Saturday 13th April 2019

My parents too me on public transport all the time. They had no choice, we had no car.

We would leave for the station half an hour before the train, packing what we needed for the day, which was just ourselves. We took no camera, no food no drink. We just travelled.

Even if we went to that London, we would be expected to sit on the trains for up to three hours with no food or drink. And we survived.

If we did get thirsty, and one was available, we might have something bought from the buffet.

Nowadays, parents with their darling Harry or Hermione, may have food and drink in case they get weakened by hunger on the hour long journey to London. Lest they fade away from lack of calorie intake. And they must be entertained: even the youngest child must have a mobile device so they can watch the latest episode of their favourite TV show or play another level on some game or the other.

I say this, as on Saturday I travelled by train from Dover to London, and as the train filled up, the levels of chatter increased, mostly about the above. The parent of the family sitting behind me tried to reason with their little darlings that it was only nine and they had eaten breakfast an hour before, so no they could not have lunch, but have a banana.

So, as the train filled up, so did the chatter levels, mainly about food and entertainment.

I looked out of the window as usual. The countryside slipped by, London got nearer.

It might be nearly the middle of April here in England, but it is cold like February, even when the sun shines. We have frosts by night, and temperatures that fail to reach double figures in the day. Plants are still growing, but not as advanced as you might think. Indeed, standing outside the back door as Jools locked up preparing to take me down the Martin Mill, there was even a touch of frost in the air.

Brrr.

Martin Mill even at half eight was cold. The crows in the trees the other side of the platform has built nests, now those sitting on eggs squawked warnings to those close nests, making a chorus of cackles and caws.

The train rolled in, and I saw in my usual seat on the left hand side, away we go again.

A train leaving Dover at quarter to nine on the weekend before Easter was going to be popular. And so it proved with the train filling up with couples and families, the quiet slowly replaced by a growing cacophony of noise. I tried to blot it out, watching the usual landmarks slip by.

At least this wasn't work.

And I get to travel into St Pancras, as I was going to catch a connection from Euston up the street, so I brisk walk ahead, once I got off the platform.

I walk to the front of the station, past the long and snaking lines of people waiting to check in for the Eurostar, then along the crowded and litter-strewn pavement to Euston, past the usual sights, people having breakfast in the various hotels, and homeless people sleeping in shop doorways. Welcome to Brexit Britain.

Euston is a brutalist carbuncle, which will soon be swapt away as did the neo-classical station in the 1960s. The concourse is packed with people waiting for the platforms to be announced for their trans. Most, I knew, would be waiting for the same train as I was, the half ten to Glasgow.

I had had 35 minutes to catch the train, and after the route march along the Euston Road, to stand around waiting until seven minutes before departure time, then when platform 13 was announced, there was a stampede as half the passengers moved to make their way to the slope down to the train.

Then we had to stand in line to show our tickets, and then allowed onto the platform to our 11 coach Pendalino.

I had paid upfront for a seat in 1st class, so had a reserved seat, a nice seat with a table with the huge picture window that would be my source of entertainment for the next two hours and twenty minutes.

I love travelling by train.

The doors closed on time, and we quickly accelerated out of the station, into the tunnels taking us into and through Camden, then beside the huge freight yards out of London to Watford and into the rolling countryside beyond.

All the way to Birmingham, the line shadows the older Grand Union Canal, and occasionally I could see hump-backed bridges, or waterside pubs, and all the way, narrow boats chugging along, going nowhere fast. Which the more I thought about seems a very sensible thing.

The train tilts round the sharp bends of the West Coast Main Line, through the Trent Valley, bypassing Birmingham to Stafford, then up to Crewe and Warrington.

In first class, we were fed and watered. Not with an at table meal, but a box of snacks and two passes of the coffee cart, which for two hours wasn't bad.

Next stop was Wigan; my destination.

Home of the pie.

And my home for the next 24 hours or so.

But first, what better way to spend an hour that to stand on a platform on the WCML and watch trains hammer by every few minutes? Well, for one its bloody cold. And two, seems like it is not nealy as busy as I would thought, with jus tthe one freight train coming by in that hour.

That was a double headed train pulling two nuclear flasks. We were excited, but then the British Transport Police came by, asked us what we were waiting for. We told him, its not a real one, or would have heard he says. Just then the train goes by; yeah, empty it was confirmed.

But, by crikey, it was cold.

There's a good pub under the station the other snapper told me.

Oh, really?

SO I go down, walk under the bridge and round the corner, and there's Wigan Central, not a station but a micropub. And insde they have Titanic Plumb Porter on draught, so I have a pint of that and a home made pork pie, with was mostly jelly.

I am in a booth that is quite like a first class compartment form the golden age of rail, liggage rack included. I am so at home I order another point of porter and read the latest Rail I had brought.

This will never do, I thought, best go and explore, so bid the micropub goodbye and walk up the hill into the town centre, stopping off to buy a pie from a local firm.

Wigan is famous for pies. No idea why, and loals are referred to as pie eaters by people from outside the town.

I explain I am a pie virgin, so what does the lady recommend? Meant an potato I am advised. So, I buy one for £1.60, and go outside to consume it, watching the town go by.

The hill is lined with pus, restaurants and "fun" bars, it would be interesting later, that's for sure.

I walk through the town snapping the fine Victorian buildings, then walk over the main road to where I thought my hotel was.

It was there, and was a pub.

Oh dear.

I check in and go to my room, make a brew and settle down to listen to the afternoon's games.

I fall asleep.

I am am woken to find my friends trying to message me that thet too are tired and we will meet later.

I listen as Sheffield Utd try to win to make up the difference in points with Norwich. They were leading 1-0 against Millwall who missed a penalty. Then with time ebbing away, Millwall equalise, and a second later, Ipswich's relegation is confirmed. I head two cheers from the bar below. Seems like I was not the only City supporter staying here.

Half five and I go out to find a place to Meet Ian and Ali, somewhere showing the Leeds game.

We go in the Griffin where the game is showing in the back room to tables pack full of watching City fans. There's bad blood with one of them, so we go to the beer garden, which is more accurately described as the beer back yard.

You guys Norwich I was asked. What of it I replied, somewhat apparently aggressively. But we started again and as was fine, they were just amazed at the number of City fans already in the town.

We have a beer. And another. And thoughts turn to food.

I ask the bouncer at a posh pub down the street if they can suggest a good place to eat?

Sinners.

Sinners is a burger place, that does huge burgers, we go up the stairs, find a table and order the smallest of what they do. The largest had 16 patties in it I seem to remember, I sure I wasn't too far gone at that point.

After eating we go back down to Wigan Central where the Canaries ex Forces supports club was to be found.

Then it got real messy.

I said at one point, just be thankful they don't have Tripel Karmeliet in bottles. Oh we do said the lady behind the bar.

So we had a couple of those.

And I was done.

Broken.

I take my leave and walk to get a taxi to take me to the hotel, where a gig was under way, right under my room. Even with the amount of beer I had, sleep would be impossible, so I lay in bed trying to watch MOTD and hear it over the Oasis tunes being strummed out below.

I did go to sleep before the gig ended, but I heard nothing.