Four Gringos and a Bomba

We’ve headed off for an overnight stay: part pleasure (beaches, a trip to a luminescent lagoon unfortunately cancelled due to too bright moonlight, eating and drinking), part chores – buying some good coffee, checking out a store for lighting fixtures and a sink for the house my friends are building, buying a water pump, a “bomba”.

The temperature is rising – into the mid-30s Celsius during the day, over 25 at night. From my room, I can hear the heavy bass of a rooftop disco. The fan runs so fast it is rocking backwards and forwards, directly above my bed. It masks the bass, but its helicopter whirr alarms me and I switch it off. Tossing and turning, I eventually sleep.

The next day we buy the bomba. There are four of us, a small car, and a large pump. It would seem that two of us will have to brave the midday sun on the bus. The heat is beating down on the street. The passing buses look hot, sticky, dusty. Two and a half hours…

All of our kit is out of the car, the back seats lowered. The pump is pushed in. We pack the bags and the other shopping around it. Then we pack ourselves in, Dr D sitting high beside the pump box.

It reminds me of an old joke: ‘How do you fit four elephants in a Mini? Two in the front, two in the back.’

We set off.

We fit in just fine.

Is it Saturday?

Central Belt Shuffler sometimes reports on the (lack of) busy-ness on the rush hour train home. But earlier this week, it being Scottish half-term, the normally full morning train looked like this.

For a brief moment, I wondered if I’d mistakenly set off for work on a Saturday.

The IndyRef Shuffle

It’s September, and so the regular Central Belt Shuffle starts once more. The leaves on this fine early Autumn day are turning golden, and gently crunch under my bike wheels.

The morning commute, flask in hand, is joined by my colleague Dr A. We discuss the possibilities not of Scottish Independence, but Scottish Renaissance Studies, or rather, Renaissance Studies in Scotland. I cast my mind to Rona Munro’s James Plays, the third of which – with its triumphant casting of Sofie Grabol (aka The Killing’s Sarah Lund) as James III’s Danish wife – I’d seen in August during the festival shuffle period. The play included a direct address to the audience (as well as her court and country) from Grabol. ‘Who,’ she asks, ‘would want the job of ruling Scotland?’ And, even more provocatively, ‘You know the problem with you lot? You’ve got fuck-all except attitude.’ As Michael Billington put it in his review, ‘Even Alistair Darling wouldn’t dare to go that far.’

And as tomorrow the three leaders of the Westminster parties shuffle northwards in one last ditch attempt to woo us, at last fully cognisant that not only might there be something to lose, but that it is (as the polls are telling us) a real possibility, I look out the window on the shuffle home for signs of the debate. I don’t see any large Yes or Nos emblazoned on the landscape (though there is at least one hillside near Stirling showing its political affiliations), and my fellow travellers seem much the same as ever – reading, staring into space, sleeping, yawning, wishing there were a drinks trolley on the train, chatting. But change is coming, very fast, whichever way the vote goes – as this, perhaps one of the most perceptive (and chilling, in its grasp of realpolitik) of the pieces I’ve yet read on the referendum and its aftermath – lays out.

The Ultimate Trainspotting Spot?

A sunny day, and a hour’s meeting stolen in between trains on the journey to St Andrews.

We sit on the cafe terrace above Haymarket station, discussing ebook interoperability, hybrid diesel/electric trains, Beeching and (the demise of) branchlines. Below us, the range of franchised trains roll in, halt, and then continue on their journey. One of my companions explains to our overseas visitor the intricacies of Scotrail, East Coast mainline, Virgin, CrossCountry. Behind my sunglasses, I close my eyes and imagine my two-wheeled way into the countryside.

These ten days have the following travel schedule: Glasgow-Stockholm (including the magnificent Arlanda Express)-Glasgow-Birmingham-University of Birmingham-Brimingham-Glasgow-Stirling-Glasgow-Edinburgh-Leuchars-St Andrews-Glasgow-Edinburgh-Glasgow-Stirling-Glasgow-Edinburgh-Glasgow-Bearsden-Glasgow. Important to pay attention to platform announcements and the display panels.

I don’t remember in every station to check out the closest bookish locations, as indicated the Bookspotting app. But in Haymarket, there’s a moment before the next train to find myself in literary terms. The Scottish Episcopal Church General Synod Office is, slightly oddly, the closest location (relating to former-Bishop-now-writer Richard Holloway), but also featured are Caledonian Place (home to Davie in Irvine Welsh‘s Trainspotting) and 160 Bruntsfield Place (Muriel Spark‘s birthplace).

Good job the train is perfect for reading…

 

Viaduct Shuffle

Carlisle station. Tears streaming down my face from the biting wind.

There’s a certain rucksack-bearing, bearded demographic on the platform. Excited chatter.

