When I'm Home Cold And Tired

December 13, 2014

Not sure yet what to title this page. A provisional name like "Mr McCann May Wallup Me" being badly received by the barber when I get back was looking pretty good until I thought of the present one. Okay it's a line stole from a song, but I don't think anyone will notice.

Has anybody been looking at all the great pictures I've taken on this tour?

It was a wet evening in Santander. Thankfully the port has this shelter where a Korean motorcyclist and I awaited the signal for embarkation.

As I write I'm in my cabin aboard the ferry sailing from Santander to Portsmouth. There's a persistent shutter of the engine in the walls, the table, everything, plus the heave and roll of the sea under the ship, making my handwriting more of a scrawl than usual.

The woman in the booking office mentioned sailings are often running late this time of year due to rough seas. However, having been in Santander since Wednesday, it feels good to be on the move again. At this time of year Santander is cold and windy, though the rain stayed away, thankfully.

Another thing about the last few days is the time-zone. All of Spain is on Central European Time (CET), an hour ahead of Portugal, Ireland and the UK, yet most of the country is as far west as the UK and the north west as far west as either Portugal or Ireland. This means it doesn't get bright of a morning until near eight-thirty. Seems strange getting out of bed and seeing the time is going on for nine. Though the other side of the coin, it doesn't get dark till between six and seven in the afternoon, which is nice when on the road, but unusual to what I'm used to coming up to Christmas.

What I really want to say is Santander Spain, has been a bit of an anti-climax to this tour.

It is often said travel by bicycle is to see a country slowly. Well this tour has gone round so slow, as though in slow motion. I'm not complaining. I'm complimenting circumstance. Morocco was a bit of a low point, but otherwise I've had a great time. It was as though I became a child again, free of passing time. The awareness of the clock ticking away when grownup, which we're seemingly never free of. One year passing so quickly on to the next and the next, constantly reminded of growing older. The past six months, however, have gone slowly in a way that is hard to believe it has been only six months. Seems more like years. For instance, a few days ago I remember being in Galway and though, when was that; as if it were a few years ago. Then after moments puzzled recollection recall it was in July this year, on this tour no less.

Or could it be I've been so chilled out in Spain and Portugal; and the realisation has just seeped into the subconscious that the carefree life of the past few months, has come to an end and I'm going home, filling me with mixed feelings.

Anyway I'm sailing. The ship arrived early and departed on time. I've a two birth cabin to myself, which feels luxurious. The most economic option, though how you could call two hundred and thirty five euros economic for a one-way passage (I bought my ticket on Thursday, the day after arriving in Santander: the price having increased from the hundred and eighty euros of the previous day). There's free wifi, albeit rather slow and unreliable. And I've been to the hotspot downstairs to connect and listened to the entertainment while waiting for the thing to load, or throw me off the network.

The entertainment manager Kevin with a television games show voice announce the pub quiz and his assistant Stacy collects sheets of paper with names and teams.

They're doing well. They have two teams. When the quiz proceeds, the question aren't of a "Brain of Britain" nature. The second question is "What is a tremor after an earthquake called?" and question eight, the quizmaster quips "Everybody should get this one right" "What colour is a twenty euro note?"

Then there's Karaoke: badly sung pop songs, though a trucker does a good rendition of "I did it my way" by Frank Sinatra.

The following morning the sea is placid and it is a day of heavy rain at sea, sailing up the English Channel. I thought I was going to make good use of my time by writing a page or two for the journal, but the wifi is too slow and for the most part there's that little star in the wedge-bar signal icon and the words "NO INTERNET ACCESS" And as I've finished my book it is a boring day of it. Then once the ferry arrives in Portsmouth in the evening, I have to find a guest house. Luckily it has stopped raining by then. A lot of the places I call on have "No Vacancies" signs in the window, or it is so late, being about nine thirty, there's no answer. Eventually just as it has started to drizzle rain again, I find a place: thirty two pounds bed and breakfast.

I think this is the coast of Brittany. This is a postage stamp crop, so excuse the noise.

