Now, I am aware that this is not the pastime of choice for the average person, but having been stuck on a rusty Russian, sorry Kazakh, tub for the best part of the month; the thought of seeing the English countryside in it's springtime pomp did appeal. And seeing one of the most spectacular stretches of track as the main line to Cornwall goes along the seawall at Dawlish was too good to turn down.
And catching up with a friend was a good thing too, I must add.
Of course, the reality of our plans is that to get from Dover to Devon and back in a day meant an early train to London and a late one back. And so it was quarter past four that I hauled my weary bones out of the bed and almost fell downstairs to get ready.
We joined the commuters on the 06:15 train from Ashford into Charing Cross, and as we stopped at stations nearer London, the train filled up; so that by the time we were rushing through the suburbs, the walls of the carriages were bulging with the bodies forced in.
Once at Waterloo, we waited for our train by buying everything bagels with cream cheese along with a gallon, or so it seemed, of tea, before taking our seats and then heading south west through leafy suburbs and then into the countryside.
Soon enough, we had the carriage to ourselves as we passed through ever smaller towns and villages; Wiltshire, Dorset gave way to Devon, and the coast was then in view.
We changed trains in Exeter, and headed out along the River Ex estuary, until it came to the coast, and in time we came to Dawlish, and climbed out with a local WI group, who had entertained with gossip as we passed through villages, enlightening us on local relationships.
And there before us, was the tracks, the pretty village spread along the coast and up the overlooking hill. As trains roared passed, we snapped away taking many, many shots.
We went to a pub for lunch, and sat on the balcony with the tracks less than 25m away, and so could continue to marvel at Mr Brunel's brilliance of building a railway line through a fishing village cum seaside resort.
Of course, at some point, we were going to have to retrace our steps, or tracks, and head back home. Sadly the train from Dawlish was the one with the rowdiest parts of Teinmouth Technical College, who took every seat on the two coach train, and so we got a multitude of ringtones, latest slang and who was 'shagging' who and where. They got off at the villages we had heard of the gossip about, us, secure in the knowledge that many of the children could be fruits of affairs we had heard rumours about.
One thing I did learn whilst we waited for the train back to London was that there is only so much tea one can drink in one day, before one reaches what could be described as the tea event horizon, and it stops to taste of tea, but you still crave it. And another digestive to dunk perhaps crosses your mind again.
Darkness came before we reached London, and our eyes had long given up trying to stay open. We waited for our train to east Kent, I couldn't face another tea, but baulked at £3 for a smoothie or £1.60 for a small bottle of water. I stumped up £2 for water that claimed to have a precise number of raspberries and blueberries in it.
We arrived back in Ashford just as Thursday gave way to Friday; at least the car knew its way back along the M20 and then onto Dover.
Tomorrow, I promised myself, I would lay in bed, read, sleep, but there would be no trains. But, I got the pictures.
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