Another one from a packet. This is a new one for me. I don’t recall seeing it before, in either a jar, pouch, or restaurant menu.
Karahi curry (also spelled kadai) is a popular North Indian/Pakistani stir-fried curry known for its bold, robust flavors and thick, semi-dry gravy. It’s traditionally cooked in a karahi (a deep, wok-style cast-iron or steel pan), which gives it a slightly smoky, charred taste.
It’s usually served with naan, roti, or rice and is quick to make compared to slower-cooked curries.
I made this with just added chicken. Very quick and easy to make.
Verdict: Mid.
Its a tangy curry, which I like. A fair bit of heat that lingers on the lips and tongue for a while, but the over all taste was only ok. Each mouthful was ordinary and the heat only came on at the end.
The wife said it smelled nice when she passed me in the kitchen. Not exactly high praise.
It wasn’t unpleasant but no great desire to have again. 5/10.
Curry and Chips
Ingredients wise…
Seems legit
I can’t see any nasties in the ingredients. No E numbers, no emulsifiers, no acidity regulators, no preservatives or additives or artificial colours. By my own principles I should he able to eat this until the cows come home.
Curry Funions
These came from Aldi, and though not strictly a curry, they are curry flavoured, so I will add it here.
Balti Flavoured Onion Rings. Or maybe just Balti flavour rings. They are onion rings, but not onion flavour.
Curried Funions
What can I say, they’re delicious, which is exactly why I won’t be buying anymore. Aside from the rapeseed oil, there doesn’t seem to be anything too offensive in them. They seem fairly natural. But theyre not natural. They are cheap, they are stodgy and they are delicious. But they’re not a meal.
Standing in line for a Truck Haven breakfast, carefully considering my choices, I am struck by another epiphany. The sort of epiphany that most people have before they reach double digits, but a thicky like me needs to be prediabetic to grasp.
If I have the eight piece breakfast, I don’t need to make a choice about anything, I can have everything that I want. Bacon, Sausage, egg, black pudding, haggis, hash browns, mushrooms, tomatoes, toast…but thats just way too much food. No wonder I am fat, I only need five items.
But here’s the rub. If I am limited to five items, I have to really think about what I want and choose wisely. My breakfast will be complete, and will be made up of the things I like the most.
And that is a handy segway in to my main point. There is a public health crisis at the moment. Too many of us are eating too much, and we are eating is shite. We all know that we should eat home cooked food, from scratch, using fresh basic ingredients. It tastes so much better than processed food. And how can it not? The main ingredient is love.
When we work long hours, travel long hours, the task of preparing something more elaborate than a cheese toastie during our few hours of freedom looms large and ominous, but we must maintain our resolve to stick to the plan, and to cook something decent.
And then we discover Aldi. With all of its choices and bright colours, and promising flavours. How are the regular customers not driven insane with the sheer range selection?
On Friday I cooked three types of ribs, and some wings, for just me and the youngest. We ate them outside in the garden, at sunset. It was lovely. I took a photo.
Just my first bowl, I had three more…
I don’t sit out in the garden often enough. We don’t seem to have the climate for it, though thankfully that seems to be changing, but when I do sit outside I am reminded of all of the gardening that I should have done but didn’t.
But anyway, back to Aldi.
I only went in for some chicken wings to have with sauce. I filled a large basket. Delicious processed food and sugary snacks and drinks.
Gluttony is perhaps the one sin to which I am most vulnerable, with Sloth as a close second. And with prices so low, it becomes a battle of spirit over will to deny one’s self these earthly pleasures.
I look back on the good old days, back to childhood, the seventies and eighties, when everything had to he made from scratch. If you wanted a pie, you needed to know how to make pastry. And there were fewer choices too, you had to plan it in advance, you had to put the effort in. Gluttony required some degree of work befire Aldi and its ilk enabled, packaged, branded and discounted that sin and sold it to us for pennies. And now we’re all fat.
Maybe not all of us. But the night is young. What was it Jesus said about cutting out your eye if it offends.
It was my own fault. I should have been up and about, but I was having a lazy morning of it. Sat in bed with my coffee, catching up on my correspondence, aka doom scrolling Facebook.
I don’t doom scroll X (Twitter) any more because I terminated my account and immediately found myself with more freedom to relax, and work, and study, and write etc, and life is indeed good. Except that Facebook still exists.
But anyway, scrolling to see what my old housemates were up to these days, and what suspicious scrotely deeds my neighbour’s had reported, I came across an Advert for a model train.
LNER Azuma
Its a model train. I recognise the type of train it is, and I would quite like one in my collection, but there was no indication of scale, manufacturer, price etc. I wasn’t intrigued enough to click the link, but I did slide left to see what else was for sale.
