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Sunday Rail Travel

I ring up British Rail Enquiries and ask the lady who answers whether the 17.10 from Scunthorpe to Worcester is likely to have any problems. I've checked the website and it warns you that on Sundays they have engineering works that may affect your journey, and having heard stories from other people of the nightmares of Sunday rail travel I was a little apprehensive. The woman assures me that the engineering works have been taken into account with the online times and I will arrive in Worcester at 21.45, I thank her and decide I will travel today as tomorrow’s a bank-holiday and is likely to be ridiculously busy.

Setting off from Scunthorpe and the first train is on time, were headed for Doncaster where I shall need to change. Fairly uneventful, I get my iPod out of my bag and as usual it has run out of battery. Fortunately I have brought a book to read and I get started on it, Franz Kafka's Metamorphosis and other Stories. After about twenty minutes I arrive in Doncaster, pick up my bags and leave the train. I go in search of the glowing monitors that never seem to tell me where I want to go and after the customary minutes searching I give up and ask an attendant. She thinks I need the Bristol train but being a Sunday seems to throw these usually encyclopaedically knowledgeable people off and she suggests I ask in the Customer Enquiries cubicle. The gentleman in there concurs that I do indeed need the Bristol train and assures me that it will in fact take me all the way to Birmingham New St which cheers me up as I was expecting a few more changes. My train is not due to arrive for another forty five minutes however so I grab a ludicrously priced 65p chocolate bar and a £2 cup of coffee and take a seat. Again Kafka passes the time nicely and it doesn't seem long before I'm on the Bristol train headed for Birmingham.

As we set off the train driver crackles onto the public address system welcoming us on-board with the usual prattle, he mentions something about a slight detour to Sheffield being on the travel plan but I barely register this having been assured by British Rail that any changes have been taken into account with the times I was given, so back to Kafka I go. Stopping at Chesterfield about half an hour later the driver pipes up again and in apologetic tones elaborates on the whole Sheffield plan. I am Para-phrasing but here's the gist, "We have a few minutes wait in Chesterfield while the driver hot-foots it to the other end of the train, then we shall be going back the way we came and travelling ten minutes or so north to Sheffield where we will stop and the driver will again make his way to the opposite end of the train so we can double back on ourselves and we will arrive back at Chesterfield before carrying on with our pre-arranged journey south to Bristol." At the end of this notice I looked around at some of the other passengers and exchanged a few confused looks and shrugs of the shoulder before returning again to my book as we set off north. We arrived in Sheffield as promised just ten minutes later and I was thinking that it wasn't too bad a detour really. Then we sat on the platform for about fifteen minutes, I can only imagine we were waiting for the out of shape driver to walk the entire length of the train once again to take us back south.

Before we set off the voice piped up again sheepishly commenting that our next stop is Chesterfield. So after a thirty five minute sojourn, fun though it was, we now pulled into Chesterfield for the second time. A few faces around me were looking rather grim. At least we were travelling in the right direction I thought. My little remaining positivity ebbed away as we stopped at each station, sitting on the platform for between ten and fifteen minutes. The other passengers were all on their mobiles moaning to family and friends about the train, my own phone had like my iPod ran out of battery as it tends to do whenever I need it, but having told no one I was even travelling I at least didn't need to tell them I would be late. Looking at my watch and realising just how late I would be I started cursing the B*$£h who told me the train times. I was supposed to arrive in Birmingham at 20.00 and get the 20.45 for Worcester. It was now 20.45 and I was still ten minutes from Birmingham!

Leaving the train at Birmingham New St before it had chance to detour around Leeds I ran up the stairs and looked for platform 12b which usually has the train for Worcester, the Monitor flashed up the Hereford train which was the one I needed. I checked my watch as I ran, it was 21.05 and I knew that the train would have left already because it was just one of those days. I ran for it anyway but surprise, surprise, it was long gone. Trudging back up the stairs I went looking for another attendant to find out how long my wait would be, and again Sunday's seemed to baffle them and they deferred me to the help desk. Here the fella consulted a huge array of screens and told me that I would have to get the 21.35 from Moor St. I couldn't remember which station that was so I asked him for directions, at least I had half an hour to get there I thought. So off I went following the directions, left out of the station and left at the traffic lights, keep going and you'll see it. I kept going but I still didn't see it after ten minutes so I asked a couple walking along the street. They said "oh no, you’re a long way off" and pointed me back in the direction I had come. Cursing everyone I had met up to this point I set off at a run and thankfully got to Moor St at 21.25, I sat down on Platform 1 and caught my breath.

A train pulled up at platform 2 and as it went past I noticed the sign on the front, it was my train on the wrong bloody platform. I got up and looked towards the attendant and a few other people who were presumably asking if that was meant to be our train. He was nodding and waving people into a lift which takes you to platform 2. I got in it and exchanged a few grievances with the others in the lift but I doubt any of them had as bad a journey as me. At least the train driver seemed to have realised he'd got the wrong platform and everyone made it across in time. Then we set off, not for Worcester though, instead we were headed for Stourport Junction. About 22.20 we got to Stourport and the last train to Worcester had been cancelled. Instead we all got onto a coach and sat waiting for God knows what for another fifteen minutes. 22.35 and off we go, I've made it through three quarters of my book at this point but I cannot read on the coach so I just sit back and stew about the last five and a half hours of the journey. Not over yet though, first stop is Hagley. A couple of people get off here thanking the driver, and we head off again this time for Kidderminster, I can't help noticing that we keep turning away from the signs for Worcester and I start imagining the route on the map zigzagging across the Midlands.

We get to Kidderminster and a few more people get off, again thanking the driver. Then to my chagrin the driver steps off the bus and lights up a cigarette. I stare out the window at him wanting to catch his eye and make him see that I do not approve of his shirking on the job but he stubbornly avoids looking at the bus windows. He gets back on silently and I can feel the air of resentment from everyone on board.

Off again and this time heading for Droitwich Spa similarly and agonisingly avoiding all signs for Worcester. We get into Droitwich at about 23.10, more people leave the coach and less of them thank the driver this time. Unbelievably he gets off the coach and lights up another cigarette! This time there are murmurs from further back and I turn and share a quick moan with the person sat behind me at the cheek of this guy. A couple of people get off and have a quick word with the driver the only bit of which I caught was "Are you enjoying this little trip mate?" to which the driver seemed to nod in agreement, apparently he was having a great time being unsupervised and able to drive at his leisure. They all got back on after several minutes and we drove on, finally arriving at Worcester Shrub Hill Station at 23.35. I suppose many people might have had a few words with him about his behaviour and complained or some such but I was content despite going against all natural sense of British politeness to not thank the driver as I left the bus. I was far too tired for anything more.

I arrived home at 23.45, six hours and thirty five minutes after I left Scunthorpe. I shall never travel by train on a Sunday as long as I live.