Wednesday 13th January 2016

Tuesday

Just because a place is further north than where you started the journey, does not mean it will be colder or snowier. Sometimes, however, it is.

The trip north began with Jools dropping me off in Folkestone, so I could join the throng getting on at Central for the train up to London. Being an hour later than the train from last week, I was surprised as to how crowded the train was, and that was before we got to the west station, where even more folks crowded on.

Outside it was getting light, and it was going to be a splendid day, or so it seemed. No delays on the run into London, and I was in no hurry as I had nearly 5 hours before my flight. I was last off the train, walked the length of St Pancras to the Underground station, where I joined the rest trying to squeeze onto the platform then onto a train heading west.

It was packed, and when the train arrived it was already full, but I managed to get on before the doors closed, so we trundled off towards Baker Street and then Paddington. I know which platform the train is leaving from, and I have a ticket, so I walk to the platform and get on the next train. What annoys me is that despite paying a premier price for the Express, we get bombarded by ads all the way through the journey. Is this right? Can we not just have some quiet?

For a change I had decided not to have check in luggage, and just carry what I needed. So I got my boarding pass and went through security, and was on the other side looking for a place to eat. Most were crowdrd, but there was a new place open: Gordon Ramsey’s Plane Food. It was almost empty, and no more expensive than other places, so, why not?

Was it any good? Well, pancakes, syrup, bacon and coffee is hard to mix up, so it was OK, but worth the hype? Fuck no, Gordon!

I have a second coffee, read some, then have a wander round the shops, looking at the ten grand bottles of whisky, before I wander off to find the gate and wait.

I use my business card to get on the flight early, and make myself comfortable as the plane fills up, there is the usual fantic searching for space for the latecomer’s bags, but soon we are all one, strapped in and ready to go.

Into the air and into clouds pretty quick, which is the way the whole flight. With the exception as we fly over Lowestoft, I look down and through clouds pass and I can see the River Yare in Yarmouth, and see the very warehouse I used to bag up caustic soda some eight years back. How I have changed since then. The view passes, and all I see is clouds until we are on final, and then all I can see is snow. Lots of snow.

On the ground, we taxi, and as I have to wait for Henrik, I am in no hurry and so am last off the plane again. There is a mix up at immigration, and I find I am in the line for those requiring visas. But I am let out, go through the self scanners and now just have to find the car hire place. I get the keys, but I have 90 minutes to kill before Henrik arrives, so I get some money out, then go for a coffee at Starbucks. And wait.

Then wait some more.

At just before six, Henrik comes through security, we shake hands and walk to the car, program the sat nav then try to get out of the car park, which takes ten minutes, but we are on the motorway, in the dark and hungry.

For 90 minutes we drive along motorways though Olso, past shopping malls, factories and through tunnels bored through mountains and hills. The traffic got lighter, and the night darker. Into the country and still we plunge through endless tunnels, over bridges and through snow covered-forests. After 90 minutes we turn off and are driving down a twisty road, through thick snow-covered forest up and down hills, with the road having a good two inches of snow and ice on them. Man, this is exciting.

Through slumbering towns, up and down more hills, but after three hours of this driving we arrive in Skien, another sleepy town, but larger than the others we had passed through. The sat nav takes us to the hotel, we unload, check in but find they do no food.

But there is talk of a steak place called the Longhorn. We set off, wrapped up, in search of beef.

We find it on a side street, order Mexican spiced steaks, beers and sit down to chat with another colleague who had arrived. We were the only customers in the place, some 30 tables or so, felt quite odd, but hey, the beer was good. As was the steak.

Back to the hotel down quiet streets, decorated with eight inches of snow, compacted down to sheets of ice an inch thick in places, but back to the hotel, to the room and some sleep. With the sound of the plough going past each hour, scraping the road and waking everyone in the hotel up.