Train to London

EVEN AFTER the Beeching Axe fell in the 1960s, Great Britain still has plenty of trains. Trouble is, the lines are owned by a variety of companies that don’t necessarily coordinate scheduling among themselves, running often elderly equipment over often unkempt track lines.

Nevertheless, I devised a timetable that should have gotten my wife and me around the UK during our fortnight there. We had six connections to pursue. Southampton Central (SOU) to Seaford (Sussex) (SEF) required only one change, with a fifteen-minute window between trains. Seaford to Moreton-in-Marsh (MIM) in the Cotswolds was more involved, with one train-change to put us in London, a brief tube trip, then two more changes of train, the last of which with a nine-minute transfer window.

You get the gist, but let me get this out of my system. Moreton-in-Marsh to Manchester Victoria (MCV) demanded three train-changes, with ten- to 25-minute transfer windows. Manchester Victoria to Edinburgh (EDB) required one change, but Edinburgh to London Euston (EUS) was a single six-hour journey. Ditto the trip from London to Southampton: one train, but a tube trip to London Waterloo to start that one off. And all of this for a grand total of about £1,000.

The online reservations system was frustratingly inconsistent about the seats it offered, with off-peak, first class off-peak, first class anytime, and first-class advance among the mix, without noting why any one was available and others weren’t. Added to that was our luggage – two bags apiece, and that was packing lightly – as well as my transport chair, which folded into its own very bulky package. Would we be able to fit it all, never mind lug it from station to station? And the plan presupposed that trains would be on time, of course, and when I mentioned this to the people we met at our various stops, they laughed hollowly and approved the plan we eventually enacted: car service. I don’t even know how much that eventually cost us, as Susan got those credit-card bills, but it was well over a thousand pounds. And, as she agrees, it was worth it.

Except for one leg of the journey. We took the Edinburgh-to-London train. We booked first-class tickets in what looked (by website photos) to be a very comfortable car, with promised trolley service to make sure we never were hungry or thirsty. Just to make sure of our onboard accommodation, I went through the online process of noting that I was handicapped through their Passenger Assist form. And when we got to the Edinburgh Waverley railway station and identified ourselves, everything changed.

We were there well in advance of our 11 AM departure, again using our new Uber account to secure a ride from the hotel. And we thought it expedient to place me in the transport chair once we got there, although that did make it more difficult to schlep those bulky bags. After a brief wait, however, we were turned over to a disability specialist. He got a porter to take charge of our bags, then wheeled me onto the platform, to a particular area where we’d be close to the train’s wheelchair ramp. Did we mind waiting a bit? We did not.

He was back just before the train arrived, and the ramp was unfolded and I was wheeled into the carriage. Where, we discovered, they had changed our assigned seats in order to give me a wheelchair space at the end of the car. My chair was locked into place, and Susan was the only occupant of the pair of seats across from me, a handy table between us. This didn’t stop her from speaking to people across the aisle, of course.

As for me, once I was settled and the train began its journey, my joy was complete. Six hours lay ahead, six hours of sitting in a pleasant environment with views of a beautiful countryside hurrying by on a beautiful day, with no need to get anything done, lulled by the unique rhythms of rail travel, so different from the feel of a car. Besides which, whenever I am going somewhere by car, I’m the one who’s driving. Just one more of my neurotic specialties.

It sounds like I’m setting you up for a disappointment. Or setting me up, I guess. There was none. I don’t think it spoils the story to confess this. This was one of those moments in time when everything went right. I was going to label it unique, but I’m not sure that’s the case. I think we have many, many such moments, but most of them aren’t as closely anticipated as vacation travel.

Susan settled into her latest acquisition, Bridget Christie’s A Book for Her, laughing annoyingly frequently. I was reading Ross MacDonald’s The Underground Man and a biography of Robert Schumann, both on my little Kobe reader. But I was also doing a lot of staring out the window. The car was quiet. No walkie-talkie style cellphone conversations – in fact, no cellphone conversations at all, at least in my range of hearing.

The trolley came by. Prosecco (and other beverage selections) was on the house. We availed. The café menu also included a generous selection of comestibles. Breakfast items included (and I’m switching to the menu descriptions here) Toast with Butter & Preserves (toasted white bloomer or malted bread offered with cultured butter, jam, marmalade or honey), Bircher Bowl (Whole oat and honey granola in a low fat natural yogurt served with a juicy and aromatic apricot compote), Porridge Bowl (Traditional creamy porridge served on its own or with banana & honey), Smoked Salmon with Scrambled Eggs, Breakfast Hash (a hearty dish of chopped fried potatoes with mushrooms, sun blushed tomatoes and kale seasoned with herbs and spices) and Susan’s completely uncharacteristic choice, Classic Bacon Sandwich (thick cut British bacon on malted bread), which she was very reluctant to share.

And there’s the “Rest of the Day” menu, which includes a Cheese & Mushoom Croque (a toasted sandwich loaded with melting Cheddar cheese and sliced mushrooms, topped with creamy béchamel sauce and grilled), Falafel & Orange Salad (A taste of the Middle East. Classic falafel with a fresh rice and orange salad in a sweet, smoky tomato dressing served with cherry tomatoes and salad leaf), and the Grazing Plate (A delicious plate of Milano salami, Iberian chorizo, Red
Fox & Coastal Cheddar cheeses, sun-blushed tomatoes and basil & garlic olives, served with plum & ginger chutney and sourdough crackers), which I enjoyed.

For dessert? Well, it was more Prosecco. The sylvan Scottish scenery eased into the less-picturebook surroundings of northern England. Lulled by the food and wine and comforting rhythms of train over track, I almost dozed. And that’s an accomplishment for the insomniac I am, have been, and ever shall be.

By 5 PM, as the train slowed to a stop at London Euston Station, I was being unhooked from my safety corner and wheeled down the ramp, deposited into the teeming waiting area where we fruitlessly sought some manner of help. Our hotel was conveniently located about two blocks from the station, and that now proved to be an inconvenience. Schlepping our gear and me in the chair is awkward, more awkward than we cared to enact on a busy London street. So it was the Susan took what bags she could carry to the hotel as I waited at the station, a gimlet eye on the rest of our luggage. Except for the extra wear and tear on my wife’s legs, it worked out fine.

The Euston Square Hotel describes itself as “boutique,” which probably explains the below-ground-floor level our room occupied. Our window gave a from-the-knees-down view of passersby, but the places was quiet and comfortable. And I’ll describe our two days in London in the penultimate installment of this saga.