Chavs and Cream Teas

The Atlantic Coast Express

There used to be a train called The Atlantic Coast Express – ACE for short – that left Waterloo at 11am sharp for the West Country.  It traversed the old London & South Western route via Basingstoke, Salisbury and Exeter before some of the carriages were dropped off for places like Exmouth, Ilfacombe, Bude and far flung Padstow.  I think that when steam trains stopped running sometime in the summer of 1967, the poor old ACE went down the river, along with other named trains like the Bournemouth Belle, that so excited anoraks in those days.  I used to have a video of the ACE steaming down to Salisbury, circa 1962, but that too went down the river and when the bailiffs turned up, I dived in too, for a 10 year dip actually.

The last time I went out West without getting wet, was for a business meeting to Exeter, during the 90s.  After spending almost 300 smackers going first class and buying the ticket with five minutes to spare, I tucked into a good fry up in the dining car and then, and then I arrived at what can only be described as a complete dump.  The meeting was great fun – discussing tourist signs and whatnot – but oh my dear, the yokels.  My boss and I decided to adjourn to a local hostelry for another fry up with the Daily Mail brigade. Later, we both walked across a park - full of the kind of people I’d later become - and oh salvation, the station and hearing the word Paddington coming over the tannoy, oh bliss it was to climb aboard.

I must confess that I love travelling by train and this is what made the whole day so enjoyable, particularly, because I also knew that I’d be returning to London.  In fact, I remember once spending a horrendous four days up North and the absolute joy of hearing the announcer at Manchester’s Piccadilly station mention the such and such departing at 17.30 for London Euston and off I trotted.  Once I was not so lucky when I saw another 17.30 pulling out of Glasgow Central and then, and then I had to get out to the airport and I HATE flying too. 

I think what I’m trying to say is that these days; I don’t like spending time out - of a big capital city - in any country.  Here in Britain, I don’t mind too much, the odd day or so in a five star but then I get a bit itchy and want to go home.  I really love the built environment, the diversity, the sounds and music of the city, the smells, the sirens, traffic jams, pavement cafes, love it all.

The writing group is planning a week’s strip, sorry, trip to the country for a bit of creative thingy me bob. It’s actually learning how to be creative and write better like [sic], in the glorious Devon countryside near Exeter.  We’ll be driving down and I’ll be the em, driver.  Nothing wrong with that, I can drive anywhere, it’s just that I don’t fancy living in the green pastures for five days, I’ll be counting every second before we return. I don’t mind if I can return each night to London by train but sleeping in the provinces is just so passé and then there’s the sex problem too.  I suppose I’d go to Brighton for a week because (1) I like the sea (2) Brighton is not in the least provincial and (3) there’s plenty of the physical if you want it.  I’d even go celibate if the writing group went to Rome, Madrid or Paris but Devon, oh my god, all those cream teas, dumb locals, horrible smells, boy racers, hoodies…

I’ve always had trouble saying no to people I like and respect and this Devon trip is no exception but going would be absolute agony for me.  And then there’s the heat of September and all that Malarkey.  The only solution to this problem is if I drive the group down on Monday, drop em off and head back to the great smoke by train and repeat the exercise on the Friday.  Do we have a solution here; I await a response.

Cheers.

Andrew