About three images in I was stopped in my tracks. I didn’t know whether to be offended by crass merchandising, or impressed with an inventive way to creatively honour God and spread the message.
Cross?
Its an imitation lego portrayal of the crucifixion. This is quite likely to be AI, the brick studs don’t make sense if its real. There is a tile that says “Lost” on the cross, and a tombstone that says “Jesus”. The whole scene is preposterous, but by now I am half tempted to buy it.
I click. I am directed to the Play Store to download the Ali Express App. I don’t. Instead, I return to the ad, and see what other nonsense they are peddling.
More Imitation Lego
They have quite the range of lego sets. A Star Bug from Red Dwarf, Ghostbusters HQ, Battlestar Galactica. Even a ruined fortress, in lego. Its like they read my childhood mind. And this is just a small sample. They have Star Trek, and Stargate and all sorts.
Even Lego Trains
I would be very tempted to buy a Lego tube train, especially if it was less than half price. The one on the right looks like the Orient Express.
And its not just lego stuff.
They have DVD sets that don’t look quite right.
Imitation Voyager
They even have space saving things.
No comment
Who wouldn’t want an inflatable sofa with a foot bath in their garden?
But things get even weirder.
Cod Piece?
Are Cod Pieces making a come back? I have no idea what this is or why there is any sort of demand for it.
Sheafs?
I can guess what these might be, and shudder at what they might be for, but shouldn’t they be individually wrapped?
Self inflating?
Again, not sure what I am looking at here. It seems to be a powered self inflating bra.
No idea.
What even is this? Is it life size? Is it alive? A robot with specialised purpose?
Maybe its a doll, but it doesn’t seem to be jointed.
Ball Jointed Doll?
They do sell ball jointed dolls, though, if anyone is interested. These are presumably like Cindy and Barbie type things. I don’t know why they’re named though.
The less said about this next one the better.
Erm, ew??
I will say one thing, they have Dr Who costumes, or at least one. The least popular one. The one that probably destroyed the show. But thats all in the past.
Sixth Doctor Costume
Genuinely don’t know what to make of all of this, except that perhaps, Woolworths was the best place to buy lego and trainsets. We all miss Woolworths.
Edited to add…
Shortly after publishing this post, I saw another advert on Facebook, more Christianity repackaged as imitation lego playsets.
I do not believe this set exists. It looks like AI to me. So whats the scam?
For the Jewish, following Mosaic Law, to not observe the day of rest, is a sin. I’m starting to think they’re on to something.
In my adult life I can think of not one single instance of taking a day of rest. There are many many many days when I have done absolutely sod all, but I would argue that those don’t count.
Being hungover isn’t restful, being ill isn’t restful, being depressed isn’t restful, creative avoidance of tasks isn’t restful, being indolent isn’t restful. For the last one, I have found indolence to be particularly deleterious, the opposite of restful. I have noticed over the years that unearned rest accrues a debt to be repaid.
For Christians, our day of rest is Sunday, for my generation, that grew up in the eighties and early nineties, Sundays were awful. There was nothing to get up for, so you didn’t. Friends never seemed to be about on a Sunday for some reason, so when you finally did get out of bed and go down stairs, mam was already on with the Sunday dinner, and that seemed to take all morning. Dad was at the pub.
I don’t really understand that, thinking about it now. It was normal then, in some households, for the man of the house to spend Sunday morning at their local pub, come home when the pub shut, eat their Sunday Dinner, and then sleep it off on the sofa. I hated that. We had one TV, there was nothing on it to watch, and even if there was, you couldn’t hear it.
No one to play with. Nowhere to go. Nothing was open. The whole day was centred on the Sunday Dinner. We did not attend church.
For a fussy eater such as I was, every sunday I wondered what I had done wrong to deserve Sunday dinner, it was punishment. “Best meal of the week” my Dad would say, but he would say that, it was made exactly to his taste, or else.
I’m off on a tangent now as I recall how Dad liked his Sunday dinner. Back then, everything was boiled to mush, except the peas, peas were sloppy. Potatoes were either boiled or roasted, and in any form, they were always the favourite. If they were mashed, I could mix in the cabbage and cover with gravy to make it more palatable. Mashed potatoes in our house were just potatoes that were mashed, not seasoned, not creamy, not buttery. The gravy was thin, dad didn’t like thick gravy, it hid the flavour of the veg or something. I couldn’t eat the peas. Sprouts were everything I hated about cabbage but condensed in to several potent packets of pure hate. I liked the meat, but that was always well done, very well done infact. Pink beef was considered to be raw and had to cooked dry. I have no complaints about the Yorkshire Puddings.
