03 Jun 1985, Posted by Scott An Chora in Travelogue, No Comments.
06/03 Oxfornd, England
One cold morning, while we were huddling on a train platform like lost ghosts in a graveyard, a young man with a weathered face wandered up to the two of us. It looked as if he had been working the local mines and hadn’t showered in some time but approached us with a smile anyway. I offered him the remaining half of a hash joint we had just put out. He was so overly thankful we felt a little guilty we didn’t have more to give. In a way he represented many of the faces we’d seen over the past few days. We bought him a cup of coffee and traded words. I once read somewhere that suffering was an illusion, caused by the clinging to objects and not taking every moment at its fullest. I don’t feel this applies when you’re hungry, truly hungry! I once was told that man asked God, “Why don’t you sent help”. “I sent you”, God replied. When my day drifts into the night I see a clear picture of myself staring back at me from a dark window of my train.
We entered a fairly crowded train and shared a compartment with a pair of elderly gentlemen. Occasionally our eyes would meet and one of the two gentlemen and I would share a smile. His gestures kinda made me feel as if I was his only grandson, or perhaps he was reminiscing about his own youth. As if his mind filled up with kind thoughts. This gentleman’s companion was aged beyond his ability to carry a sentence. When he managed to squeeze out a single word, we could see his remaining energy drain from his body. When the train came to a stop, he assisted his companion to his feet, helped him navigate his way through the car and down the steps to the platform. Jim noticed that one of the exiting gentlemen had left his umbrella behind on the seat and made a quick attempt to catch him. He explained to Jim that he wasn’t at his destination. He was only assisting his friend off the train and explained that he had a few more stops down the road before he would at his destination. My mind began to wander onto thoughts about aging. How old he looked. Obviously he was declining physically, pale, thin, not enough meat to hide his bones and veins. Even his wardrobe, though in perfect condition, had the look of a museum exhibit. When we reached his stop, I stood up and helped him to his feet. He turned, embraced me and then surprised me with a kiss on my cheek. “Cheerio” he replied. I’m not accustomed to being kissed by men, so I can only image the surprise on my face. He couldn’t have caught me any more off guard.
We headed north through the middle of Wales. I don’t recall ever looking out from the train’s window and not seeing somebody waving back at us. They were always giving me the impression that this was their home and they were proud of it. I like the fact that I’m traveling through their backyards. It reminded me of the first time I rode in an airplane and how my eyes were glued looking out the windows in complete awe. Afraid of looking away for fear I might miss some important detail. I would be sad if these non-commercial train runs disappeared. At the rear of every car had a flier taped to the door, “Help Us Save Our Train”.
As the hills in the distance darkened, we meandered to the shadows toward the rear of the train and lit up. Slowly the weather followed. I had been doing too much smoking and felt a bit of a sore throat coming on, probably coming down with something too. By the time we pulled into our destination the rain was pounding the cobblestones and trapping enough water to make us jump between puddles. We ran into the first B&B we could locate and before I asked if they had rooms available, I asked if they had a pair of aspirin. My head was pounding from within and combined with my sore throat it was going to be a rough night.
B&Bs are to me a gift from heaven. I always felt as if I was visiting relatives I haven’t seen in years. These settings can turn in such unexpected ways. Arguments can breakout behind closed doors, I could hear secrets, or one can end up sitting at the breakfast table with a little sister looking up with puppy eyes. I met real people with no reasons to hide and willing to open up their homes to travelers like ourselves. This was also one of the most productive and informative ways to discover the nuances of the local area. They usually appreciated their surroundings and enjoyed sharing their secrets. We found a lot of good pubs this way. Stepping from cobble stone to cobble stone, crossing bridges, everything I saw around me, made me feel as if I had traveled back in time. Even the locals contributed to a mood that somehow made the storybook from my youth come to life.
