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.

Pass muster

Tomorrow I’m off to Scotland by train. There’s little to liken such a journey to my usual ups and downs from Lewes to London and back. But of course for the Lewes to London leg of this self-indulgent (as opposed to work-related) journey, I don’t need a ticket, and this fact is a source of unlikely, unexpected pleasure. My season ticket – such a sensible, necessary purchase – covers the cost as if it’s doing me a favour. And it makes me feel so much better value than my non-season-ticket-holding husband.

But there are other satisfactions to be gained from being the holder of such a thing. My particular trajectory through the ins and outs of railway property means that most of the time it sits idle in my bag, but if a conductor comes along it’s good – even gratifying – to be ready and waiting to be proved innocent

I wonder, then, if as a law-abiding citizen (the default setting for most of us, I presume) it’s one of the few occasions in fully fledged adult life when our obedience gets a chance to rear its bowed head. We get to prove we’re doing the right thing; and for once we’re not just quietly not causing trouble.

Passport control is, perhaps, an even better moment for us obedient types. There they look you up and down properly – a reminder that my season ticket photo is, I feel, worth rather more attention than it’s getting. And what about those two perfectly matched numbers on the two complementary parts of my ticket? Shouldn’t they be congratulated for their correctness on a more regular basis?

Still, at a time of life when the reward-fuelled experience of childhood is unlikely to come our way again, these meetings with conductors are junctures to be grasped. The approaching footfall and thank-you-thank-you rustle of the conductor as he passes down the train is our chance – one of our very few – to pass muster.

Two's grace

Most days, my commuting moments pile up one upon the other, each moment coming to rest neatly upon its predecessor – which is just how it should be. I’m not looking for excitement or stimulation in this part of my life.

But yesterday my moments broke the mould. I was coming to London Bridge from a – for me – unusual direction. And it dawned on me that there was no way I was going to catch my train. My comfort zone these days has expanded to the point where I can cut it fine and enjoy the challenge, but this was knife-edge fine, and I was in another zone completely. And so I relaxed: far better to miss the train by five solid minutes than actually see it pulling out.

But then – just when I didn’t require it – the must-catch-that-train instinct clicked in. And back came the adrenaline rush. I legged it through the convolutions of the London Bridge tube/train interchange, seamlessly inserted my season ticket into the slot and out again, got my body through the barrier and arrived at the train doors... And, yes, I did get on that train, slithering through the closing doors in a way that I wouldn’t repeat, wouldn’t recommend and haven’t relived – until now.

I basked in the glow of having made it. But it wasn’t just the pleasure of having caught the train that did it for me, but also the pleasure of not having to live through the dark despair of being left on the platform. There would have been a despondent, frustrated me to contend with – and thoughts of just how good life would have been if only I’d been on that train (as indeed it was for the real me already on its way to Lewes), of how all life’s problems would have melted away (as indeed they had, for now at least). And no doubt I would have cursed the punctuality of the service. Oh for a train that you could rely on to give you the courtesy of a minute or two’s grace.

Antimacassar notwithstanding

First class. Now what’s that all about? So, you get an antimacassar, that oblong piece of cloth on which to rest your head, but whether this is to protect the seat or your head, I’m not sure. And perhaps you’re just a little more likely to wind up next to someone more genteel than your (already fairly genteel) average commuter.

Far more interesting, though, are the gradations in the hierarchy of seating in standard class. To the casual traveller, this is of no concern, but I’m in it for the long haul, and so I’ve come to know every nuance of every kind of seat – a useable table; an armrest or not; full as opposed to obstructed view; a modicum, or less, of back support; aisle width (and its knock-on effects); and of course leg-room. All of which have alerted me to sensitivities I never knew I had.

But then there’s the human element to consider, and, sadly, it’s impossible to contain an environment that is assaulted – and then mutates – with every stop. But just sometimes I get it absolutely right: my neighbours are as discreet (and as discrete) in their management of personal space as I am; my back is perfectly aligned with my seat; my surroundings remain as peaceful at East Croydon as they were in Lewes. Then I wonder whether this is perhaps what first class is all about, lack of antimacassar notwithstanding.

The likes of me

So, as I was saying last week, there’s something about looking into other people’s lives from the shelter of the train that makes it neither intrusive nor untoward. You’re on the ultimate back road, cutting a swathe through homes, gardens and factories, but you didn’t ask to come this way. You just happen to be passing by, and, in any case, you’re almost invisible behind those slightly tinted windows.

And, as it happens, all those gardens streaking by give me the glimpses I need – a fix, in other words – of something I’d rather like for myself: a bigger garden. A small, boxy thing is the price we seem to pay in Lewes for surrounding ourselves by all those expansive, chalky hills, and so I’m in the fortunate position of having found something to aspire to each time I slice through Wivelsfield, Haywards Heath or even Clapham.

