Adventures in Travel

Horsham to Dorking - 5:49 AM

This morning, I'm on my way to Birmingham. It's a little longer than my normal commute to Brighton but generally no more onerous; I get up at the same time and arrive at my destination around 9:30, which is only an hour and a half later than usual. Over all, it's a pleasant ride through fetching countryside, a welcome change to my normal routine and challenging enough to lend a sense of purpose to the day.

Reading to Birmingham – 8:52 AM

Did I say challenging? What was I thinking? This sort of challenge doesn't instill a sense of purpose so much as it creates an atmosphere of futility.

The train from Dorking to Guildford, as trains in Britain have a habit of doing, failed to show up. Not that I was aware of this; I just thought it was late (no surprise there) and hopped on what I thought was the overdue 6:25 to Guildford but which turned out to be "the train that stops at every backwater, inbred little village in Surrey before rolling into the Guildford station twenty minutes after the 6:51 to Birmingham has departed," or something like that.

Being new to this sort of thing, naturally, I panicked. As soon as we slowed down I bounded off the train, raced to the ticket office and explained my predicament. Give them their due, they were sympathetic, and instructed me to go to Reading to catch the 8:10. There was a train leaving for Reading now on platform 8; I could catch it if I hurried.

So I sprinted back to the platforms and, just as the doors were closing, jumped back on the train I had just gotten off of. Turns out, I was going to be afforded the opportunity of visiting every remaining backwater, inbred little village in Surrey—and parts of Berkshire—that I hadn't had the privilege of seeing while the train was making me late for my first connection, after all.

Surrey, by the way, is lovely. If you every find yourself with nothing in your appointment diary, you could do worse than catch this train and take in all the bucolic scenery and twee little towns. If, however, you are late for work, I suggest you drive, and start early. As it was, I found myself an unwilling passenger aboard a train that wove an erratic path toward Reading, arriving just in time for me to miss the 8:10 to Birmingham by, oh, about 20 minutes.

Fortunately, another panicked visit to the ticket office confirmed there was also an 8:40 to Birmingham. After some confusion, the train was located and I am now rolling happily and swiftly, and in a more-or-less straight line, northward.

Well, maybe not so happily. I haven't been able to grab any breakfast in all this confusion and the snack car is too far away for me to want to leave my stuff behind and if I take it all with me someone will probably steal my seat which maybe wouldn't be so bad because there is this guy sitting behind me jabbering into his mobile phone as if he's coaching a rugby match long distance and he just will not SHUT THE FUCK UP!!!

It's okay; I strangled him. And stole his coffee. I feel better now.

Anonymous Pub, Birmingham New Street Station - 4:25 PM

This pub really does have a name but I'm too lazy to get up, step out the door and read it. I ducked in here strictly for some food (tuna with mayo and sweet corn on a toasted bun) because I'm hungry and it's close to my platform. But that's about the only thing that recommends it. A train station bar is pretty much like an airport bar: the food is mediocre, the beer expensive and everyone is from somewhere else and too busy fiddling with crackberries, texting on mobile phones or talking to themselves with Bluetooth headsets sticking out of their ears to be personable.

I actually made it to Birmingham in such good time that I stopped on my way out of the station to pick up some breakfast and a bottle of water. With the carrier bag of groceries in one hand and my briefcase in the other, I headed for the taxi rank.

The queue was only a quarter mile long when I arrived, which wasn't a bad thing as it gave me plenty of time to study local taxi etiquette. Ideally, a taxi would pull up, the lucky traveler would hop in and they would speed off. If the occupied taxi was delayed by traffic, empty cabs would pull up behind it, allowing other people in line to walk back to meet them.

As you've guessed, my taxi was held up (no, no, not with a gun; I know this is Birmingham but, really). As I approached and reached for the door handle, however, the cab pulled forward and I had to snatch my hand back. When the driver saw this, he stopped, so I reached for the door handle again. But he thought I had moved away and started forward again. We did this dance for about nine yards while everyone in the queue looked on. When I finally got the door open, I managed to catch my shopping bag on the door handle, allowing me to fall gracelessly into the back of the cab and pull the door closed on my foot.

As I struggled to disengage my shopping and my foot, I realized the driver was speaking and I couldn't understand a word he said. He was of Indian extraction, but it wasn't an Asian accent that had me confused, it was his Birmingham accent. That seemed only fair; he couldn't understand me, either, nor did he know the address I wanted him to take me to. After much hand gesturing and pointing at maps, I eventually ended up where I wanted to be, but he may have given me the tourist tour of Birmingham and several out-lying districts along the way. How am I to know?

Incredibly, after all of this, I encountered that rarest of creatures: a good day at work. The meeting was uncharacteristically productive, I was confident in what I was doing and we hit every item on the agenda with time to spare, which meant I had to hang around downtown Birmingham to wait for my train.

Birmingham center is actually quite nice. I understand it used to be grim but they've rebuilt much of it and it now has a modern, airy, posing-for-the-tourists look to it. Trendy shops abound, there are restaurants and bistros a-plenty, and cafés, you betcha, but what I couldn't find was a decent pub. A man could die of thirst there. I was on my third, ever-widening circuit around Victoria Square before I happened upon The Wellington, a traditional real-ale pub.

They had so many ales on tap they were listed on what I mistook to be an Arrivals/Departures board, which told me I've been spending too much time in train terminals. I ordered half a pint of number 14 and received a full pint instead.

I'm used to this; my accent makes "half a pint" sound like "have a pint" to British ears so I'm always ending up with more beer than I ordered. It's a burden, but somehow I manage to put up with it.

Besides, after a morning like I had, I think I deserve a full pint. Several, in fact.