We board the undistinguished carriages, but with the knowledge that this is, according to the Settle-Carlisle partnership, ‘England’s most scenic railway’ (plaudits for not claiming it to be the UK’s). It’s 25 years since the line was declared safe from closure, and it’s being marketed hard as a tourist destination (as well as a link from the West Coast mainline through to Leeds).

It’s a cold day, and the train sets off there’s discussion inside the carriage of the draughtiness of train stations, model railways, and other such trainspotterish chat. Outside, cows big with calf and sheep with unborn lambs fill the fields. Piebald ponies canter alongside the train. A deer bounds frightened from the engine and, as we pull higher and higher, a hare runs madly from us too. The rain makes the roads in places indistinguishable from the swollen rivers.

One passenger wears both large head-phones and an eye-mask, not interested in the view.  The most nerdy of fellow travellers is explaining to his companions, ‘Everyone knew in those days a back way into the engine shed, to prowl around a bit. Sometimes you’d know a member of staff, they’d turn a blind eye. That wouldn’t be allowed nowadays.’

Wensleydale sheep huddle against barns and stone walls in the sleet. A young couple, in urban attire and with over-sized suitcases, alight at Kirkby Stephen. They look lost briefly, but are swiftly greeted by a woman who warmly welcomes them into their accommodation right in the station building.

We pass by a flock of black sheep – Hebridean perhaps? – standing close in the wind. It’s snowing properly now, and I order a coffee which comes in a commemorative cup. We pass Dent, the highest station above sea level. The lights are on in Blea Moor signal box, and it looks cosy inside compared to the driving snow outside. Two hikers, well protected against the elements, take a path running parallel to the train tracks. The surrounding hills and mountains are hidden from view.

We reach Ribblehead viaduct, a place I often visited as a child, as it is close to where my grandparents lived. This is the first time I’ve travelled over it, though.

The weather is looming grey, and the light is failing as we slide into Settle. Inside the houses, lights are coming on, and I imagine the smell of coal fires keeping homes warm.

The train heads on to my destination, Shipley. The day turns to night, and the snow back to rain.

Strike Day Shuffle

Today is the second of three planned two-hour strikes by Central Belt Shuffler’s union.

I’ve been over in Edinburgh for meetings in the morning, and thus heading into work in order to join the picket line would seem slightly counter-intuitive. So I’ve been filling up on coffee in a congenial cafe, and trying to remember how I learned to read.

All I can really remember is that in one primary class we were given small Golden Virginia tobacco tins, in which were stored small pieces of coloured card with words written in felt-tip pen for us to take home and learn.

Those early memories of reading, thus, always have a faint whiff of tobacco curling around them. A rich, sweet smell; adult, from far-distant shores. An appropriate analogy for what reading can become, even if handing out tobacco tins to the under-7s is not best practice today.

As the last minutes of the strike ebb away, Central Belt Shuffler boards the homeward train. Due to ScotRail’s rolling out of free wifi across central belt trains, I’ll be checking my email on the big screen the moment the strike ends. I’m sure that the two hours I haven’t been working in the middle of the day will be made up later. However, my employer has threatened to dock a full day’s pay for a two-hour strike. Hardly an incentive to keep on shuffling workwards.

Display Board Poetry

Not all days, as the previous post revealed, are good commuting days.

It was a subsequent day of delays and confusion, this time with no apologies or reasons given. A tweet about the unhelpful, impolite and unhelpful staff gave rise, however, to some unexpected poetry via a sympathetic colleague on Twitter (to whom a coffee is owed):

‘This is Scotrail. Cross at disorder. Knew I should have got the bus down to Lauder’.

He followed this up with: ‘They’re ghastly to the rich and beastly to the poor. There’s vomit in the toilets and urine on the floor’.

And then: ‘Pulling into Larbert, never on time. Everybody hates you on the Queen Street line.’

As another Central Belt Shuffle correspondent commented, if only the station display boards displayed poetry appropriate to the day and state of Scotrail, we’d all be happier travellers. Now there’s a thought for Scottish Book Trust.

Not Shuffling but Coasting

Some days are work-from-home days. No shuffling (or outdoor shoes) required.

But Central Belt Shuffler likes a little reminder of the daily commute, and so has a set of Central Belt Coasters for morning coffee and afternoon tea.

Old maps repurposed as vintage Central Belt Shuffling merchandise, by Rosie’s Retro Styling (whose Etsy page unfortunately no longer seems to be working).

Served with shortbread, of course.

Common sense is being applied

The Flask of Invisibility?

An announcement from the train manager on the morning commute:

‘Any alcohol carried must not be visible’.

In July 2012, ScotRail introduced a ban on alcohol on trains between 9pm and 10am. ScotRail’s website reassures that ‘Common sense is being applied’, and that no bag searches are taking place.

Invisibility is all.