I always hated Sunday Dinner. But now its the highlight of my week. My children however hate Sunday dinner every bit as much as I did, which I can’t fathom. I do creamy garlic mash, they won’t eat it. I do boiled new potatoes, garnished with melted butter, dried herbs, and pink rocksalt. They won’t eat it. I do crispy roast potatoes, parboiled, roasted in beef dripping and seasoned with garlic salt and a dash of pepper. I have spent years mastering the perfect spud, and those do get eaten. Peas are not allowed in the house at the same time as me. I don’t have many house laws, but peas are absolutely forbidden. Strangely, the sprouts get eaten. Brocoli and cauliflower go down well too. For meat, I like it a bit rare. All that said, and they still hate my Sunday Dinners. I suppose its not cooked to their taste either. I have received complaints about my Yorkshire puddings.
During my teens, there was a campaign to keep Sundays special. Keep Sundays boring more like. At the time, I was thankful that it failed. I wasn’t religious, why should Sundays be any different to any other day. I also didn’t have a job at the time either, and that went some way to (miss) informing my opinions on matters of economics and productivity.
Things have changed a lot in thirty five years. Sunday trading was fantastic for people like me that have low motivation and low impulse control. If the shops were shut on Sundays, I would not be able to cook a Sunday lunch. I buy mother’s day gifts on Mother’s Day. I am a busy guy, when else am I going to fit in a trip to IKEA?
It always felt wrong to me, the shopping centres inundated at the weekend with hoards of shoppers looking for stuff they don’t need, and yet I participated. Sunday shopping meant that I didn’t have to plan in advance. To fail to plan is to plan to fail. My whole life was built on the premise that I didn’t need to plan.
Things are different now. I don’t know if its age, burn out, or because I do go to church now. Its not like I need an excuse to do sod all. What I think has changed is that I am understanding that rest isn’t just a break from the work, its a break from thinking about the work.
Jesus broke the commandment to observe the Sabbath saying that the Sabbath is for the man, not the man for the Sabbath. I took that to mean that the day of rest is there for us if we need it. What I now realise is that we need the day of rest, and that is why we have it.
Christians take Sunday as their holy day, so its not the Sabbath that is being observed, but I will be having my day of rest from now on.
That doesn’t mean I won’t do anything at all, there will still be washing up to be done and things of that nature. Making Sunday lunch takes a lot of effort, but I have never considered it to be work. I close the kitchen door, open a beer, put on a podcast or audio book, and start chopping. How is that work?
I have spent the first two hours of my first day of rest writing this blog piece. Is that work? Not really, I enjoyed every minute of it. Phone in one hand, coffee in the other.
Planned for the day is morning Mass, shops for school packed lunches and some wine. That should have been done yesterday, when we were shopping. There’s that pernicious lack of necessity to plan again. No Sunday lunch to cook, we’re going to Truck Haven for a carvery while we still can. Maybe fold some laundry and put it away, is that work? Maybe, probably be is. Should have been done yesterday…
Yesterday I purchased a Cornish Pasty for seven pound. Over seven pound infact, call it seven pound sixty five for the sake of argument. I thought that was excessive for a pasty. A meal designed for tin miners to take down in to the depths of the bowels of the Earth, with basic ingredients, on a poverty wage stretched to its limit.
It reminded me of a conversation I had at work after suggesting Italian as a lunch option.
“Italian? Thats student grub, poverty food!”
“What do you mean?”
“Its all flour and cheese. Ten pence worth of flour, fifty pence worth of cheese and cream and a slither of meat.”
I hadn’t really thought of it that way before, but he was right. Pasta isn’t expensive, neither is bread, neither is cheese, and cheese is often used sparingly.
So I thought back to the last time I had Italian. It was just me, Billy No Mates away for work. I had gone to a cosy homely looking restaurant near King’s Cross and after inspecting the menu for some time I made my choice.
Rigatoni All’Amatriciana – a spicy rustic yellow datterino compote, pancetta and grated pecorino cheese. £19.50.
I don’t know what most of those words mean, but £19.50.
£19.50 won’t buy you a steak near King’s Cross, but £26.00 will, and it will come with chunky chips, fried in dripping if you’re lucky, and a fried mushroom, and onions rings, and a side salad. And you’ll feel satisfied and full.
The Rigatone All’Amatriciana comes in a very large bowl, and that only serves to highlight how little of it there is. Almost sod all infact.
One mouthful
Don’t get me wrong, it was tasty. I can’t complain about the price because I saw it on the menu before I ordered, but the portion size. I was reminded of when we were weaning the little ones on solid food and they had started to eat pasta. I gave a one year old a bigger portion than what I was presented with at this restaurant.
