Forwards and occasionally sidewards – everyday musings of life

I don’t take on driving jobs often, but when I do, each delivery turns out to be oddly fascinating. Today’s mission was dropping a pristine Land Rover Discovery off at a farm deep in Cornwall. Cruising through the quiet country roads at 6 AM, I felt a rare burst of gratitude for being a morning person; at one point, I genuinely worried I’d arrive before the new owner was even awake.

As I signed the car over, it looked immaculate glinting in the early morning light. It won’t stay that way. Being a farm vehicle, I give it forty-eight hours before it’s completely encased in dust, cow dung, and slurry. I took detailed photos purely to establish legal proof of its brief, spotless existence.

Then arrived the taxi to take me to the station. As it pulled up, I was sorely tempted to lean into the window and ask, “Is this the North Cornwall tourist bus?” I restrained myself, which was probably wise.

Why is it that every taxi in Britain smells exclusively of either body odour or half a can of Lynx Africa? That unmistakable aroma hit me the moment I pulled the door shut and sealed myself in for a forty-five-minute sentence.

My driver was enormously proud of having retired to Cornwall. He clearly knew every square inch of the county, every local resident by name, and quite possibly their full genealogy. What followed was a relentless guided tour. He pointed out ancient watering holes and historic landmarks, even pulling up at a 6th-century bridge to deliver a detailed recital of its heritage. I nodded politely, quietly suspecting he was making half of it up on the spot. He then pointed out modern engineering marvels, including the A30—a stretch of asphalt I had literally just driven down. I was somewhat less awestruck; it was, after all, just a road.

I didn’t want a heritage tour; I just wanted to catch a train.

Eventually, we arrived at Bodmin Parkway station, which, for the record, sits at least five miles outside of Bodmin itself. “Station in the Middle of Nowhere” would be far more accurate. The driver handed me his card in case I ever needed a cab in Cornwall again. If I ever decide I want a impromptu historical excursion—or the high-octane anxiety of nearly missing a connection—I’ll be sure to give him a call.

Escaping into the converted signal box on the platform, I sipped a coffee and eavesdropped on the local station master—an old chap cheerfully narrating the comings and goings of the line. Before my coffee was finished, I’d received a bonus lecture on steam locomotives and Dr Beeching’s infamous railway cuts of the 1960s. More history.

I finally boarded, only to end up in the ‘not-so-quiet coach’. I spent the journey listening to a gentleman loudly reciting the granular details of a private negotiation to his family—and, by extension, the entire carriage. His monologue was punctuated by heavy huffs, puffs, and endless “ifs and buts”. His wife listened with saintly patience while his daughter tried to talk him off the ledge. The poor man’s head was spinning.

Fortunately, my stop was next. He was wearing me out just listening to him.