Tuesday 5th June 2018

And here I am on my travels once again, and travelling from Heathrow means adding so much travelling time, that even though I was going to Hamburg, it was going to take most of the day. The rub is, I could have left at about nine, but that would mean getting a taxi to the station, so more expense. So instead, Jools dropped me off at Martin Mill at seven, so I could catch a later train to London, and then have a wander round Kings Cross before going to Paddington to catch the express to the airport.

A calm but cloudy morning, and with a hint of rain in the air, which got more pronounced on the platform, so like others, I sheltered under the awning once I had my ticket, waiting for the arrival of the train.

It pulls in and we climb onboard, all choosing at least a double seat each. This is the first time I have caught this later train in ages, which soon fill up to the point that once we leave Folkestone it is pretty much full, but at Ashford, a second train is attached, and so the influx of many more passengers doesn't happen. The other thing is that this service did not stop at Ebbsfleet, so we cruise on the avoiding lane at close to 100mph, diving under the river into Essex.

As I was going to Heathrow, I stay on the train into St Pancras, where I wait until everyone else had got off, so I can saunter down the platform to the gates and not be crushed.

My hope was to see some of the new untils about to enter service at Kings Cross next door, so I walk over and check the eight main platforms only to find that despite it being quarter past eight, the station looked pretty much deserted, although in the concourse, hundreds waited their platform announcements. What there is though, is a dinosaur. Not a real one, but something advertising the new Jurassic Park, or Word film, so I take a few shots, whilst nearby the statue of Sir Nigel Gresley looks on, unamused.

Southeastern have been running trains into St Pancras for nearly 9 years now, and from where trains exit the tunnel, you can see a disused Underground Station, so I thought I should go for a wander to snap it before the gentrification either razes the station or it is surrounded by new condos and office blocks.

I walk through the new buildings and converted warehouses of the old LNER goods yards, now swish restaurants, bars and a huge Waitrose. There are art schools too, and people in suits rushing to offices I am sure tastefully located in redesigned metals shops or carriage workshops.

I come to the canal, and walk beside that for a bit, past Gasholder Pak until I come to a bridge, climbing up to the road that crosses it, and then to the junction at the end, all the while passing a line of non-moving traffic, odd that a fat bloke like me can outpace cars in London. I turn left at the junction and find the old tube station on the left, not part of a builders yard, surrounded by pallets of cement and the such. I take shots through the railings and retrace my steps back to the canal, walk on the tow path back to Kings Cross for another check of the platforms for Azumas, then dive into the underground station to catch a ride to Paddington.

The line runs through the oldest part of the network, bot Great Portland Street and Baker Street stations are wonders of Victorian design, and is a great place for photographers with the way daylight reaches the platforms. But I travel on to Paddington.

Paddington after the rush hour is a quiet place, quieter than Kings Cross and St Pancras for sure, even though express services leave for Heathrow every ten minutes or so. This is where trains leave London for Bristol and the West Country, built by Brunel, and is still a wonder with its glorious glazed roof, looking splendid after refurbishment.

On one of the main platforms, a new class 800 is being prepared for a service to Cardiff, I was tempted to jump on to be honest. But I stayed to take pictures instead, and as the final passengers rushed to get on, on a neighbouring platform, a 40 year old HST left, all roaring engines and fumes filling the air. Whereas the 800 glided out and quickly picked up pace. All seemingly an improvement, but due the fact that wiring is not complete and some has now been cancelled, these are bi-mode trains and are carrying diesel engines and fuel tans to allow them to complete their journey, and out of electric mode are no faster than the trains there are to replace.

I have a coffee, wait around some more, but then catch a train at 11 to take me to the airport, £22 for a twenty minute trip, but it does the job and the company are paying.

I had spoken to a barrier guard on the station, and she was excited as Flying Scotsman was due to arrive in an hour or so, which meant I knew that as we zoomed through Southall, I should be able to get a glimpse of the locomotive, which is what happened. I saw a long rake of red carriages, and at the far end was the steaming, smoking beast, but in flash it was gone, and I knew I was the only one in the carriage who saw this scene from the past.

