Don’t know when I’ll be back again …
It is good to have an end to journey toward; but it is the journey that matters, in the end.
Ursula K. Le Guin
Many have struggled with the fact that travel around the world has almost stopped for the past year. This week’s Reflection is of events in 2010 when air travel in and out of Europe came to a halt. Then it was for a few days, not months.
For many years I’ve written a ‘Christmas’ story. One was, ‘I’ll be home for Christmas’. The storyline being the travails of a man struggling to get back to his family for Christmas Day from a business trip. Little did I know when I drafted the story that life would imitate art a couple of years later.
14 April 2010 saw me on the way to Lisbon and a business conference. My journal of the time comments on an incredibly early morning flight. Lisbon’s warm, humid, overcast weather. A mixed bunch of presentations followed by a mediocre, ‘conference meal’. Finally, there is mention of a nightcap before retiring to bed. Nothing memorable. That all changed the following day.
At breakfast, a colleague pointing to a TV screen in the corner of the restaurant uttered,
“Goodness, look at that!”
The screen showed an erupting volcano in Iceland. Eyjafjallajökull was blowing its top.
I was due to fly home later that day. Then spend an evening, cocktail making in London with my wife. It was something to which I much looked forward. Premonition told me that I should move sooner rather than later if that rendezvous was to happen. It was, therefore, a speedy return to my room to pack and then checkout.
While waiting at reception, a fellow Director passed by and asked why I was leaving. I told him of my fears, and he asked that I wait a few minutes so he could join me. He, too, was keen to get away, as his 40th birthday celebration was only two days hence. By 8:00 am, we were in a taxi and airport bound.
On arrival, we switched flights to one leaving at 10 am. Just after checking in, I heard a rapid clack, clack, clack, clack above me. Looking up at the departures board, I saw in dismay that every UK-bound flight was now ‘delayed’. In fact, the only plane heading north was Air France to Paris at 10:30 am.
Paris was a lot closer to home than Lisbon. With little hesitation, my colleague and I headed for the Air France ticket desk. Moments later, we possessed two tickets for the Paris flight.
It was then to call the office and ask they book two seats on the Eurostar from Paris Gare de Nord. That done it was to check-in, boarding and onwards to Paris!
Once airborne, my colleague and I kicked back, enjoyed a lovely meal and a couple of drinks. Relaxed in the thought we should be in the UK around 5 pm.
It was not to be. Chill from our smooth flight, we landed in Charles de Gaulle to unwelcome news. A text from the office said there were no seats available on the Eurostar. It was, therefore, to plan B. Train from Paris to Calais by way of Lille and then Cross Channel Ferry to Dover and the London train.
First, we had to get to Gare de Nord. The train was the best choice. Around 1:30 pm, we arrived at a station in chaos. People everywhere. Some in long queues, while many just milled around looking lost and confused.
Strangely no one seemed to be taking advantage of the automatic ticket machines, so we headed for those. With a push of the Union Flag button, choice of two one-way tickets to Calais, and the insertion of credit card, we were soon on our way to Lille, where we would need to change trains.
Settling in for the three hours or so journey through the French countryside, we updated friends and family of our progress.
Once we arrived in Lille, we thought we would check out the chance of still hopping on a Eurostar train bound for the UK. Alas, without success, so it was then the train to Calais.
Unfortunately, when we disembarked, it was not in the Calais I expected. No smell of the sea nor sight of a port. We were in Calais-Fréthun, not Calais-Ville. We weren’t the only ones. A good hundred or so others, primarily British, were looking around in confusion.
A loud voice began calling, “CALAIS VILLE”, and everyone turned in the direction of that voice to see a portly, kindly-faced Frenchman in railway uniform pointing towards another platform. We guessed he meant the train to our desired destination would leave from there.
It did, and it wasn’t long before we’d completed the short journey. Now it was to the port and the ferry. A long queue was already forming at a bus stop outside the station (what is it with us British and queuing). My colleague and I opted for another mode of transport, Shanks’ Pony. The port is only a mile or so from the station.
We were not the only ‘refugees’ seeking home. Two of many on the walk to the port. We overtook some, and some others passed us. One rotund chap went past us at pace bearing a bulky case and looking very red in the face. Five minutes later, we rounded a corner to find him sitting on the said case, looking a little worse for wear. He reassured all who passed him that he was fine, so we pressed on and arrived to find a now bustling port.
Despite the ever-increasing number of people, the Ferry terminal had only two ticket sellers. Looking at the number of people in front of me, I estimated we were in for a wait of at least two hours. Given it was now past 6 pm in France, I realised my planned evening of cocktail making with Sarah would no longer happen. There was nothing to do but shuffle slowly forward. At least my colleague would still make his 40th birthday party.
As happens in times of stress, the British broke with the tradition of national diffidence and began to talk to each other. Of course, given the situation, Dunkirk sprung to mind with comments such as, “I wonder when the small boats arrive” and “at least the Germans aren’t bombing and strafing us this time”!
Finally, my colleague and I made it to the ticket office in time for the 10:30 pm sailing. The queue’s camaraderie led five of us to decide to have a drink and bite to eat together onboard. It was during the passage we realised we would miss the last train from Dover to London. Then one of us had the bright idea of phoning a Gatwick Airport taxi (they wouldn’t be doing any business) and negotiating a deal.
It worked, and for £25 each, we had transport to London. I knew a bed awaited me there, but not for my newfound friends, so it was then a call to my wife to see if she could book rooms at the hotel in which she and I were staying.
My wife had enjoyed her evening. She had succeeded in the challenge of single-handily consuming cocktails meant for two. It was a relaxed woman who took my call and very obligingly sorted out the required rooms.
That done, all the taxi occupants were now content. Close to 2 am, we arrived at the hotel. Despite the disappointment at missing the cocktail making, there was also a sense of satisfaction that I’d made it ‘home’ in just on 18 hours. Some of my other colleagues who decided not to leave early didn’t get back for a week. Some took even longer than that.
Such is the ‘joy’ of business travel, and it’s on that note I’ve picked this week’s song. Burt Bacharach’s ‘Trains and Boats and Planes’ might seem apt, but I spent a lot of my business life climbing on and off ‘Jet Planes’. With incredibly early morning starts. Time away from my family. Late-night returns. Travelling the world can appear glamorous, but when on business the novelty soon pales. Here’s the song I decided upon ….
