Friday 12th February 2016

Thursday

As you may well have noticed by now, but a working day for me is either: spent at home or traveling to either our office in Arhus or to a supplier, or sometimes to visit the customer. Days working from home are generally quiet, spent with the cats with little human contact other than those I speak to on the phone. Blogs of those days are mostly short, have few photos to illustrate them, and for me any such day is like any other. THe first three days of the week were spent working from home, talking to the cats, drinking coffee. Thursday was a day for traveling.

I have been traveling up and down the High Speed line to London since it was first opened to domestic services in June 2009. All but a few rush hour trains, just one I have traveled on, fail to stop at Ebbsfleet on their way to London. Indeed, rush hour trains that do stop there, are met with crowds of passengers trying to squeeze onto an already full train. Now, the sharp-eyed of you will realise that there is a reason I am saying this, and you would be right. Since the distruption in services from Dover, I have been picking up trains to London from Folkestone, getting off at Stratford as before, then retracing my steps on the way back. Thursday, a real treat for me, I was going to travel by Eurostar to Brussels and back, departing and returning via Ebbsfleet.

Looking at the Southeastern website, I could take the eight o'clock train and arrive at Ebbsfleet with just enough time to check in to for the train and maybe grab a coffee. So straightforward, so easy.

Jools dropped me off at twenty five past seven, I get my ticket and there is time to jump onto a train which meant I would have to change at Ashford to catch one that was going to stop at Ebbsfleet. I stood on the twenty minute run upto Ashford, then got out to wait for the next train towards London, as that would stop at Ebbsfleet. No?

Before my train arrived, a 'classic' serice was due in, had to be divided then the two halves head to Folkestone and Ramsgate: it was running late, and the crowds waiting for this were large, and after it was ten minutes late, passengers for London were also filling the platform up. So, the two halves of the train pull out, and within a minute a Javelin pulls in on the same platofrm for London. The platform was so full, I could not see the full destination board, so jump on, and decide to stand again.

The doors closed, and the train eased out of the station, and the guard came on the tannoy to announce that the service was running 'fast' to Statford; which in trainspeak meant it wasn't going to stop until Stratford. There was 40 minutes or so until my train was going to leave for Brissels, and I was going to miss it. I called Eurostar and explained the situation: they were very sorry, but the next service was at 11:15, some two hours later, so much later I would miss the meeting. Or most of it.

To make matter worse, the signal gave out as the train neared Maidstone. We zoomed past Ebbsfleet at 125mph, I could see the platform I should have been standing on in about half an hour. Under the Thames and into Essex, further away from Ebbsfleet. I got a message on my phone, I could catch the quarter to nine train back to Ebbsfleet and maybe just be able to get through security to make the train. But no promises.

So, we entered the tunnel at Dagenham, rushing towards Stratford, hoping I was going to be in time for the connecting train back, but as we pulled into the station, another train was already leaving on the opposite platform. OH NO!

But, once on the platform, I looked on the information board and I saw that the train that should get me to Ebbsfleet in time was not due for ten minutes. So I had a few minutes calm before the train arrived. But once it did, every second would count.

It arrived a few seconds late, I stood looking at the door as we pulled out and entered the long tunnel back into Essex. We flew through the marshes, over the A13 and the massive jams on the M25 before diving under the river and into Ebbsfleet. I ran off the train, up the platform and climbed the escalator leaving fellow passengers training in my wake with just my sear words to calm them. The desk was still open, and the person checking the tickets recognised me, and said, oh, you made it then. I did.

Oddly enough, once through the queue for the security and French customs was calm, and I had to tell myself not to panic. Once through, people were relaxing in the chair, waiting to be called and allowed onto the platform. I saw my friend Matt, and explained my day to him, he laughed. But being at work, I was careful not to distract him. OK, showime, the train is approaching.

We wait on the platform, by the markings for the carriage were had our seats allocated. And waited.

And waited.

It trundled in five minutes late, then just sat in front of us, the doors not opening. At the other end of the platform there was a gaggle of policemen, seems like they were removing a troublesome passenger, who had done well in the 12 minutes from London had made sch nuisance to be arrested.

