But a small thing to overcome

‘Swoop’ is a funny word if you think about it, and not one that’s often applied to us humans, but today it suits my purposes perfectly. I'm thinking of my early-morning progress from the upper regions of Lewes to its nether ones, and of the fact that once I’m on my way, powered simply by one cup of tea and the need to get going, it’s a veritable plunge, with little to stand in my way apart from the odd kink in the road and the usual considerations of self-preservation.

Lewes’s very particular geology is most definitely on the side of its migrant workers first thing in the morning. Gravity – not something I’ve often thought about since getting to grips with what exactly it was – is just the kind of incentive I need to get me up, out, and down to the station. And others seem to benefit from this same propulsion, so that by the time I’m crossing the bridge over the tracks I’m one amongst many, all of us coming to the end of our own personal swoops and readying ourselves to take our positions along the platform.

The other end of the day is a little harder to explain – a kind of lunge towards home, with the energy to get up the hill born of a homing instinct and no doubt a kind of natural phenomenon which assures almost all species a bed for the night. It’s a final sprint in the face of adversity – or survival of the fittest in action – and a reminder of the toughness of the commuter’s life. But by this point in the day we’ve got our coping strategies in place, and gradient is but a small thing to overcome.

Weariness descends

I’ve never – ever – used a toilet on a Southern train. It’s just not something I’d think of doing. Which reminds me: I once did a full-time job, albeit a very temporary one, where for the whole two weeks I was there I never once used the facilities. It was, I think, firstly a fear of being caught away from my post and away from the telephone (because this was the 1980s and landlocked telephones were in frequent use then), but also the fact that, when on duty, I just wasn’t in a frame of mind where it would even cross my mind to need to go. An obvious case of mind over matter, then, but an interesting one. And one that brings me forward to 2010 and to my time on the rails.

It’s not that I don’t make myself very much at home once on board, but there are certain things I don’t do. I don’t take off my shoes, I don’t sleep, I don’t apply lotions or potions, and I don’t nip to the loo. I’m strictly on duty, and I intend to stay that way.

I know of course that not everyone observes quite the same delineations between human states of mind (and body), and a quick look around the average carriage will reveal all sorts of unbuttoned behaviour that smacks of a blurring of the boundaries. That’s fine of course – though I’m as fussy as the next commuter when it comes to what impinges on my lines of sight or any other sense – but there’s a pleasure in keeping buttoned up, and it makes arrival at home all the sweeter. I step in the door and immediately my shoes feel a little too tight, my bladder needs emptying, weariness descends.

Hove instead

To the casual observer, Eastbourne and Littlehampton probably have a great deal in common, and I’m sure they’re both as lovely as each other. But hear the word ‘Littlehampton’ instead of ‘Eastbourne’ when you’re on your way to Lewes, and the feeling is not unlike what I imagine the fear of god to be. There can’t be many amalgamations of sounds that can so regularly project such contrasting realities or necessitate such immediate remedial action.

If ever there was an excuse for talking of parallel universes, then, I think I’ve found it right here in Sussex, with its vortex right there in Haywards Heath, where your hitherto reliable collection of carriages may suddenly split. However many times you’ve passed this way before, here’s a manoeuvre that can still trip you up. And if the idea is to thoroughly confuse, worry and upset the Gatwick contingent (even if not personally affected) or my parents-in-law, then this is the way to do it. For the latter, it created a kind of nail-in-the-coffin effect on their will to travel this way, coming as it always did after the hurdle of getting from one Victoria station (for the coach) to another (for the train). Never again would they submit themselves to such uncertainty.

But I can see that splitting trains is, from a business point of view, eminently sensible, and at least there’s something about this old-fashioned form of transport that is perfectly adaptable to the economic imperative. As for the parents-in-law, they still come to visit us (they are, in case you were wondering, thoroughly good sorts and welcome any time), but they now wend their way cross-country, approach pitfall-free from the west, and arrive, very sensibly, at Hove instead.

Lewes-to-London folk

A trip to far-flung Aberfeldy and the hills beyond by train – with just a smattering of hire car for the very furthest leg – is a hell of a lot of train to contend with, and a very different animal to my usual straight up and down from Lewes to London and back. In all, we were hosted by six different train companies (our fault, admittedly, for deciding to go via Shrewsbury), and the preceding months were punctuated by six different lines of enquiry, each of which – happily – ended in the acquisition of the very cheapest of tickets.

And this was just the preparatory stage. The grappling continued, with its object no longer the vagaries of pricing systems but now the awkwardness of overstuffed luggage racks, (good-natured) confrontation with fellow passengers over seat reservations, and the unnatural stretching of attention spans. How I envied my commuter-self its simple, uncontentious progress from drawing board to destination.

But I’ve come back to our native railway with a newfound appreciation of the diversity of rail travel. I’ve gained perspective and context, those twin delights of the well-travelled mind, and I now see Southern for what it really is: nothing more than an accident of politics, locality and timing – an accident which has cut it off from its counterparts in other parts of the country, lent it its greenish hue and, most importantly, made it the supposed mainstay of us Lewes-to-London folk.