“Trains carry memories of the past and whispers of the future.”
Train travel thrills me. I’m not sure why, but a train whistle sets off a nostalgic, shivery tingle. Maybe it’s the lulling hum as the car rolls along the tracks. Maybe it’s the fact that you’re firmly on the ground. Maybe it’s the dreamlike way the countryside flows by, bereft of other vehicles — an uncluttered bird’s-eye view of the landscape in real time. Blink and you’re there, or there, or there.
My mom’s dad worked for the national railway in Canada for over 40 years, 10 hours a day, six days a week. Imagine what he must’ve seen in the 20s and 30s. Unending sky over the vast prairies, limitless possibilities under cinematic sunsets, wheat fields ablaze with gold. At night, stars glinting in a blackened universe. The faint glow of a small town ahead reminding you in a wink that people populate earth, and we are all part of it alongside the stars and the moon, the sagebrush and wheat stocks, steel tracks and wooden ties, and the gravel paths they run atop. It may be because of my grandfather that my love of train travel runs so deeply. It may be because of all of this that I chose train travel on my recent trip to the UK.
In America, trains are used primarily for freight. Only a few passenger routes exist. Cargo prevails over humans for moving anything across the thousands of miles within our borders. Much like the current air of our times — commerce trumps humanity, and doesn’t that sentiment have a certain political edge right now?
In England, you can travel by train from Liverpool on the west coast, to Newcastle on the east coast, in under four hours. In Canada, you can’t even cross from the west coast to the east coast by train without going through the US. And if you drive instead, a trip from Vancouver to Halifax takes three days non-stop. That’s 72 hours without a break — 20 times longer.
So, in Canada, we drive cars because we have to. Unless you live in a major city, public transport is virtually nonexistent. In British Columbia, we no longer have regular bus service between small towns. But in the UK, trains connect every burgh, and if there isn’t a train, there’s a commuter bus. Much more efficient and easier on the environment. Of course, when a breakdown happens, it stops passengers in their tracks — no pun intended. But at least it’s a shared dilemma. They’re not sitting alone, immobilised in traffic, spewing toxic fumes into the atmosphere, thumping and cursing the steering wheel.
On my recent trip, I travelled the breadth and length of the UK by train. Gatwick Airport to Brighton, then to London, Liverpool, Newcastle, Whitehaven, to Egremont by bus, then in Scotland, to Kelso and Edinburgh. Every trip ran smoothly except the journey north out of Liverpool, which didn’t. “An iconic cock up,” someone at the station said.
It was a major incident. They’d cancelled all trains heading north, stranding me at the Preston Station on route north to Whitehaven in Cumberland. Passengers were instructed to get in queue for a coach. The national railway would provide this at no-charge. Hundreds of us bustled into line. The buses quickly filled up and ran out. Then they began putting us in taxis, 3 or 4 at a time.
A mammoth man took charge in front of the queue — a security guard tasked with fielding questions and keeping order. While I stood waiting my turn, only a single man protested. Letting off steam, he raised a fist and shrieked abuse at our sentry. Unfair, really. The guard had not caused the trouble. He was only doing his job. Everyone nearby shot the jerk a hateful stare. Stay Calm and Carry On is not simply a slogan in the UK. It’s unruffled harmony. It’s a way of life.
I waited in queue for over two hours before being shunted into a taxi with three other people, feeling blessed that I wasn’t one of the 300 plus travellers still lined up behind us. It was 89 miles to Carlisle, where my train would connect for Whitehaven. As soon as I climbed into the cab, I checked the rail website, relieved to see four trains scheduled for my destination later that afternoon. Thank G_d … I was going to make it there before dark.
By the time the taxi dropped me off, of course, they’d cancelled the later trains, except one — which was leaving in three hours time. I settled alone on the platform bench to wait. About five minutes passed. A blonde woman in office attire and pink flip-flops arrived pulling a shiny purple 4-wheeler case. We struck up a conversation. Exchanged foot miseries. She was returning home to Whitehaven from her job in London.
“Three hours,” she said. “I can’t be here that long. I’m exhausted. I have to get home.”
“What will you do?” I asked. “Get a bus?” It was 3 pm. Would I make it to Whitehaven in daylight? If there was any possibility of making it earlier by bus…
“No, I’m getting a taxi, and I don’t care how much it costs. Chances are they’ll cancel that last train, too.” She set off toward the exit.
My hopes dashed.
But then she stopped and turned around. “Come on. You’re coming with me. I can’t stand the thought of you waiting here for three hours, or being stuck overnight.”
Our driver was an attractive gypsy man in his 50s. Taxi driving was a sideline for him when he wasn’t playing guitar and singing in a band. This we discovered on the ride to Whitehaven, just over an hour by car. He and my rescue lady joked and bantered back-and-forth. The time flew by. And when we arrived, Reagan (we were on a first name basis by then) refused to let me pay a cent. She and the cabbie, Paul, both got out of the car. She hugged me. He helped me with my luggage, leading me down an ancient cobblestone walkway to the door of my accommodation on a weird sidestreet. And after seeing me safely to the entrance, he hugged me too. Magic.
Train travel is like life. You set course for a destination with loads of stops along the way. You pass through some beautiful countryside. At times, it’s not so nice. Sometimes you roll onwards smoothly — moving fast. Occasionally, you slow down, chugging up a steep incline. Then, every once in a while, a major disruption leaves you stranded on the platform. But that’s when random strangers pull together. That’s when a whistle sounds out common human needs. That’s when the magic happens — cooperation, kindness, love, and understanding. In those exhausting moments before you carry on.