Mystery train trauma

It was a lovely day out. 

We caught the train to Edinburgh, and rather than just wander round shops looking at stuff we didn’t need, we spontaneously strolled around the town, on a chilly day of exploration and a spectacular Turkish lunch.

In the evening we headed to the station for the journey home. Tired, happy and foot-sore, we were looking forward to relaxing and arriving back at Oxenholme for the short hop back home by car.

That was when the nightmare began. Whilst monitoring the departure board, our train came up as late by 10 minutes. Then 20. Then just ‘delayed’. Followed by the announcement that strikes fear into the heart of even the hardiest commuter. Due to a ‘person being struck by a train’, the line was closed and we would have to make our onward journey by a (imagine the next few words being read out in a distorted, slowed-down and overly loud voice) Replacement - Bus – Service.

Someone was definitely having a far worse evening than us, and my sympathies to them and everyone involved. Only too aware of the sad reason behind our extended delay, we (and I’m pleased to say, everyone else) remained polite and understanding. Things turned decidedly weird, though.

Outside the station, we waited in the dark for the coaches. For 90 minutes. Accompanied by the type of creepy organ music you usually hear over a black and white horror movie, plus the occasional scream.

Standing outside the building where fright tours start isn’t exactly calming. We did wonder if, as some kind of punishment for our sins, we would be spending all eternity in this very special 13th circle of hell, waiting in the cold for a bus that never came.

Eventually, our transport of delight arrived. We were going to... Carstairs! Sweet – never been there. Not that we could see any of the countryside - or Carstairs – in the dark. Eventually boarding a train at around the time we should have been home, our next challenge awaited.

As we would not now get to Oxenholme before the station closed, we’d have to get off at... Carlisle! And get a taxi back! We were obviously thrilled, and a free cuppa barely warmed our dejected souls.

At Carlisle, we waited again for our next transportation to arrive. This time it was a vintage minibus with leg-room for only the smallest of primary school children, and an enthusiastic Scottish driver who talked the whole way through the journey.

Perhaps disappointed that we’d escaped the earlier punishments, the dark forces now chose to torment us further. Someone reversed off their drive as we approached, forcing our talkative driver to slam the brakes on and swerve. Shortly after, a tired driver on the M6 apparently nodded off, drifting into the path of our disaster-attracting wagon. Chatty man again took evasive action.

Somewhere around midnight, exhausted, hungry and thirsty, we arrived home. Everyone, from station staff to train personnel, even the motor-mouthed minibus driver, were exemplary. But if I ever hear ‘replacement bus service’ again, I’m blowing my life savings on a hotel room.

Talking of hotels... maybe I’ll save that one for another day.

This post first appeared as the lead piece in my column/page in The Mail and the News & Star, on the 23rd of February 2018, where it was re-titled as "Mystery trauma after delay", and accompanied by a picture of Oxenholme station.

Everything in this piece is entirely true - it was a surreal evening, to put it mildly. Due to being away for a night, I was short on time this week, hence the non-topical piece. Still, "Thank grumpy it's Friday" regularly contained pieces that were un-related to the news, so I'm not doing much different really.

(CD A-Z: ULLAdubULLA II - The Remix Album, from Jeff Wayne's Musical Version Of The War Of The Worlds.)