Having skilfully contrived to have a hotel next door to Paddington railway station I was in good shape to catch my train to Penzance. In fact I was in such good shape that I was able to spend a part of the morning wandering around a strip of canal embellished parkland near the station. There was water, there were ducks and narrow boats some of which served as cafes. I wandered down the canal as far as an area called (I presume with a healthy dose of irony) Little Venice. It appeared to be closed.
Canal experience completed I returned to Paddington and waited patiently to be allowed onto my train. I was early and managed to get on, find my seat and secure my place. This turned out to be very wise as it rapidly became obvious that there were significant problems brewing. More people piled into the carriage, yet more people attempted entry loudly proclaiming their possession of a first class ticket and demanding the location of their seats.
That was when the train staff announced that the booking system had collapsed and it was effectively every person for themselves. Much screaming and wailing and gnashing of teeth ensued. I gripped my seat harder and waited for the train staff to toss barbecue forks into the seething mass to speed the resolution.
With an accompaniment of mass swearing, hysterical weeping and screaming by children the train, oblivious to the human drama on board slid out of Paddington and headed southwest. The train manager made the first of a series of announcements apologising for the screw up and also apologising for the fact that the train was so crowded that the snack trolleys couldn’t get through the crowd but maybe they could do so later once some people had got off. Almost simultaneously with this announcement I overheard a conversation between two of the staff as to where they would put the two wheelchair bound passengers they were expecting at the next stop.
At the next stop the crowding got worse not better and the general mood wasn’t improved when a wheelchair was somehow wedged into the mass of humanity. What happened to the associated passenger I don’t know, possibly they tied him to the roof of the train. This set the tone for the remainder of the trip although once we got past Plymouth people started thinning out and they were able to get the trolleys through to serve the couple of dozen passengers they had left. I asked for a muffin and got one that was carrot and sultana flavoured.
What really amused me was that at each station the automatic announcement finished by stating “this is a Great Western Train” a claim that was no more than two thirds correct.
Finally the train arrived at Penzance where the few remaining passengers (and quite possibly the staff) fled shrieking into the gathering darkness. Fortunately I didn’t have far to flee as my hotel was just across the road from the station (that part of my organisation worked well).
Penzance appeared to be closed except for a bookshop that informed me it was just about to close when I walked in. I wasn’t too disappointed as Penzance was merely a pit stop. The next day I took a taxi to the heliport for a rather expensive flight to St Mary’s, largest of the Scilly Isles. The helicopter company had less than impressed me by sending me an email several weeks after I had booked (and while I was hobbling around Morocco) informing me of their baggage restrictions which it became obvious would exclude both my bag and my day pack. I managed to buy an acceptable bag in Gibraltar and dumped anything that wouldn’t fit into it along with my bags at left luggage at Paddington. The dubious gaze I received from the man behind the counter makes me almost certain that my stuff will be destroyed in a controlled explosion shortly after I left.
Bag requirements belatedly complied with I and five other people were bundled onto a smart black and orange helicopter (they’re disguised as bumblebees) and we were transported swiftly and efficiently to the Scilly Isles. We passed over Cornwall on the way. It looks quite appealing from the air.
St Mary’s airport isn’t exactly large. In fact St Mary’s airport is exactly small. Fortunately we were the only aircraft present so we managed to get through in a hurry and a convenient shuttle bus dropped me at my hotel. My hotel is full of birdwatchers, average age about three hundred. There’s an ambulance parked out the back, I’m amazed it isn’t a coroners van.
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