Monday: by the ticket barriers in Portsmouth Central Rail Station, a tall gentleman, a bit like John Cleese, smartly dressed in suit and tie, is down on one knee and with a Kleenex cleans mud that has fallen off the soul of some passenger's shoe onto the floor. I know the English can be a bit eccentric, but this takes the biscuit. Once he has cleaned the mud off till his satisfaction, he straightens up and strides across to a bin by the wall and disposes of the soiled tissue with a purposeful drop and strides back to the ticket barriers, where a woman is waiting with a large wheelie suitcase. Turns out he is the station manager and a nice helpful guy. The woman is waiting for him to open the gates for such large baggage and bikes. He opens the gates for my bike and looks at my ticket. "I'm afraid sir the eleven sixteen to Victoria has been canceled. What you must do is take the eleven thirty three to Brighton and change at Barnham"

Up on platform one I'm regretting having bought a ticket for London Victoria. When I bought the ticket at ten forty, asking for a single to London, the miserable jobsworth behind the glass replied abruptly "what station?" "What station?" I reply, as if it matters. "Waterloo station or Victoria?" Oh I see. "Victoria" I say on a whim.

Once I'd paid for the ticket, seventeen fifty, collected my ticket and two pounds fifty change of a twenty through the turntable hatch under the glass, I wheeled the bike across the concourse and looked up at departures, seeing there's a Waterloo train leaving in five: the ten fifty London Waterloo. What have I bough a ticket for a later train for, twenty six minutes later. Could the man not have mentioned that the next London train leaves in under ten minutes.

Presently I'm waiting for a train at eleven thirty three, over three quarters of an hour later because of that man's abrupt unhelpful attitude. At this moment, the tannoy announces nasally "We would like to appoligise for the cancellation of the eleven sixteen to London Victoria. This is due to congestion at Victoria station. Please check with the timetable for alternative trains and connection. We are sorry for any inconvenience this has caused" I'm furious, as yet another train with doors open and passengers boarding, shutters at platform one bound for London Waterloo, on time, and think perhaps it is better if I change my ticket for a Waterloo train.

As it is still a while to wait, I wheel the bike back across the concourse to the ticket window. There's a person in the queue in front of me.

"What day are you going?" barks the man behind the glass. "Tomorrow" "What time tomorrow?......

I ask politely, explaining the train cancelation and so on, and would it be possible to change the ticket.

"It will be seventeen pounds fifty more if you want that!"

"All I want to do is change the ticket to a Waterloo train" I repeat myself.

"If you want to travel on the a Waterloo train, it'll cost you the same again" he retorts.

"So you're telling me I can't change my ticket?" I ask heatedly.

He replies bluntly, something about the Waterloo Train not getting me to London any quicker.

-----

In Barnham when the London train arrives, slowing at the platform, I fail to see the compartment for bikes. I assume it'll be at the rear, therefore board through the rearmost doors, but find usual seats facing each other with tables in the middle. There isn't time to get off and try and find the appropriate storage compartment, so I resort to leaning the bike in the trackside doorway. And just as I've done this and take a seat, the doors slide shut and the train starts moving; when, I notice stickers on the window and seats saying "First Class" and a conspicuous warning notice, something to the effect saying it is a criminal offence to travel in this compartment with a standard ticket, with an on-the-spot find of twenty pounds, or prosecution with a maximum find of a thousand pounds. I'm filled with misgivings and sit and hope when the ticket man comes along, he'll be a reasonable man; though, if he's like the ticket clerk back in Portsmouth, I'm in trouble.

Apart from a few passengers further up, I've the compartment to myself until the next station when a fortysomething man boards clutching a brief case, takes a seat over from me and sets about writing Christmas cards. Outside rows of vivid green sprouting wheat in fields bordered by hedgerow of naked black trees with a backdrop of distant blue hills pass backwards.

The ticket man doesn't come and when the train slows at the platform a few stations ahead, there's an announcement saying that the train will be stopped for ten minutes while two carriage are attached. A chance for me to find the carriage allocated for bikes, which I find near the front. This compartment is crowded and I have to stand with my bike in the doorway.

