Train tripping in the UK; what an adventure! Not that you’d think so if the folk staring glassy-eyed out the windows are anything to go by. Nor are the mobile phone addicts particularly inspiring.
That leaves the talkers, and those who enjoy the view. The talkers are great fun. It’s as though they feel the rows of seats are private booths, with invisible sound proofing making no subject off limits. How else could I have learned that the brunette girl intends breaking up with her ‘plonker’ boyfriend, but not until after her birthday because he always gets her good presents?
At a railway station, the coffee shop worker was bemoaning how a customer had complained there was funny white clouds coming out of the photo booth. What the worker wanted to know, having checked out the situation, was why the creator of the problem ‘couldn’t have had his smoke in the toilets, like everyone else does?’
All sorts of subjects come up on trains. Apparently, to work out the height of a tall tree, you hold your arm stiff in front of you, with your hand straight up. Walk backwards until the tips of your fingers sight with the tip of the tree. Then pace from that point back to the tree, counting your steps. The resultant number is the height in metres. I haven’t tried it.
In one town, I was using a diner whilst waiting for the train. Over my cup of tea drifted the story about the local publican’s wife checking out how the pubs cctv works, only the previous evening. This was hot news, straight off the press! Apparently, the barmaid was immediately sacked, and the publican is looking for a new occupation, preferably with accomodation.
Another diner, early in the day when breakfast was everyone’s food choice. The two owners were cheerfully rude, but only to the locals, including a net-maker, a railway worker, and a gent who is a builder in summer but over winter he drives buses because at forty-six he’s too old to work outside when it’s cold!
At the same diner, a retired ex-local lady who had temporarily returned from her new home in Spain, to see her daughter. She challenged the net-maker to figure out who she was. It took him a few hints, but he got there in the end; his old school teacher. She was relieved when he remarked she hadn’t aged. Apparently the previous day a woman had approached the ex-teacher, saying ‘you taught me, and my mother, and even…’ ‘STOP right there’ the teacher intervened. That she had taught two generations was more than enough.
In the same diner, another conversation involved recalling a recently married woman. ‘What was she before she married?’ someone asked. The immediate response, resulting in laughter, came from across the room…’Happy!’
Speaking of happy, what delight to see a station’s celebration of success:
But not all stories are funny or celebratory. On one train I happened to be sitting at a table opposite a business women. Probably about thirtyfive, definitely freckled, she wore her sandy hair tied back loosely. I liked that she was confident enough to wear virtually no makeup. Dressed in tidy casual, she spent the travel time working on her laptop, until interrupted by a phone call. Sitting so close meant I couldn’t avoid hearing every word, and she certainly made no attempt at discretion.
The first order of business was about a person who had paid on their quote, but the job was proving costlier than expected. There was some discussion around how it had happened, (equipment being unavailable due to scheduled maintainence), and about what was fair. In the end the woman told her caller to go back to the client, say they had underquoted, make it not negotiable, and invoice them for difference.
But then came the second query. A client had been quoted for a job based on 36 people, but it would now only be 28, and therefore considerably less cost. The woman, who only moments ago had talked about fair play, instructed her caller to do nothing, since the client had been happy with their quote! There’s some folk you can go off quite quickly.
On another train ride, early morning, a large bunch of teenagers got off at Axminster. They appeared to be heading in the same direction, but weirdly there was no talking, banter, or even walking in pairs. Nor were any mobiles or earphones visible. Had I entered an alien world?
Travelling through Devon, I was struck by the neatness, having just left the wilder feel of Cornwall. Brightly red cliffs spilling into calm blue seas, bookmarking beaches and red-tinged mud flats. Drunken boats moored in deceptively quiet bays. A small castle providing a suitable backdrop to spotted deer grazing on golf-smooth paddocks dotted with trees. Devon belongs in a romantic movie, but nothing involving protagonists as strong as Mr Darcy. Something more genteel perhaps.
There’s no space for genteel when changing trains. Get off quickly. Locate a departure board. Identify the platform for your next stage. Find the lift (it’s always at the other end). Lug your gear through the subway, or across the footbridge, then another lift. Emerge in time to see the train doors closing… oh, wait, yours is the other side. Whew!
Such are some of the joys of train tripping.
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