4th August

4^th August

Out going Journey:

Time	Start	Destination	Arrive
11.41	Sheffield Stn.	Doncaster	21.11
12.21	Doncaster	Peterborough	13.07
13.37	Peterborough	Thetford	14.37

Return Journey:

Time	Start	Destination	Arrive
12.47	Thetford	Ely	13.17
13.27	Ely	Peterborough	14.06
14.19	Peterborough	Doncaster	15.09
15.33	Doncaster	Sheffield	16.03

Above is the original plan of action, but as per usual for, it’s not going to happen quite like that. It is, so you know, a list of train times on a journey which is going to put me even further out of pocket than I already am. I missed the very first train, but think I might be on time if we reach/leave Peterborough at the time shown above. I have the uncanny hunch that I am. We are 10 minutes out of Nottingham, rolling through a small town. Gliding I should say, the track is smooth and the engines aren’t revving. So the train and tracks themselves seem strangely quiet.

There is a gust of muffled thunderous wind, and a purple blur rips past the scene.

It would be pretentious and ignorant of me to pretend I'm the first writer ever to sit on a train and write. Far better wordsmiths than me have conveyed their thoughts and feelings to a page or screen. I can’t give a more impressive account of the journey process. It’s like a performance, or a movie. The landscape, trees, fields, villages and occasional cities sweep past. It’s an impassive scene on a stage with no surface story to read from its many brief parts. The viewer sees only what they want to see.

Suddenly all external light is cut off. We are in a tunnel. The performance enters a scene-change, the audience’s ears pop. As light re-emerges, we are coming into a small town, Grantham. The driver tells us we are approaching Grantham. Then he starts to tell us what services we could catch from the upcoming station. Between these he gives long pauses, as if thinking up what is coming next. It seems as if he’s musing on places to go, as the silences get longer and the services more like sporadically interjected names. 15 minutes out of Grantham, and another tunnel swallows us. Its black jaws press down around windows and ears. It’s only small but pleasantly uncomfortable.

I have a “Big one”. That’s a make of Lucozade drink in case you were wondering. I'm wondering how much liquid I can drink before the soft tilts and vibrations of the train send the bottle falling over. So far most of the liquid is gone, merely two mouthfuls remain, but my big one stands up straight and strong!

A gaggle has sat next to me, their full breed occupies about 7 seats. They are at odds about something, the stress of a holiday perhaps? There is a very young cygnet with them that occasionally talks crap. Next to me is a young girl that seems quite quiet. The king and queen and girl are talking about a mobile phone that seems to have gone missing on the last day of their holiday, apparently room service came in during breakfast and took it.

Another streak, this one blue, flies past. It’s wind filled thunder seems more violent, yet still muffled. Then shortly after it, as if in echo, a smaller streak thunders past, trying maybe, to keep up with the first. We approach Peterborough; the driver starts to ramble again. We must be heading towards a corner of the country now, as his rambling place names seem much more vague and limited than before.

The eye in the sky burns in blue water, so hot that most surface steam has been fried away. The eye sees most things, but not behind my pen, whose discourse lands in high contrast to its plain white bedding. I've been writing for much more than an hour now, it’s time to stop and take stock.

Don’t worry; there is of course a reason for all this. It’s Ash_’s (from university) barbeque today. I'm on my way to her house in Norfolk to go and have a wicked evening, meet some of her friends and family, and rediscover some of my flatmates from Bede Hall (Dom, Joh_ and Jos_). My wallet has been raped, but never mind it’ll be worth it! Then tomorrow go back to Sheffield. In train fares alone, I'm paying about 2 days wages just to get there and back again.

It’s also been exactly one year since I wrote the first words of this journey. Extraordinarily, both this entry, and the first have both been handwritten, by pen. I couldn’t have imagined being in the place I am now, last year. Although to be honest I would give anything (metaphorically) to go back and re-live that year. I'm not going to go into great histrionics about it, simply go back and re-read if you like, and rediscover again, the best year of my life.