-----

From Victoria station I cycle south to Pimlico where the nearest hostel listed on Hostel World is located by Chelsea bridge. When I get to the Grosvenor road address, I find a nice old English pub. Inside young travellers lounge around on the sofas, most engrossed in tablets. Seems the very place I want to stay and the Aussie behind the bar serving as reception helps me in with the bike, through to where it would be stored at the rear.

I hand him my passport to check-in and he consults the computer screen, then calls over a woman, who turns out to be the owner. She asks "have you made a reservation under your own name?" No. I haven't made a reservation, I tell her. She explains that for insurance purposes, they can only except reservations made through Hostel World, and gives me a slip with a code thereon to use their computer by the wall to made a reservation. Problem is when I log-on I remember my Credit Card from Norway has just expired in November; and, my UK bank card is only good for ATM use. So I'm screwed. When I explain, she apologetically says it is the same for all backpackers' hostels. I leave and cycle away hoping she is wrong.

The next place listed is in West Two, Westbourne Terrace by Paddington station. I had considered buying a London AZ, but having worked as a cycle-messenger in this city for many years, I consider I know my way around well enough to get from South West One to West Two. Well after fifteen years away, the memory has become a little fuzzy in the interim and I end up a little lost, doing what is known as a dog's leg through Chelsea and South Kensington until finding my way up through Knightsbridge and back on course around Hyde Park.

The story at this hostel is you can only pay for accommodation by credit card. But the guy on reception reneges, excepting cash when I tell him that won't be possible.

Tuesday: I cycle to Euston station and buy my special rail and sail ticket to Dublin, unbeatable value at thirty eight pounds and bikes travel for free. Afterwards I set off cycling for Condor Cycles on Grays Inn Road as I'm in the market for a new saddle, but don't remember the street layout and one-way system round Kings Cross; and as a consequence, end up on another dogleg tour round Bloomsbury. Once at the shop, I don't see what I'm looking for, only Brooks for seventy-five pounds upwards. I wouldn't like to spend that much, so I'll make the scruffy saddle I've got do for now.

Wednesday: I'm liking the sightseeing bike rides but today take along a tourist map from the hostel. From Paddington I head for Swiss Cottage and the famous Abbey Road zebra crossing of Beatle album fame. Fun to see people from all over the world come here and the music transgresses generations as the majority are so young, their parents were only born around the time of the album photo. Then I cross to Camden and have lunch in the market before heading on to the city's financial district for no other reason than nostalgia for when I worked on the bike.

Thursday: my final day. I check out of the hostel at ten and put my panniers in their luguage room, then set off cycling for a last few hours sightseeing. Today I head across Waterloo bridge and along Southwick street to London bridge where I discover The Shard, one of the many tall buildings that have gone up since I worked here. Returning west I stop on Union street at a sandwich shop for a sit-in lunch as it's cold and windy out. A cheese and veg in ciabatta, a muffin and coffee. The total comes to eleven pounds. The most I've ever paid. The rest of the day until it is time to go and catch the train, is spent back at the hostel making use of the wifi, which cost seven pounds for three days, and the subscription doesn't expire until six o'clock.

Nearest London Underground station (The Tube) to where I stayed.

Covent Garden: The tube started life in 1861 and is the World's oldest metro rail system.

I thought this lady in a cafe interesting.

A mat grey day: The London Eye with houses of parliament in the background.

The Thames looking upstream from Vauxhall Bridge toward the low sun of a December afternoon.

Chelsea embankment: Boris Bike station and emblematic red phone box with Battersea power statin in the background.

And a notice with a Beatle song title woven in.

Leadenhall Market is a place of bars and cafes.

The route from Paddington to Euston Station is straightforward, about three miles of Marylebone Road which becomes Euston road at Great Portland St. The Friday evening traffic is bumper-to-bumper, but like other cyclists I fly along the empty bus lane. I arrive at the station with over an hour to spare before my 19.10 departure time. On the concourse a forest of commuters stand looking up at the departures, and the nasal tanoy announcing trains at platforms is constant.

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