Gaah! The journey up was so easy I should have expected trouble on the way back. In theory it's only a short step from Ormskirk. Twenty something minutes to Preston, and a handful of minutes on top of that. We stepped off the train ready for the evening, and happy that we still had plenty of time to enjoy it.
On the way back, however, forget about it. Network Rail, in their infinite wisdom decided to dig up the tracks and not tell anyone (I'd checked with thetrainline.com and they assured me that the trains were running. Mind you, they also thought Paddington was the closest tube station to Lords so what do they know? The moral of the story here, clearly, is Don't Trust The Internet. Unless it's your 100% accurate super soaraway Coastalblog, obviously). So they were running buses instead.
God, I hate buses. They take ages, they have to play the lottery that is the motorway (you lose! a five mile tailback!) and you can't get up and move carriages when a baby starts crying and just doesn't stop.
This was then followed by a rackety old school train from Preston, which was kind of comforting in its ramshackleness, and did feature one moment when I spotted an ageing hardman letting his guard down and his eyes soften as his wife rested her head on his shoulder. It was such an unaffected gesture and I was kinda touched, such sweetness and trust. I don't really know why it got to me, but it did. So that was good.
However this goodwill to all men evaporated slightly when we got to Liverpool Central to be confronted by a new pet hate of mine (I've not come across it often enough for it to really be ingrained yet, but it's getting there). People who don't get the hell out of the way on escalators. In London I'm alwys struck by the regimented way people stand to the side on escalators, to allow those in a hurry (i.e. me) past. Not in Liverpool Central, oh no. All over the bloody show. Normally, no problem. Fine. Take another chance to let your muscles atrophy. Knock yourselves out. Just don't do it when the train I need to catch is at the platform. No, no, not any more it's not. Half an hour until the next one.
Bastards
Net result though, forty minutes up, four hours back. Thankyou Network Rail, and thankyou the fat fucks to whom the idea that someone might actually be trying to catch the damn train was as ungraspable as a greased pig. Still, don't let that put you off. Lancaster's great.
On the way back, however, forget about it. Network Rail, in their infinite wisdom decided to dig up the tracks and not tell anyone (I'd checked with thetrainline.com and they assured me that the trains were running. Mind you, they also thought Paddington was the closest tube station to Lords so what do they know? The moral of the story here, clearly, is Don't Trust The Internet. Unless it's your 100% accurate super soaraway Coastalblog, obviously). So they were running buses instead.
God, I hate buses. They take ages, they have to play the lottery that is the motorway (you lose! a five mile tailback!) and you can't get up and move carriages when a baby starts crying and just doesn't stop.
This was then followed by a rackety old school train from Preston, which was kind of comforting in its ramshackleness, and did feature one moment when I spotted an ageing hardman letting his guard down and his eyes soften as his wife rested her head on his shoulder. It was such an unaffected gesture and I was kinda touched, such sweetness and trust. I don't really know why it got to me, but it did. So that was good.
However this goodwill to all men evaporated slightly when we got to Liverpool Central to be confronted by a new pet hate of mine (I've not come across it often enough for it to really be ingrained yet, but it's getting there). People who don't get the hell out of the way on escalators. In London I'm alwys struck by the regimented way people stand to the side on escalators, to allow those in a hurry (i.e. me) past. Not in Liverpool Central, oh no. All over the bloody show. Normally, no problem. Fine. Take another chance to let your muscles atrophy. Knock yourselves out. Just don't do it when the train I need to catch is at the platform. No, no, not any more it's not. Half an hour until the next one.
Bastards
Net result though, forty minutes up, four hours back. Thankyou Network Rail, and thankyou the fat fucks to whom the idea that someone might actually be trying to catch the damn train was as ungraspable as a greased pig. Still, don't let that put you off. Lancaster's great.
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