Still Sunday. And a bit of Monday
Of course it didn’t last. Moments after disembarking we were thrust into a maelstrom of frustrated wannabe travelers. As with Schiphol airport, lots of people were spending their weekend in London’s railway stations, wishing they were on their way somewhere else. Word was, the entire country was clogged like this and for the first time in several hours, I began to worry once more that this might be as far as I would get.
Still, nothing ventured nothing gained and as trains to Glasgow leave from Euston Station, a short-ish walk down the road, I decided to make my way over there and see if there was by any chance, a train leaving tonight. As it turned out, there was. In 45 minutes. Now if you’ve been paying attention, you’ll remember that I had a plane reservation from London City Airport the following morning. So why was I looking for a train? Because I had already established that if there were any hotel rooms available in London for tonight – and preliminary enquiries suggested there were not, they would cost more than the plane I was considering abandoning. Taking this into account, and given there was no guarantee the plane would even get off the ground in the first place, it just made more sense to take the train.
I hummed, I hawed and with fifteen minutes to spare, pulled the trigger and bought myself a train ticket. A whole five minutes before the loudspeaker announced the train was delayed and to wait for further announcements. In my brief time here at Euston station, I’d seen enough examples of “delayed” to know exactly what it meant. A precursor to “cancelled”, that’s what.
Off to do battle once more then with my nemesis awaiting me in the corner. This bank of payphones were even more evil than their Schiphol counterparts. Not only did they not like my American Express card, they no longer wanted anything to do with my debit card. It had worked 20 minutes earlier when I’d called my wife to let her know which country I was in, but not now.
So...I had to find an ATM to withdraw some cash. Then stand in line at the newsagent to buy a bar of chocolate I didn’t really want in order to get change. Then watch in horror as said change was swallowed by the payphone at an astonishing rate, barely giving me enough time to recite the payphone’s number to my wife so she could call me back. She did call me back but due to the phone’s habit of cutting us off every 20 seconds or so, it took me a while to get the message across. “Yes, I know I have a flight booked tomorrow, but I’m going to try and get there by train tonight. It’s just I don’t know when or even if it will leave, that’s all.”
Finally, we were done and I determined to find myself a quiet corner in which to sit, get my breath back and wait to see what would happen with my “delayed” train. I never made it to the corner though. No sooner had I wrestled my way through the throng and back to the notice board when I heard the announcement “This is the final boarding call for the delayed train to Glasgow Central.” Well, what are the odds? Of all the “delayed” trains I’d seen in the last hour, mine was the only one which was really just “delayed”.
The last leg was uneventful. My back was aching now, after far too long in uncomfortable seats, or standing in endless lines. And it had turned dark long ago, so there was nothing to see out of the window. And as on the earlier trains, we had to go slow because of the weather. But we got there eventually, just a little over an hour late. The weather didn’t stop me after all.
I learned later that the plane I had booked for the following day did take, but didn’t arrive in Glasgow until mid-afternoon, which would only have allowed me a few hours with my family. I also learned that another storm hit Amsterdam not long after I left on the train, and had I not done so, I might be there yet. So it was a pleasant surprise to learn I made the right call in taking the train.
But the best surprise of all came just after we rolled into Glasgow, a little after 1am. Standing at the end of the platform was my brother-in-law, who had driven an hour through the snow to come and get me. And my nephew too. And best of all, my 82-year old Mum, bundled up against the cold, with a big smile on her face.
It’s good to be home for the holidays.
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