Travel Book Extract for August 2011
CHAPTER ONE - ST PANCRAS AND AWAY: ‘MEET ME BY BETJEMAN’
It’s a hot August morning at a bus depot in south London. There’s no bus in sight; not a single vehicle, not even a driver lurking in a corner smoking a fag. Minutes tick by as the sun bakes down on a forlorn concourse dotted with blackened pieces of bubblegum and strewn with fast-food wrappers. A sign informs us (I have been joined by a kindly elderly woman with a tartan shopping trolley) that the service runs ‘about every 6–10 minutes’.
We wait at least a quarter of an hour before a bus arrives, driven at a rate of knots by a bald, expressionless man, his copy of the Daily Star wedged on the dashboard. The bus skids to a stop. We board. Then it zooms away, flashing past suburban houses, as though there’s some sort of emergency. The kindly elderly woman, gripping a rail tightly, glances at me and raises her eyebrows, seeming to suggest: ‘Par for the course.’ Which, we know only too well, it definitely is.
And so I make it to my local Tube station, where a humid carriage full of tourists awaits. An enormous American sitting next to me is flicking through a London guidebook. She says to her companion: ‘We godda go see Lee-ces-ter Square.’ An unshaven fellow opposite is wearing a ‘Prague Pub Crawl’ T-shirt. He looks queasy, as though he’s been up all night; perhaps he’s just come back from Heathrow after a stag do.
A woman with a child who has been crying slaps her, inducing yet more tears (and glances of disapproval from fellow passengers). It’s becoming stiflingly hot as the carriage fills and the train rolls onwards to South Kensington – as though there’s not enough air to go round. Football supporters with Chelsea and Manchester United shirts join us, bringing an aroma of lager to the mix: it’s the morning of their Community Shield match. Is there going to be some kind of brawl? There isn’t. They’re too interested in studying the Tube map, discussing which pubs to visit next.
A typical London journey: delays, discomforts, dirt, overcrowding, with a bit of tension thrown in. But then the escalator rises into St Pancras International station, and everything changes. On the way to the ticket office, I pass a stylish ‘Sourced Market’, all gleaming tiles, spotlights and shiny display cabinets, with baskets piled high with cucumbers, plum tomatoes, apricots and organic potatoes. There are stacks of fresh loaves, salmon fillets, couscous lunches and pesto salads, and counters filled with tubs of cheeses, salamis and chutneys. Beyond this, on a corner turning into the main run of shops, whitewashed wooden tables are waiting for customers to try out a selection of organic wines lined on neat shelves. Even though we’re inside, it’s light and airy.
Sophisticated-looking folk in sunglasses are sipping espressos at a cafe across the way; possibly French or Italian, judging by their casual espresso- drinking ways. I walk on by, taking in an expensive chocolate shop, a Thomas Pink store (shirts £59), Rituals (purveyors of ‘upmarket body toiletries’), and a florist selling £20 bunches of flowers. Everything seems well-to-do, smart and far removed from the rest of London. No ‘Prague Pub Crawl’ T-shirts, football supporters, piles of litter or sense of slumming it here. I collect our tickets from a machine without a queue opposite a Body Shop, and then take another escalator to the level of the platforms.
Tales From The Fast Trains by Tom Chesshyre is published by Summersdale (paperback; £8.99). It is also available through amazon.com and all good booksellers.
