smelled of salty fish and chips and the seagulls provided the background noise. I was going to get a taxi to Mum’s house but it’s only a ten minute walk and I needed to “get some steps in,” so I set off on foot, dragging my suitcase behind me. I’d forgotten there were hills involved in this part of my journey but it’s all good exercise.
I texted my Mum to let her know I was on my way, and hoped she would be ready with a cup of tea and a slimmer’s biscuit.
Or a pastie and a beer. We shall see.
Steve's Journal 