Day 0.9 On the train to St Bees

As the train speeds northwards, the sky seems to be changing faster than the accents. It is still the middle of the afternoon, but it’s getting darker and darker. The clouds are dense and threatening and I’ve just looked up the weather forecast to be greeted by the news that the Met Office has issued a flood warning for the Northeast!  After a bone dry April, this is excellent timing!  Still, after years of really good luck, I can’t really complain.

I hadn’t intended to write a post today, but I can’t resist. I was having difficulty connecting to the internet on the train and asked an official for some assistance. “The Internet is the Devil’s work!” he intoned in a voice loud enough to attract the attention of the entire coach. “If God had wanted there to be an Internet, he wouldn’t have invented mouths. You should all learn to talk to each other!  Go and talk to the train manager if you want help!”

A while later, he returned to collect rubbish, and he caught me fiddling with some electronic gadget. This displeased him yet again. “If you want stuff like the Internet, you should vote Labour. You should all vote Labour. The reason I’m collecting rubbish from Tory Southerners is because the Tories sold the railways and I lost my engineering job!”  To the huge amusement of fellow passengers he looked at me as if I was the embodiment of a Southern Tory voter, and in a withering tone exclaimed “I see you’re still helping the devil!”

Of course, being me, I did trot off to visit the Train Manager, mostly fascinated that such a person exists, but her strong recommendation was that I shouldn’t even try to use the train’s system, because they are trying to introduce a new one and it doesn’t work. “Buy a newspaper!” she advised to the amusement of the rubbish man who had suddenly made an appearance behind me!

All this did much to improve my mood, which had been as dark as the clouds, rushing to get ready to leave Veronica and home, trying to pack too much, and suffering from the worst cold known to man. Now, in an instant, I’m among the characters of my walks. How do they suddenly materialise?  Outside my window right now I have my first view of those marvellous moors, so reminiscent of the Pennines, all brown, beautiful and definitely foreboding.

I’ve also had a fascinating conversation with a young eighteen year-old named Jack. He is off on a fishing expedition, a pastime which he thoroughly enjoys. He lives a complicated life. He was orphaned at the age of four, but recently took the decision to try to find his birth mother. It was an emotionally wrenching experience, but he succeeded and he now spends time with both families. He was in fact travelling from one to the other, and I witnessed at the start of the trip the real affection of his adopted father. He plays rugby and football, but his real passion was base-jumping, until last year he broke his back in an eighteen foot fall. He is mostly recovered, though he can’t play sport and is clearly uncomfortable sitting.  I told him about Veronica and he suggested she should take up fishing!

To cap it all, I’ve just had a most entertaining dinner with two delightful Canadians (Phyllis and Rob, there is a pattern here!  Are all Canadians delightful?)  Sherry is understandably slightly apprehensive about the task ahead and I was able to reassure her, Phyllis, on the basis of your experience, and your consolatory advice to me, that with care and common sense, the walk is doable.

I’ll start to find out tomorrow!

A poor picture of the coast beside the track heading from Carlisle to St Bees

Lulus, my B&B. Right in the station building. I look down from my bedroom onto the platform. Wonderful!

High Street, St Bees

The Sleeping Garden in honour of Josephina de Vasconcellos, containing three of her works. She was a noted Lakeland sculptor 

The impressive portals of the St Bees Priory, in typically brown Lakeland sandstone