We were allowed on, and I found a double seat free, so sat there, and slumped, all the stress leaking out of me leaving me like a partially deflated balloon. The train pulled out, retracing my steps down to Ashford, where we took the fast lines and the station below passed like a toy train set. We were rattling on at full speed, and as the buffet was in the next carriage, I went along for a coffee, only for it to look like a throwback to the old BR days; looking very tired and a harassed lone lady serving, making coffee and warming snacks up. In fact the who Eurostar experience was a bit like that, tired: the seats and decor were also tired, freyed at the edges, and looking very much like the 22 years old these units are.

I get my coffee and sandwich, and return to my seat as we pass by Dollands Moor and the Tunnel depot. Into the blackness of the tunnel we go, traveling much quicker than the car transporters we usually take. Out the other side into bright sunshine, as the weave our way through the maze of lines around Calais to Lille and then up to Brussels. It is always amazing to see how land, just 25 miles from home is so different, small villages, country roads connecting them, larger towns having freight marshaling yards, both feeling and looking continental.

We arrived in Brussels from Lille in about 40 minutes, a quick run and so much easier than driving, that's for sure. Once off, all I had to do now was find my way to Leuven, should be easy. But then the thought occured to me, that maybe there were two stations or more in the town, and I had no idea how to find out. Looking at the destination board, I see I had just missed a direct train, and then next one would not leave until 1. But I thought there might be another, which is why some nine minutes later I am on a rattly old train, worried I might be going in the wrong direction. I tried to ask the gentleman in the seat opposite if I was on the right train. I have no idea he said yes or no to be honest, but he did smile from under his impressive mustache.

Once through Brussels Nord, the train ran non-stop and quick to Leuven, I checked to make sure it was Leuven central. It looked like it was, so I got off, followed the crowds to the exit then looked for something familiar. Across the main road, then following the signs to the centre of the town, where I hoped something would look familiar.

I saw the City Hall in front of me, so if nothing else, from there I knew the way, so I relaxed and began to look at those walking past me. I cut through to the pedestrianised street, then along to alleyway I needed to cut down to the offices. Phew, made it with ten minutes to spare. without the half hour delay on the train, I would have been in plenty of time. I ring the intercom and am let in.

Once the meeting is done, we go to the main square round the cathedral to find a bar that accepts credit cards so we could have a beer and a bite to eat. We find a place and we order Leffe Royales all round along with a sharing basket of friend croquettes, well, we are almost in Holland. The beer and food are so good we order the same again before my boss and I walk to the station where he catches a train to the airport and I try to get back to Brussels, getting off the at the right station, as there were several. Just to confuse me further, Brussels Zuid is also called Bruxelles Midi, what is a poor boy to do?

I get on an express, find a seat and watch the City slip by as disk falls It is rather beautiful I have to say. And this is work, remember.

I arrive at Midi with an hour before check in, I find a place to eat; just a bagette and a Coke, but enough for a while. I fancy another Leffe, but the bar in the station is crowded. I see an exit and some small neon signs lighting up the night beyond; could one be a bar perchance? Indeed it it, a typical continental place, lots of choice and atmosphere. I order my Leffe and watch the soaks at the bar laughing and making jokes of the poor barman. I have no idea what was being said, but barflys are the same the world over.

I go to check in and am through into the waiting area quickly enough. We wait until ten minutes before departure before being allowed onto the train. Some have a coffee, other get a meal, but its all with plastic cuttlery and looks poor fare to me. And just a few minutes walk away there are fine local places to eat and make merry.

I get a window seat, facing backwards, so as the train pulls out I see the bright lights fading away into the night. We pass by more marshaling yards, stations and other lines branching off. We leave the suburbs behind and enter the countryside, and all is dark. I do some work, preparing for yet more meetings in the morning.

Through Lille, Calais where very few get on, then past the terminal on the French side of the Tunnel. All along the line are police vehicles on patrol with lights flashing, patrolling alongside the new triple width barbed wire fence. It feels like a prison, not nice in keeping refugees out. People who are just looking for a better life. But it is what it is, I guess.

Up through Folkestone and Ashford before slowing down and spitting me out at Ebbsfleet. I wonder how long I would have to wait for a train back down the line. Again. 6 minutes is the answer, so I go down onto the platform to wait. I call Jools and she will meet me back at Folkestone.

It is half nine by the time I step off the last train, Jools is waiting outside. She takes me to Burger King where I order a Whopper without tomatoes for supper. Dirty food, but good. It hits the spot. We arrive back home at just gone ten, I have a brew, then collapse to bed, tired as I have ever been. Or so it seemed.