Travels With Brian

The End of the Line...

...is Penzance. 

It's not quite the southwest tip of England, as that title belongs to the accurately named 'Land's End', but it is where the train stops and turns around to go back towards London. So if you want to go any further you have to find alternate transport. It's also where many of my wife's family live and happens to be three hours away.*

*- It's just under two hours in the car, but my wife had taken that, so I was on tracks not tarmac. It takes longer by train as the line has to snake around the coast south of Devon, something I'll explain more about in a bit.

Before I headed southwest though I first had to get across Exeter to the train station. Exeter isn't a massive city, but it's a pleasant one. It's surrounded by rolling Devon hills that are a lush green in summer (it rains a lot), and the sea is just a few miles to the south. We can see clear across the city from where we live. Within a few minutes you can be dragged on the end of the dog into unspoilt fields, through lanes and along tracks and ancient greenways cut deep into the land through use and time.

And on Sunday it pretty much grinds to a halt.

It was obvious to anyone watching that I'd not just flown in from Scotland. Linen clothing and sandals, yup; dressed for a nice English drizzle, nope. Welcome home ye tourist ye.

When I finally managed to stagger outside into the warm drizzle** I headed for the Taxi rank, but it held nothing but a shopping trolley and an empty coffee cup.

**- warm means it's summer, cold means it's winter

So, it was the bus.

Buses in other countries seem more interesting, and more useful for some reason. I don't know why that is, but maybe the fact that I'd taken the bus to work for many years in Exeter had put me off the local ones. After several years of wearing headphones (even if the batteries had gone dead) and sticking my nose in a book so I didn't have to talk to anyone, I started riding a bike to work instead. It got me fit and I didn't have to worry that Brian was going to snap and start throwing morons out of windows.***

*** - sorry, that went a little dark, but I'm sure that someone at some point has managed to write "sit next to me if you're a nutjob" on my forehead without me noticing as I always seem to end up with some loony sitting next to me either trying to read my book with me or convince me that Elvis works for the local council as a bin man.

But, credit where it's due, that day the local bus service did me proud, rocked up within five minutes of me standing there, and deposited me a short distance from home about twenty minutes later.

Shower. Food. Refill man bag with clothing appropriate to the local climate. Catch another bus, also on time. Get train.

Sometimes travel just happens. Sometimes it's a complete nightmare. That day the only thing that went wrong was that I tried to Push a door that said Pull. A common mistake and it gave the teenage girl behind me a moment of amusement, so at least I made someone happy.

The train journey down to the far southwest of England is a study in Victorian engineering. Much of the line was designed by the brilliant Victorian engineer, Isambard Kingdom Brunel, with the wrought-iron masterpiece that is the Tamar Bridge the crowning glory of the trip for most people. Opened in 1859, it was Brunel's last finished project as he died a few months later, but it is still in use today. My favourite bit though is as it winds along the coast by the small town of Dawlish with its rusty red cliffs in which you can see the original patterns created by blown sand dunes some 250 Million years ago.****

**** - I was an Engineering Geologist in my previous working life and did a lot of work trying to prevent that particular bit of railway from falling into the sea. It's a beautiful bit of engineering and a beautiful bit of coastline too and you can also get a very good cream tea there. Over the years I worked on several coastal stabilisation projects around Dawlish, and ultimately I've come to the conclusion that the sea always wins, we just temporarily spoil its fun here and there.

Due to the somewhat perilous nature of the railway being so close to the sea, the train pootles sedately through that area giving sad rock geeks like Brian and me the chance to indulge their sandstone fetish and try and ignore the waves breaking over the sea wall and hitting the side of the train (and yes, this happens, see pic below).

I know I'm biased because I grew up in Devon, and my wife's Cornish, but I do consider the south-west to be some of the most beautiful countryside in the UK. There are beautiful golden beaches, dramatic cliffs, rugged moorland, lush green fields, incredible geology, and diverse habitats. The people tend to be rather wonderful too. And that day I was on the way to see some of my favourite people.

But the train to Cornwall isn't exactly an express and once you get past Plymouth it seems to stop at every odd little train station in every village, hamlet and stables. There are still some stops in the south-west where you can actually hail a train, and locals know the vagaries of the local timetable by heart.

"It's a slow train normally, except on Wednesday. It don't stop in Camborne on a Wednesday."

"Yup, you can catch a train here, but you need to stick your hand out when you're stood on the platform or the driver won't stop. Just don't stick your hand out in front of the Paddington Express." 

Eventually the train paid homage to Brunel and carried me high above the Tamar, past the ancient port of Plymouth, and into Cornwall, legendary home of the Cornish pasty, possibly King Arthur, and definitely the inlaws.

And, as usual, when I finally arrived feeling a little travel-worn they greeted me with a hug, a glass of wine and a plate of food, pretty much in that exact order. Works for me.

Paris to Penzance in one day. Never again. And I threw the sandals out too.