Something is happening to the British railway system

Edale, United Kingdom

Something is happening to the British railway system and this time it is not all bad. You see, I was brought up on endless delays, unkempt carriages and a complete inability to understand why two people could buy a ticket at the same price yet one passenger would be seated and the other obliged to stand. The familiar, red double arrow sign that gives directions to railway stations throughout the land long ago justifiably earned its nickname of the arrow of indecision. For ages, it appears, British Railways has simply not made sense.

But for the last few days I have been hopping on and off trains as if I had no tomorrow. I have been bustling between London and Manchester and, with a rush of blood to the head, made a brief trip to the Peak District on one of those stop-start things that lurches and judders just when you are off your guard. Some things have not changed, that is for sure. I have still found the carriages to be filled with folk who are almost identical in appearance. The short-haired middle-aged male with slightly more belly than our Maker desired, the younger adolescent transfixed by a touch-screen something, or the late-twenties females who always travel in pairs. They sit cross-legged opposite each other and talk ten to the dozen. And have you noticed how their legs are always crossed in the opposite direction? It says little for the body language of Mancunian communication.

So off I set from London town, heading north, at least I thought I was headed north until I was told that delay was inevitable. With a touch of glee in his voice, maybe even pomposity, the male announcer declared that all trains were cancelled thanks to a simultaneous derailment in one part of the north London railway system and a train breakdown to the north-west. A train traveller’s prospects did not look good. I let my fat fingers poke away at the tiny tablet screen and rapidly learned that driving was not an option; my best hope was to stay put. I am glad I did. Within two minutes of being told everything from underground to overground to life itself had been cancelled, up flashed the overhead sign to say my train was boarding. My lesson? Never believe announcers. Always opt for the written word.

Once on board I sensed there was clear intent by the train driver to drive her company to the wall for good. It was when we were just outside Manchester that her plot was revealed. You see, British Rail seems to be getting compensation crazy. Or at least, if the company is not, their employees certainly are.

Over the carriage intercom came the female, pilot-like voice. “We are shortly to arrive at Manchester Piccadilly. I am sorry for the delay. Basically if my male colleagues could drive these things properly we would not have had a problem. Anyway, please be advised that a 30-minute delay entitles you to compensation. And, would you believe, we are just outside Manchester Piccadilly, ladies and gentlemen, and we are 29 minutes and 40 seconds delayed. Now if I can just slow this thing down…”

The voice tailed off, the train pulled in 30 seconds delayed and within 24 hours, compensation had hit my account, even without my application. Truly remarkable. Thank you, unidentified lady driver.

I thought that was it, at least until I decided to spend the morning walking up and down rain-sodden, peat-clad hillsides in the Peak District. Oh that peat. It is black, it is sticky and it sucks you in, down and away without the least warning.

Plenty of years back I was sitting alone on a hillside somewhere near the village of Edale – essentially the heart of the Peaks – thinking I was alone. Be advised, you are never alone in a British National Park. The things are so small that it is unlikely a fellow walker will be any further than a few hundred metres distant. So no surprises, within a minute or two of my imagined solitude I heard the squelch, squelch, squelch of another pack-laden human staggering through the mist. The ghost-like shadow was soon upon me and I am unsure who was more surprised, or maybe offended. You see all hillwalkers imagine the mountains are made for them, and them alone. Fellow walkers are welcome but are actually interlopers whom we must each tolerate. Mountains are surprisingly busy places.

It is one of the key advantages of the terrible English weather. You can only occasionally see your fellow man, or woman, or school children, or dogs, or on one occasion, cat on a lead with a big and bushy, ginger-striped tail.

So this chap appeared like an apparition and nodded acknowledgement. I nodded back and felt I should say something at least. It did not have to be much. Perhaps “Good morning” (too civilised), perhaps “Good day” (too Australian), perhaps even “Good luck” (too pessimistic). So in the end I opted for “’Owdoo”, which is a sort-of local greeting that can mean anything you wish and rarely needs a reply.

“’Owdoo,” came the unrequired response. Yet a conversation had clearly started, between we two strangers who had never previously met. I was required to continue. So I did.

“I hate peat,” I began. Before I could continue my new companion looked at me with half hatred, eyes boring into my being and a forehead ever so slightly puckered.

“Well bugger you, then,” he said, “my name’s Pete. I happen to like it. Sod off.” Without a further word he had disappeared into the mist muttering obscenities that are simply inappropriate to repeat here.

So that is the Peak District, you see. The unexpected can happen, as it did when I was on the train to Edale from Manchester. First, I had the planet’s fullest bladder, and burst into the single on-board loo to be greeted by the oh-so-traditional sign banning any form of excretion while in a station. My one-legged hop began and five minutes later we were off, I had done what men do, and was considerably happier as a result.

One kilo lighter I found myself the remotest corner in the first of the two carriages and sat behind two teenage males who were surreptitiously looking at nude females on a tiny mobile. It is difficult to know where to look when such things happen so I did what most men of my age would do. I looked over their shoulder and shared their view. Two adolescents and a dirty old man heading on a stop-start journey to Edale.

But it was the ticket man, I think they call him an inspector or some equivalently grand title, who made my day. I thought I had secured a real bargain with a return ticket that cost little more than a posh cup of coffee. The benefit, you see, of the most valuable item issued by the UK Government and that has secured my undying loyalty to the flag; the Senior Railcard. I applied for mine on the very birthday I became eligible and now use it more than a typical credit card.

So up came the inspector and asked to see my ticket. Normally they flash past but on this occasion he wished to have a closer look. I handed him the orangey-yellow piece of card that masquerades as a ticket. Oh dear, I thought. Well actually I thought more than “Oh dear” but the principle is clear. I had been caught. My ticket had been so cheap that the uniformed man was going to find me guilty and establish a way to make me pay more. Surreptitiously I let my hand slide towards my wallet pocket. Further payment was bound to be due. No one could travel on a train for so little, especially to scenic, albeit bedraggled Edale.

Then the inspector spoke. “You paid too much,” he said.

“Too much?”

“Too much.”

“Oh,” was all I could say.

“You should have bought a Wayfarer and you could go wherever you liked for even less. Give me a few minutes and I’ll bring something for you.”

And he did. Two minutes later he had returned, thrust a form into my still trembling hand, smiled and left me in peace. He was right, too. I could have made the journey for less. You see something is indeed happening to the British Railway system and this time it is not all bad.