CATCHING THE TRAIN... So, we'll leave the car at home, cycle to the station, across London and take the train from Paddington O.K? Er yes. OK? I suppose so. OK? Yes, yes all right, OK. (Thinks - I want Mick to drive down to Plymouth, so I can sleep in car and ignore fractious infant in back.) We missed the train.... Leaving Little Hadham in darkest Hertfordshire in a streaming downpour in mid-July, we wobbled up the hill - why do I never learn to be ruthless when it comes to packing panniers - (did I really need my velocity powered heated rollers and T'ai Chi handbook?) - and after ten minutes or so I noticed, being an observant type, that Mick and Robbie were nowhere to be seen. Seething with righteous wrath - we would never make the train - I slammed on my brakes and landed on the crossbar, wincing at the severed and crushing impact of those all those tender little bits on hard metal and also obtaining my first oil brand which I bear like the mark of Zorro on every excursion I ever take. Then they eventually hove into view like an overloaded Spanish galleon, with some pathetic tale of having lost half their luggage as a result of one of Robbie's attempts to capture a passing insect while strapped into his seat. Never mind, we set off with renewed vigour and determination and sailed down the hill into Bishop's Stortford just as the train pulled out. Sassin frassin rassin.... (at least I think that's what Mutley used to say in 'Wacky Races', having said that though, this is the woman who used to think Elvis Presley was singing "You ain't nothing but a hound-dog cracking all the time... you ain't never going to rivet....but I digress). The only way to make the Paddington Connection (make a note to use that as the title of my next block-busting crime thriller), was to illegally infiltrate the Stanstead Express, which is strictly verboten to cycle-toting commuters, a crime more heinous than making eye-contact with a fellow tube traveller. Shall we, shan't we, should we? Then with sudden decision (a rare occurrence) as the train pulled in, we hurled bikes, child and ourselves aboard and crouched nervously on the edge of our seats awaiting discovery. When the moment of truth eventually arrived and the guard came plodding on menacing size 12 Doc Martin shod feet down the corridor, which we had complete blocked with our bikes, our hearts quailed - it was just like that bit in The Great Escape when 'zey have vays of making you valk'. Pointing his bullet, bryl-creamed head in my direction he informed us that 'Bicycles are not permitted on this train', which roughly translates to - 'Were you not informed that the Stanstead Express is not to be boarded by bike-wielding, child-carrying, greeny-type weirdoes like yourselves'. 'Oh really, we're so sorry, I had no idea', I said with assumed girlish naivetι, he didn't believe me but we both knew the score. Anyway the train doesn't stop again between Bishops' Stortford and Liverpool Street, and though he was obviously sorely tempted to stop it anyway and throw us onto the tracks, he restrained the impulse. Thanks to our uncharacteristically bold manoeuvre we arrived at Liverpool Street on time, glowing with pride at having got away with something, after a lifetime of being good and never shop-lifting sweeties in Woolies. Then following careful study of our A-Z decided that the best way to Paddington was via Oxford Street.... Now I have worked in London, for several years, but having been brought up in a two-cow town in Cornwall, have never quite got used to the size and general chaos of it. I am also afflicted with a distinct lack of balance, coordination and a bit of a problem with left and right... It was OK at first, I put my head down, followed the others like glue and pedalled like hell across every junction. A dodgy looking Capri nearly side-swiped me in the City, but it was at the end of Oxford Street at the Marble Arch corner bit, that true terror struck. We had to execute a rightish sort of turn across a great sweep of road, and the selfish, cowardly duo ahead of me had charged across and left me, bang in the middle of this tarmac wilderness, at which point cars began pouring like Niagara from every direction, isolating me in the middle of a complete maelstrom of honking, swearing motorists. One of them missed my back wheel by an inch, as clutched with desperate panic and convinced that my hour was upon me I blindly charged across the melee on a tide of abuse to safety on the other side. I seem to recall actually shouting 'help, help'at one point, but it's probably just a feverish delusion... When my heart stopped doing a Cosi Powell impression and I could breathe again, we continued on our way and shortly arrived at the station. We rushed in only to discover that all trains to the West Country had been delayed due to a signal failure in Lower Warbleton-on-the Spunge or some such metropolis. So we fed Robbie a giant slobber-burger and took up station at the platform, if you know what I mean. Our train arrived at last and with only a 20 minute delay we set off for Plymouth. We had a fairly uneventful journey, marked at intervals by truly revolting beverages from the buffet and the awful