Forwards and occasionally sidewards – everyday musings of life

After a successful two days in the beautiful city of Glasgow, my board meetings concluded ahead of schedule, allowing me to catch an earlier train home. As I boarded with my bag well-stocked with healthy food, cold drinks—strictly non-diuretic, given I lacked the bag space for a bio-hazard suit—wet wipes, and pre-downloaded music (never rely on train Wi-Fi or a cellular signal), I felt considerably better prepped for the return voyage.

Flying along at over 100 mph through the stunning countryside of Northern England, the Pendolino twisted and tilted into the corners, mercilessly hurling brave passengers from side to side as they dared to walk—or rather, stagger—towards the facilities. Bashing into a fellow traveller presented a whole additional hazard to navigate before even reaching the door.

I placed a quiet inner bet on the chances of arriving home early. Having learned from past trauma that a great deal can go wrong over 350 miles of British track, the odds of an early arrival were slim. In fact, with the absolute final train to Pewsey departing London Paddington at 9:00 PM, the odds of me making it home tonight at all were looking somewhat touch-and-go.

Sure enough, the railway gods must have read my earlier journal entries and decided to deploy one final trick. My train from Glasgow to London was reliably late, causing me to miss my connection. Ironically, the final Pewsey-bound train turned out to be the only service on this entire expedition running precisely to schedule. My entire evening now hinged on whether the last train would run.

As a young family boarded at Reading, I promptly switched on the noise-cancelling headphones. I was already well past the point of enduring repeated train announcements detailing where the buffet car was or how to claim delay compensation. The sound of a wailing toddler was the final straw. It made me wonder whether subjecting a young child to British rail travel ought to be made illegal, given that other forms of cruel and unusual punishment were outlawed years ago.

Against all odds, we pulled into Pewsey station bang on time. However, I had already sussed out the railway gods’ psychological mind games: by arranging for the very last leg of the journey to run smoothly, they attempt to leave you with the lingering memory of a punctual service—a clever trap designed to tempt you back in the future.

Their little trick won’t fool me, though I inevitably will be back on the rails before long. Despite my wry complaints, I will always choose the train over domestic flying. The soul-destroying delays and security queues at modern airports make my little expedition to Scotland seem decidedly smooth by comparison.