Temple Meads Station

Temple Meads station, Tuesday August 30th, platform 13; the 9.30 to Paddington, always a good train, not too crowded and pretty cheap. 4 seats and a table free. Cool dude in the corner, Oakley’s concealing his eyes; a beautiful woman drags a reluctant suitcase along the corridor. Fog over the fields obscuring the view of the Somerset countryside. The obligatory businessman on his mobile. The sun reflects off the Avon and Somerset canal as a narrow boat slides gently through the water. A4 on the other side; mass transit heaven over three generations. The butter-stone of Bath and a change of personnel. Cool dude removes Oakley’s, white linen cut-offs, tanned legs and off to where? Japanese tourists on the platform. The crunch, crunch of doors closing, whistles, shudder and we pull out. The spires of two churches and the Tower of the Abbey to the left. A new set of journeys begin thanks to an overly ambitious Hampshire man 150 years ago.

The sun is beginning to burn the fog away; the browns and greens of a late English summer rush past. The sudden darkness of the Box tunnel; a quiet miracle overlooked by those who should ask “how did they do that?”

Details slip away as concentration drifts off.

Chippenham; ox-blood roofs and modern concrete to Bath’s butter-stone work. The same fretwork eaves on the station covers. The stench of an over-priced railway bacon roll claws its way through the carriage. The gentle motion of the train kicks in and drowsy sleep takes over; drifting in and out of consciousness, the automatic door opening, a cough, a flash of sunlight, a fellow traveller walking past to or from the buffet car, each is enough to disturb the slumber.

Disused railworks in Swindon, hectares of Victorian buildings now museums, bars and apartments. Swindon station, dark, not many new passengers here. Again, crunch, crunch, whistle, shudder and the journey continues.

An empty gasometer, ladders sticking up proud, the spikes of a grey coronet. Once again, the half sleep of the traveller takes over. The line isn’t so smooth now, the train hops and skips along perhaps more joyful knowing it’s got 30 minutes free running to Didcot, or maybe it’s just shoddy track. Drifting sleep.

The industrial nightmare of Didcot. Massive cooling towers (6) steaming away, “producing power for millions” (people or pounds?). Why are all stations on the edge of towns called Parkway? When did that start happening? More fretwork eaves; is this another Brunel station? The train is filling up now and there are very few free seats as the train approaches London. Crunch, crunch, whistle, shudder. Another grey coronet. So many people, so many journeys, so many stories: a man engaged in a text conversation with who?

Orange covered Railtrack employees beside the track wait for the train to scream past before continuing their work. The landscape has changed from the bare levels of Somerset to the rolling, wooded hills of the Home Counties. The fields seem smaller and the train roars through small stations. Towns are more frequent. The Thames. Outside Reading there is a field covered with the debris of the rock festival, a field full of rubbish and abandoned tents – later they will be distributed to a needy disaster area – “hell of a job to clear that up,” “Bloody Hell!”, the voice of a child, “there’s so much rubbish”. The stages are still up, incongruous and ugly in the daylight. The train, slowly (reluctantly?) pulls into Reading station. Perhaps it knows its journey is nearly over. The beautiful woman fights once again with her recalcitrant luggage and heads off to continue here story. Crunch, crunch, whistle, shudder. Next stop London. Someone somewhere is eating a banana.

His phone rings, he ignores it.

Twyford, Maidenhead, Burnham, Slough, Langley, Iver, West Drayton, and that’s it; town all the way. A brace of grey coronets, one so low it could be the millennium dome. Passing through Ealing and into the Brentford Triangle. A bizarre brown block of flats with a control tower tacked on the side, through Royal Oak and into Paddington. Bustle, hustle, hushed conversations become full-bloodied. Anticipation, the next step. Paddington station, huge vaulted cathedral to travel.