24/10/25 Leaving London

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We walked through Chelsea streets to the South Kensington railway station to catch the Tube to London Euston. 

Lugging two bags is not my favourite pastime.

Chelsea streetscape.

Front yard art.

The public announcements at London Euston Station implored travellers to exercise decorum and dignity: "Please walk through the station. Please do not run." 

The trouble was no one, including British Rail, knew from which of the 15+ platforms their train would leave and everyone knew, courtesy of the PA system, that the train would leave on time and latecomers be damned and definitely left behind.

A crowd gathered on the concourse under the display boards, everyone watching as the minutes ticked down to departure times. When a platform number clicked up a river of people ran for their train. Sometimes two numbers came up at the same time, and two human rivers created whirlpools and eddies awash with runaway luggage, dropped sandwiches, and desperation.

Our platform number came up with 8 minutes to spare and we leapt into the rush. Roger and Steve forged ahead and I followed close behind, deliberately crashing into people who threatened to bump into my charges. At the end of a very long platform we tumbled into our carriage with only moments to spare. The gods of seat allocation had decreed that I would travel backwards without a window. I could have wept.

First world problems.

Instead I went to the cafe car and ordered cappuccinos and brownies. The barista hailed from Huddersfield and was excited to hear that I was going there. "No one ever visits Huddersfield!" Maybe that's because they don't get to the train in time.

"I'm not a real barista. I just push buttons!"

England flashed past outside. I contorted myself and took photos from my sliver of window.


The train ran late, connections were missed. We reorganised travel on the fly. Eventually we landed at Manchester Airport and wandered forlornly from Train Station to Bus Station to Terminal 1 before washing up at a tiny bus shelter in a forgotten car park corner, waiting for a shuttle to our rental car.

Wandering through the terminal looking for our shuttle stop.

Thirty cold minutes later we sallied forth on Great Britain's road network, thanking our lucky stars that we only had to travel 3 miles to our hotel. Not that miles meant anything as measurement units anyway but at least we were driving on the correct (aka left) side of the road.

Our hotel (sorry, lodge) was part of and directly behind the Coach and Four, which was doing a roaring trade. In the shared courtyard two old men were in the process of building a roaring fire in an outdoor fire place and a steady stream of customers arrived for dinner at the pub. I thought of joining them but went next door to Sainsburys to forage instead.

That was it for the day really.

We haven't had a door for a while: this was from our walk to South Kensington.



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