In short, all this is nothing like staring into someone’s front room. It’s mostly about marvelling at those gardens and the things people fill them with, enjoying the unsanctioned view of the back of a house rather than its more proper front, and sampling the messy edges of a hundred workshops and factories. So it’s spying for the fainthearted and the likes of me.

Vantage point

By now, four commuting years down the line, I know most of the nooks, crannies and railway escarpments between here and London. But occasionally I’ll look up and see something I’ve never seen before. How very heartening to realise that I don’t spend all my time looking out of the window and, equally, that I haven’t yet exhausted the visual possibilities of my commute.

But sometimes I see a house – or a piece of a house – so new, and so gleaming, that I realise it’s not just new to me, but truly new. One minute there’s a tight little space nestling between a factory and the railway line, and the next minute the builders have moved in. And then when I next happen to look up at that particular spot, on that particular side of the train, the foundations have been laid and the bricklaying has begun. And then, suddenly, there it is – a whole new house.

It’s good when signs of life start appearing: blurry bottles up close to the bathroom window, bits and bobs spilling out of the back door, a trampoline in the garden. But this is a subject for a different day: the low-grade, undercover observation of a world that has its back to you and for which the train provides the perfect vantage point…

Some might say

There’s nothing quite like being the proud owner of a well-rehearsed journey to make travel at other times and to other places seem slow and cumbersome. Let me explain. I know at exactly which minute past the hour I need to leave my house in order to execute a carefully choreographed arrival at the station (through the gates with season ticket at the ready, into the Runaway and out again with cup of tea) before slipping in through the train doors. But give me the task of getting to London at a more godly hour on a weekend, and I’ll feel the need to allow a good fifteen minutes to spare (and use some of that dithering about which route to take to the station).

To subvert an analogy, if I may: in my commuting persona, I’m a fish in water. I’m humanity at its slickest. And I expect humanity around me to aim for, and reach, those same high levels of efficiency. Novice travellers – or even worse, tourists – are quite simply undesirable.

So I admit that in my own small, inconsequential way – and in a controlled environment where I can cause no harm – I may have exhibited something approaching an arrogance you wouldn’t expect from me. But put me back in my natural, non-commuting habitat and I’m the kind of human you’d much rather know – unfocused, ungainly, and as much of a novice as the next person. Like a fish out of water, some might say.

Definitely forgiven

I like to think that the air in Lewes is in a different league to that of London. Admittedly, at the point of comparison my judgement has no doubt been tainted by prolonged and close proximity to my fellow passengers, and London is nothing more than a distant memory, but – still – there’s something cleansing about taking that first breath as I hit solid ground. Never mind that I’m alighting at a busy station, negotiating the four-wheel drives in what must be one of the largest car parks in town, and that I’m about to stand my ground on the unforgiving pavements of Station Street – I insist on giving Lewes the benefit of the doubt.

For what air hasn’t been improved by its backdrop? With the first sights of Lewes before me (Harvey’s Depot still proudly supporting its name if not its purpose, the elegant yet unshowy backs of Friars Walk, the chalk cliffs bringing to mind the sea), the whole thing is bound to feel good.

And this is a good time of year to be reflecting on such things. I’ve never met anyone who hasn’t been glad to see the back of GMT and the arrival of ‘plus one’, but there can’t be many better placed advocates than we Lewes commuters. At a stroke, the charms of Lewes become even more acute.

So the pleasure is all ours as we alight from the train. And who wouldn’t rather step down from the train and into a crevice of the Downs than into Croydon? The earlier starts, the longer journeys, the later finishes than our suburban counterparts – there are so many things that at times seem to sit so heavily on our shoulders. But, right now, with a couple of lungfuls of our native oxygen inside me, all is most definitely forgiven.

Cushy number

There’s something about the word ‘commute’ that induces immediate feelings of pity in the listener. In fact, hardly will I have uttered the words ‘Lewes’ and ‘London’ in the same sentence than my companion will be imagining me crushed up against a thousand others and demanding to know my vital door-to-door statistics. I’m pleased to say that my one-hour-and-forty-minute average is just enough to elicit a respectable dose of sympathy.

But let me stand up, at this point, for Southern. For it’s rare that I’m left standing. And, unseemly as it may be, I’m often in possession of a double seat right up until the hordes come on board at Haywards Heath, allowing me all the elbow room I need to eat my toast and drink my tea in peace.

As a way of spending an hour or so first thing, then, surely this isn’t quite so pitiable after all. I have a comfortable seat, more leg room than if I were flying economy (a good comparison to keep in mind), and, if my fellow commuters have any sense of decency, silence. Compare that to getting a small boy fed, watered, dressed and out the door – the task that falls to my non-commuting husband – and those over-eager sympathisers might begin to see why I’m the one with the cushy number.