As I have no bag to check in, so I go to departures, show my PDF of my ticket at the barrier, went to security, was through that in a couple of minutes, and was all done. I had two hours to wait before boarding time, so I went to a restaurant for lunch, something Japanese, beef with fried noodles and pickles. Very nice, and again the company paid.

That done, I had half an hour to kill, so I go to World of Whiskies, where I sample a couple of Jura's newest malts, by which tim the gate was showing, so I saunter over and just in time as those us us with privilege cards can board, so I do, slumping into my seat, and closing my eyes.

The plane fills, there are two jolly Germans in the seats next to me, and once we are in the air, the three of us snore loudly all the way over the North Sea. I walk to see scattered fluffy little clouds far below, making it look rather idyllic.

We drop from cruising height and go round and round before getting onto final approach, and we get closer to the ground, and.

BANG

We thump onto the ground, wakes everyone up, but there seems to be no damage, other than our nerves.

Welcome to Germany.

It is a glorious afternoon, the sun beats down from a clear blue sky, and one by one we make our way off the plane, through the maze of airport corridors and escalators until we reach immigration. he policeman looks at my British passport, then at me, then returns the passport without a word.

I'm in.

I walk through baggage reclaim: I have no bags other than my rucksack, I leave arrivals, go down the passageway lined with shops; I think about having a coffee, but think I can manage without. Down into the S Bahn station, get a ticket and get onto a waiting train.

Despite it being 29 degrees, a fellow passenger goes round closing all the windows lest we catch our death. The train rattles out of the tunnel, then meanders through the northern suburbs until we pull into the Hauptbahnhf, where I get off. I take one shot of the near empty trainshed and walk to the northern side of the station, knowing where I was going, as, believe it or not, I had planned ahead.

Last time I was here I saw signs to the Hafencity; harbour city, and thought that sounded interesting, so set of to explore it more. Or some.

I walked down two sets of subways before walking past an art school, under some railway lines then down a main road, or beside it. And from a Vatenfall petrol station I saw the view I wanted: a canal lined with 5 storey brick warehouses, and an island of pretty much the same. It is a fine view, I take shots but there is a bridge in the way, so go to the bridge and take shots from there.

I walk down the side road leading to yet another bridge to the island, where I suspect there is a place where I might get a beer.

The warehouses are very grand, well built, and now an artistic community, all theatres and acting and dancing schools.

I reach the bridge, walk over and find a very nice restaurant: I ask if I can sit outside and drink a beer? They say yes, and point me to a wicker sofa with a soft mattress. I order a large weissbier, and sit marveling at my good fortune, that for one day, this counts as work. As I drink the beer, people are arriving home from work in the warehouses converted to housing, opening doors that stretch from floor to ceiling, to let the air through. I might be a country boy at heart, but a place there would suit me very well indeed.

I watch people arrive and order food, its too early for me, but always room for another beer. I watch on a neighbouring table, a group of MENSA members try to order a round of drinks that is satisfactory to all of them.

I have drunk the second beer before they have all ordered dinner, I leave them to it. I walk over the bridge and down to the next crossing, but my feet are on fire. I wonder if you can flag taxis down here like you can in London: I try.

A taxi stops.

Ich habe fuss schmertze, I say explaining that my feet ached.

He laughed.

Crown Plaza I say, and off we go.

That will be €12 he says in perfect German. Have 20 I say. He even writes me a receipt.

I check in and go to my cool room for a lay down and listen to the radio.

An hour later I go to the restaurant and have spargel suppe, spargel mit schnitzel und fries. And mehr weissbier. I am stuffed, but I thought I deserved it.

Back to my room to call Jools, have a shower and try to find something to watch on TV. The Simpsons in German wasn't funny after the second sentence Bart says. So I switch it off, and at half ten, I am done. Nearly dark.outside, and a day of meetings and more travel in the morning. I need my beauty sleep.