Post by emma on Aug 3, 2008 16:18:44 GMT
i did this on a train when i had no book and no newspaper and nothing to do except write.
Many of the hills around Swansea have that shaved, stubbly quality like a Mohican haircut. As the train pulls into the station, it begins to rain. The station is bleak enough for the weary traveller without added insult from the weather. The quest to get back into Mid Wales is oftentimes an exercise in futility and exasperation. The distances from Llandrindod to Cardiff can usually be covered by car in around eighty minutes. How, then, is it humanly possible for it to take three-and-half hours by train? The mind boggles at such a disparity in time. Fortunately, for the city, Cardiff just about merits the effort involved in such an excursion (although ‘trek’ might be a more appropriate word). Aboard the Shrewsbury train, some passengers chatter away happily through the medium of Welsh, whilst the rain continues to teardrop down the windows of the carriage. It is as though Swansea’s own personal weather system is as disheartened and depressed as the fatigued passenger.
At last, the engine screams into life, and the train pushes off from the sidings. The heating like an incubator begins to pump out stale dusty heat, and the passengers stare resolutely at the floor, in an effort not to acknowledge the dismal, watery display outside. Thus far, the noise from mobile phones has not shattered the cocoon effect inside the carriage, although the passengers must shout to make themselves heard above the engine. So unlike the Cardiff-Swansea train… new, clean, but sterile and inexperienced. This single-carriage champion of the Heart of Wales line must be a good three decades old by now, outstripping your faithful narrator by ten years. All the carpeting and upholstery (if indeed so ostentatious a word can reasonably be applied) has absorbed dirt, sweat, and God knows what else, over the years. Yes, the tray tables are too small; the overhead storage compartments, grey and open-plan. In a barefaced ‘up yours’ to global warming, the carriage windows hang permanently ajar, while the radiators at your feet belch out hot air. Chewing gum, empty Fanta bottles, old women and young teenagers: all are completely unavoidable on this journey; as inevitable as overpriced sandwiches and a shockingly poor selection of books at the train station shop.
Not to mention no newspapers. My own fault for failing to plan ahead, perhaps. But when compared to Birmingham New Street (the Mecca of train stations, you might say) it is impossible not to feel disappointed with the lack of imagination and effort.
The weather – the rain – shows no sign of easing or letting-up. Clouds the colour of a hangover hover stubbornly over the railway line, dribbling, spitting, occasionally urinating over the unfortunate passengers down below. They may be safe and dry inside their toilet-roll-on-wheels, but they are affected by the weather nonetheless. A short train journey is a pleasant thing: a trip, a change, a brief alight onto the original mode of public transportation, before departing at your chosen destination, head still reeling at the efficiency of it all. Anything above ninety minutes, however, is tedium itself. Unless you are sitting in a deserted carriage – with some kind of electronic entertainment or literary masterpiece to absorb your attention – the dull monotony will soon eliminate any wide-eyed wonderment you may have experienced in the early stages, paving the way for sleep or sullen contemplation.
The worst kind of passenger, undoubtedly, is not the loud mobile phone conversationist. It is The Stinker: the passenger with the unexplainable odour, somewhere between wet dog, sweat and feet, in shudderingly close quarters, surrounded by similarly odiferous chums. To be avoided at all costs.
Many of the hills around Swansea have that shaved, stubbly quality like a Mohican haircut. As the train pulls into the station, it begins to rain. The station is bleak enough for the weary traveller without added insult from the weather. The quest to get back into Mid Wales is oftentimes an exercise in futility and exasperation. The distances from Llandrindod to Cardiff can usually be covered by car in around eighty minutes. How, then, is it humanly possible for it to take three-and-half hours by train? The mind boggles at such a disparity in time. Fortunately, for the city, Cardiff just about merits the effort involved in such an excursion (although ‘trek’ might be a more appropriate word). Aboard the Shrewsbury train, some passengers chatter away happily through the medium of Welsh, whilst the rain continues to teardrop down the windows of the carriage. It is as though Swansea’s own personal weather system is as disheartened and depressed as the fatigued passenger.
At last, the engine screams into life, and the train pushes off from the sidings. The heating like an incubator begins to pump out stale dusty heat, and the passengers stare resolutely at the floor, in an effort not to acknowledge the dismal, watery display outside. Thus far, the noise from mobile phones has not shattered the cocoon effect inside the carriage, although the passengers must shout to make themselves heard above the engine. So unlike the Cardiff-Swansea train… new, clean, but sterile and inexperienced. This single-carriage champion of the Heart of Wales line must be a good three decades old by now, outstripping your faithful narrator by ten years. All the carpeting and upholstery (if indeed so ostentatious a word can reasonably be applied) has absorbed dirt, sweat, and God knows what else, over the years. Yes, the tray tables are too small; the overhead storage compartments, grey and open-plan. In a barefaced ‘up yours’ to global warming, the carriage windows hang permanently ajar, while the radiators at your feet belch out hot air. Chewing gum, empty Fanta bottles, old women and young teenagers: all are completely unavoidable on this journey; as inevitable as overpriced sandwiches and a shockingly poor selection of books at the train station shop.
Not to mention no newspapers. My own fault for failing to plan ahead, perhaps. But when compared to Birmingham New Street (the Mecca of train stations, you might say) it is impossible not to feel disappointed with the lack of imagination and effort.
The weather – the rain – shows no sign of easing or letting-up. Clouds the colour of a hangover hover stubbornly over the railway line, dribbling, spitting, occasionally urinating over the unfortunate passengers down below. They may be safe and dry inside their toilet-roll-on-wheels, but they are affected by the weather nonetheless. A short train journey is a pleasant thing: a trip, a change, a brief alight onto the original mode of public transportation, before departing at your chosen destination, head still reeling at the efficiency of it all. Anything above ninety minutes, however, is tedium itself. Unless you are sitting in a deserted carriage – with some kind of electronic entertainment or literary masterpiece to absorb your attention – the dull monotony will soon eliminate any wide-eyed wonderment you may have experienced in the early stages, paving the way for sleep or sullen contemplation.
The worst kind of passenger, undoubtedly, is not the loud mobile phone conversationist. It is The Stinker: the passenger with the unexplainable odour, somewhere between wet dog, sweat and feet, in shudderingly close quarters, surrounded by similarly odiferous chums. To be avoided at all costs.