This is the second train journey that we have attempted in recent times. The first was just a few weeks ago going to Cardiff for my Half Marathon. Going there was straightforward. We chugged along from Chester, arriving at the right time and with no mishap. Returning was a different matter. A van had apparently had an altercation with a bridge, and trains were not allowed to proceed beneath said bridge until the structural engineers had given it the ‘all clear’, or words to that effect. I’m trying to imagine the scene. Is the driver of this van asleep? Are they drunk? Do they have a psychological allure to bridges? I ask this last question because I know someone who can’t drive over bridges because they have a compunction to veer off to the side. Whatever the reason, it took a long time to get home, and we had to make a couple of extra changes, but at least we got that half of the journey’s money back.
It’s funny on trains. One minute people are minding their own in their seats, averting their eyes away from their neighbours. But if there’s a problem. If we need to pile off and look around desperately for someone to ask, we all flock together. The subsequent train we got on had a number of people who were regaling one another their stories of previous terrible train journeys. Our shared grievances became quite jovial after a time. The weather wasn’t horrendous, and for us at least, our trip could be resumed.
For this journey, we were on our way to Stratford upon Avon to catch some plays. We got as far as Crewe before the train driver said that the train could go no further because there had been a fatality on the line just a short way ahead. A fatality on the line. Those words caused a lot of speculation. My mind immediately went to a jumper, but someone pointed out that they could have fallen accidentally, or a train driver might have had a heart attack. This last I have dismissed as you wouldn’t need Police to cordon off the site for a heart attack, unless of course in his demise, he’d crashed the train. The word ‘fatality’ sounded very singular, and ‘on the line’ did not suggest the involvement of any vehicles. So, someone jumped or was pushed then. Either is very sad.
Our sadness was compounded, as we eventually made our way to the Midlands, via Shreswbury, and were walking from the very modern Birmingham New Street Station to the very Edwardian Moor Street Station. A woman approached us looking very worse for wear. I’m not terribly good when homeless people approach me as there are so many and I don’t know if my money helps or hinders. Plus, to be honest, I’m a little bit scared of people who step outside of societal norms, whether by choice or by circumstance. I don’t know if their behaviour is going to become aggressive. This woman asked for money. If it had only been me, I would have said sorry and carried on walking. But Anne stopped to listen. She said she’d been in her sleeping bag, and it had been set alight and the perpetrator had filmed it all, and her two front teeth had apparently been knocked out as well. She said that the Police just ignored her. I don’t know how much of her story is real, but her ankle certainly looked in a very bad way. Whether she will use the money for alcohol or drugs; to get to the hospital or a shelter, I don’t know. But maybe Anne’s kindness has given a small sense of hope and of being listened to.
There’s probably a reason so many people use cars. Even if you’re in a traffic jam, you’re cocooned in your car. You don’t need to talk to or rub up against other people. You’re safe from strangers crossing your path. But weirdly, I’ve enjoyed these train journeys. I’ve been able to read and sometimes write as we’ve trundled along. And it’s great for people-watching. Apart from the people who don’t use headphones with their phones. Their phones should be thrown out of the window, if there were any windows of these trains.
The final leg was from Moor Street to Stratford via a million small stations. I had no idea of the names of most of them and I’m originally from round here. Wootton Wawen for instance. Where is Wootton Wawen? According to Wikipedia, it has Anglo Saxon origins, so it’s much older than my hometown of Coventry. Wootton Wawen had a very utilitarian station sign, unlike Henley In Arden which announces itself with large white on black lettering. It is younger than Wootton but much grander.
Finally, we arrived at Stratford some two hours later than planned. It was dark and the rain has started to fall. Having never come by train before it took a moment to orientate ourselves but it’s a straightforward fifteen-minute walk to our Premier Inn. Via a very nice-looking wine shop that still happened to be open. I think we deserved a bottle after that trip.
