Long day’s journey into night …
What is a club in any case? Not the buildings or the directors or the people who are paid to represent it. It’s not the television contracts, get-out clauses, marketing departments or executive boxes. It’s the noise, the passion, the feeling of belonging, the pride in your city. It’s a small boy clambering up stadium steps for the very first time, gripping his father’s hand, gawping at that hallowed stretch of turf beneath him and, without being able to do a thing about it, falling in love
Bobby Robson
I quite often journey from my home in Wiltshire to Newcastle to watch Newcastle United play. This is a story of one of those journeys. It turned out to be a long day’s journey into night (my apologies to Eugene O’Neill)
My day started with a taxi ride at six in the morning for the first leg of my journey. Both the taxi ride and my subsequent train journey to Paddington were uneventful.
The first hint that the rest of my travel that day may be more problematical was the discovery that because of ‘engineering works’, part of the Circle Line was not running. It was the quickest way to reach King Cross. No problem I thought as I headed for the Bakerloo Line, I can head for Baker Street and change there. I did so, and not long after I arrived at King Cross.
I knew my train from there to Newcastle was to take a circuitous route to avoid more ‘engineering works’ near Grantham. Therefore, our slower than usual progress did not bring much concern. That came when we slowed to a stop while on that circuitous route. Some moments later, an announcement came that due to, “signalling problems”, we would now proceed with caution through several red signals. Ummm I thought, interesting. However, we safely arrived in Newark only some 30 minutes late, so I still had plenty of time to make the game, given the clear track from there to Newcastle.
The match over (Newcastle United won 1:0, but somehow that now seems peripheral to the day) I quickly made my way to Newcastle Central station to catch the train to Birmingham New Street. Once there, I had 12 minutes to make my connection to Bristol.
We made excellent progress and were even 5 minutes early when the announcement came that we were approaching Birmingham.
Immediately after that, the train stopped. We waited, and we waited, and then an apologetic announcement came that we were waiting for a platform to become free. It was at this time I caught the eye of a kindred spirit who like me, was showing some anxiety at our slow progress. It turned out that the lady in question needed to make the same connection.
With now only some 5 minutes to spare before the departure of the Bristol train, we arrived on our platform. It was number eleven, and the connection was on two. I realised that my fellow traveller would not make the connection while carrying her bulky suitcase. I suggested I helped, picked up the case and along with a cry of, “follow me”, we set off.
I have a rule that I don’t run for trains or tubes and the like (there’ll always be another one I can catch). I didn’t break that rule but admit I did walk, ‘with attitude’. One must in Birmingham New Street.
Its design seems from an Escher drawing. You can’t get from one platform to another without going up and downstairs and through ticket barriers. It was with little time to spare that my now travelling companion and I leapt aboard the train. With a sense of relief, we sank into our seats. Then waited for the doors to close and the train to depart.
They, and it didn’t.
After a few minutes and with thoughts of my next connection in mind (I had twenty minutes in Bristol to catch that) I left my seat to ask the Guard what the problem might be. He stood on the platform looking contemplative, “Nothing serious”, he offered, “we should be off in a minute or two”. He proved to be right.
Five minutes out of the station, we stopped. Five minutes later, we were still stopped. Five minutes after that, I saw what looked like a train driver pass me, followed by the Guard.
“Is there a problem?” I asked.
“Afraid so”, replied the Guard, “there’s a trespasser on the track ahead, so we are heading back to Birmingham then around the loop line and then south again”.
Not the news I wanted to hear given my train from Bristol was the last of the night. However, the Guard was reassuring, telling me that if I did miss the connection, Cross Country, with whom I was travelling would get me home by taxi.
As it was, we made timely progress, and it looked like I would still have 5 minutes to make the connection. That is until we stopped just outside of Bristol. The Guard appeared (we were on first name terms by now), “Sorry to tell you but the driver has just got out to walk the line as we’ve been told its flooded and may not be safe to pass”.
Time passed. The Guard reappeared. The train started to move, albeit it at snail’s pace. “Good news”, he offered, “your connection is also running late so you should still make it at Bristol”.
It wasn’t long before he was back. “Not such good news this time”, he said with a hint of sympathy in his voice, “your train from Bristol has been cancelled because of flooding”. A taxi ride home was to be.
I expected Bristol station to be mayhem on my arrival. Thankfully, it wasn’t, and before long, I was in the queue for a taxi firmly gripping my railway ‘chitty’ as payment home.
Slowly but surely, taxis filled with people until there were no more taxis left to fill, leaving the six people in front and me straining our sight in the hope that more taxis would appear.
They did. Four. One behind the other. The first took three passengers heading for Penzance, the taxi driver looking incredibly pleased with the income that would bring. The next two passengers were for Exeter and the next for Dawlish. Again, the respective drivers looked pleased.
With a sense of anticipation, ‘my’ cabbie asked my destination. I watched his face drop when I gave the name of a destination only some fifteen miles away. There would be no three-figure taxi fare for him tonight. Hoping there might be others heading my way, he crawled his taxi along the line of waiting people calling out the name of the destination. Another chitty would bring more income. Sadly, for him, there were no other takers.
Just after midnight, I was back home, an eighteen-hour round trip door to door. At least Newcastle United won ….
