Down South – Day 2

Public transport is a wonderful thing. Today I travelled 230 miles in six moving hours. Unfortunately, a further three hours were added on thanks, of course, to public transport.

Getting up nice and early I left my B&B and strolled on down to the bus stop to get to my train. Next bus: 55 minutes. Now, 55 minutes could be an open window for a vast landscape of opportunity. However, on a cold Sunday morning in a small hamlet with no shops open and a heavy bag lashed to my back, I was pretty much redundant, resolved to sit and try to listen to a waning ipod next to an A-road.

I did manage to walk past a pub, on my single ramble of exploration, which had a sign outside: ‘Beer of the week: Bulmers, £2.90’. This lifted my spirits a meagre ounce or so. How can a ‘Beer of the week’ be a cider? And how can they charge such a price for one of the least ‘special’ drinks in the UK? Imports from Ireland must be rare in Hampshire.

I eventually got to Alton for my train, and delightedly only had to wait half an hour! The train was fairly nippy and I got into Guildford easy enough. This isn’t what I’ll remember it for however. There was a Korean man sat opposite me for most of the journey. As I bent down to sort my bag out at my feet, the man let slip a resounding fart. I don’t think he realised anyone had heard as he had his earphones in, but it was load and obtrusive. He looked very pleased with what he thought was an act of sheer stealth.

So far, I had only had to wait for an hour and a half. I was actually quite pleased with my own efficiency! All good spirit came to an end when I entered Waterloo from another train, and merged into the underground. The thing is with the underground is that it’s actually quite simple. Find your line, find your platform, get your train. My problem was that I couldn’t find a map to find my lie to find etc… The place was rammed! Hoards of burly football shirts clumping around blocking routes, passages and MAPS!

It seemed as though every London-based football team was playing today. West Ham shirts, Arsenal shirts, Chelsea shirts. Surprisingly no Fulham shirts (I can imagine they were all above ground in their limousines).

Every train was full to the point where people’s faces were almost pressed against the windows. I was beginning to suffer the effects of a Beijing-like atmosphere, and was delighted when I finally got on the third train up the Leicester Square, and then the fourth train to Kings Cross (X).

I practically embraced the clean air of the above ground with all the love and warmth possible, which then diluted away by annoyance as I looked at the departures board; Leeds: Departs at 14:10. The time was 13:20.

Great stuff. 50 minutes standing in the ‘QB’ queue in the station and I got on my train, read a book and a wee bit of poetry, and hopped into Leeds with a happy feeling of home.

Nine hours is a long journey. As I’ve often thought: never again.