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.