torment of how long to hold out before falling on our packed-tea and wolfing the lot (about ten minutes). The best bit by far was the view out over Teignmouth just as the sun was setting and all the little fishing boats bobbing on the blue-black, blu-tack, blew-back sea (eat dust Dylan). Also memorable was the fact that the very Cornish couple sitting opposite us, who were greatly entertained by Robbie for the whole journey, turned out to come from the next village down the road from me in Cornwall, namely St Dominick - and to live right beside the church we were married in. Still didn't know them....but they were very nice! When we reached Plymouth at 10.30pm we hauled all our stuff off the train, got the bikes out of the guard's van and set about making improvised lights as we had forgotten to buy proper ones. I had a pencil torch strapped to my front bag - good job Plymouth City Council keeps its street lights up is all I can say, and we wobbled off in the direction of the ferry terminal. I expected to be allowed on board straight away when we got there. My normal practice is to clutch Robbie to my bosom and look pathetic so that they take pity on me, but it didn't work this time. We were parcelled together with a school party from Plympton also doing a cycling trek and had to make stimulating conversation with a bunch of hearty, healthy schoolteachers who looked as if life's greatest pleasure was to stand outside in the cold in the middle of the night, breathing in petrol fumes. We bumped into this party on and off for the whole of our first day in Brittany (that's where we are headed by the way, which I had omitted to mention), and the 'young gentlemen' of the party were great with Robbie, (who hero worships older boys - should I send him to public school? - perhaps not...), and were willing to be climbed on, to swing him about and submit to having small stones carefully dropped down the backs of their necks... We did our usual tour of the boat, endured half an hour in the hell of the kiddies play area, wandered with aloof sophistication through the duty free section, tut-tutting at the prices and the wine selection (though I do really want one of those enormous bars of hazelnut stuffed chocolate), had our obligatory drink in the bar so that Rob could entertain the troops shaking his funky thang on the dance floor and retired to our cabin. After many years of slinging our sleeping bags under stairwells, lying in corridors and balancing precariously on strange pieces of tarpaulined equipment on deck, we have now come to the conclusion that having Robbie entitles us to comfort and a decent night's sleep. Actually it entitles me to sharing a bunk with said infant and having his cheesy toes stuck in my ear all night. This particular evening, having tucked myself into the bunk and composed myself to sleep, I became aware of a curious thumping noise coming from outside the porthole. It sounded exactly as if a lifeboat or similar large object had come adrift and was crashing wantonly into the side of the ship. The Herald of Free Enterprise tragedy lurked uncomfortably at the back of my mind and I was convinced that this errant object was going to bash a hole in the side of the boat and we were all doomed. Consequently, I insisted that Mick go and report the matter to 'someone in authority'. I was really thrilled when he returned accompanied by a portly official decked out in full uniform who stood beside my bunk, peered in knowingly (me all in dishabille and not my best either), and informed 'Madame that zis noise is nozink to worry and cauzed by zee slapping of zee waves on zee side of zee sheep, and is veri normale'. I have seldom felt more of a complete eejit in my life - except possibly the time when I tested to see whether my tyre needed blowing up while still cycling along the road - nearly took my fingers off...). Abashed and reassured by this knowledge I drifted into sleep and tried hard not to think of the Poseidon Adventure. When we eventually woke up, having blissfully disregarded all wake up/get up/get up right now calls, the ship had thumped into port and everyone else was milling about eager to disembark. We fell out of bed, repelled repeated wilful attempts by the cleaning team to get into our cabin, threw on clothes and clutching bulging front bag and howling child, descended into the bowels of the ship to retrieve Rupert (my bike) and Mick's bike (which shall be nameless - as boys are too cool to give inanimate things a label). The parking deck was deserted as everyone else had already gone, so we sailed out alone into a pink streaked Brittany dawn, pausing for our first photo opportunity, before launching ourselves in the vague direction of Chateaulin and the Crozon Peninsular. The sun was rising and it felt like coming home. Note: I am pleased to mention that we overtook the party of hearty Plympton trekkers (en route to Pleyben), and were discovered by them sometime later lounging nonchalantly in a rustic coffee shop much to their deep chagrin. Reminds me of a story I once heard about a tortoise and hare race by some guy called Hislop, or something like that...
See Breton Bikes new venture! BB Sportscar Hire!