One of my signature dishes, that I have been cooking since I left home uses an entire bag of pasta, two packets of bacon, two onions, a punnet of mushrooms, four cans of tomatos, three cloves of garlic, a table spoon of smoked paprika, a handful of fresh basil, and a grating of mozzarella or cheddar, and a garlic baguette. It serves four, it costs less than £2.50 per serving, and the plates are stacked high, and licked clean.
After leaving this unnamed restaurant not far from King’s Cross, I found myself at Sainsburys picking up a hoisin duck wrap and a bottle of chilled white wine to enjoy in my hotel room.
The View from Random Hotel
To my knowledge, I have not been to an Italian restaurant since. Not even for happy hour pizza.
Truck Haven in Carnforth is a popular 24-hour truck stop on Scotland Road. The local Lancaster Guardian news recently reported that the site was acquired by petrol forecourt company Ascona Group, expanding their portfolio.
Truck Haven is an independent motorway service station. They offer great value on fuel, accommodation, and food. Their breakfasts are phenomenally good value, and incredibly filling. I could fill a gallery below with pictures of excellent breakfasts that I have enjoyed at Truck Haven over the years.
Too many great memories to share
Whats the problem? You might well ask.
Well, its going to become a Costa Del Greggs isn’t it. No more hearty good honest home cooked meals. Its generic slop isn’t it. A future of refined and optimised generic slop.
And its not like I don’t like a Greggs. I do enjoy a Greggs Bacon Roll with a dob of brown sauce, or a steak bake, or a slice of pizza. Its become a feature of my trips to London.
But what I would prefer is an independent baker, with honest to God homecooked pie and bacon butty goodness.
A few years ago, when we lived in Heysham, there was a Pie Shop on the main road called Radcliffes. A pie maker made famous for having a massive family and appearing on TV for several years. They made the best pies I have ever had.
These were the best pies.
They had all the regular favourites like steak and ale, but they also did delicious alternatives like Chicken in Prosecco, and the pastry was so moist and delicate where it needed to be, crisp and richly flavoursome where it mattered. Why can’t every town have a Radcliffes Pie shop? And why must every independent thats worth saving become a Greggs or a Costa. When will this enshittification process end?
Was it original sin? The fall of man, the corruption of the world? Is that why everything is becoming progressively more shit? Are the End of Days upon us? If it is, you’d expect to see more in the Bible about pies.
While we are on about enshittification, there used to be a time when you could just copy a url to link to an article, but not anymore, now it generates a Google link like the one below. It took me a while to get a raw direct link for the Guardian article posted above, instead of this google nonsense:
“Better not, theres disruption on the trains so I gonna scoot early.”
I had seen an alert on my phone warning me about the travel chaos so I’d taken the executive decision to leave the office and get the earlier train.
There was no Earlier train. There were no trains at all. The wires were down, the knitting, as its affectionately known on the railways, on account of how complex it can appear to be.
Trains were getting cancelled left, right, and centre, but it wasn’t looking good. I spent some time on the platform waiting for news that one of the Scotland trains would run, chatting with other passengers and staff, but we watched the Manchester train being boarded to fill capacity, and then being emptied as that too was being cancelled.
Cancelled
The platform staff could not advise us what to do, but I really didn’t fancy another night in the capital, so I headed to King’s Cross where I could get a train to Leeds, and in the worst case scenario, get a hotel in Leeds.
I arrived at King’s Cross a few minutes before six and the very helpful staff told me that the 18:02 was about to depart for Leeds, so I headed to the platform to find it. I found it, and it wasn’t even standing room only, it was cling to the outside only, so I had no choice but to let it go.
How much more pleasant is Kings Cross than Euston? Cavernous glass roof, clean, bright and airy, compared to Euston’s grot and oppressive low concrete ceiling.
There was a train at 18:39, and I returned to the ticket gate to see what else I could learn. At the gate, a group of primary school children were heading back up north after a day trip. I recognised them from Euston, and from their hoodies, I could see that they were from a school near me. They were heading the same way, and I got the sense that the teacher was on the ball. If I listened to her instructions, I wouldn’t go far wrong either.
The train arrived. A modern 800 series Intercity express. Truth be told I had been looking for an excuse to travel the Leeds way and try out the new LNER fleet, or even better, travel one last time on one of the Intercity 225s, but my ticket doesn’t ordinarily cover that route. It would require some major disruption so that my ticket would be accepted by LNER. And as if by magic…
On the west coast route, there is always at least one unreserved carriage, sometimes three. I have no idea what the method is on the East Coast, so I just looked for an available seat.
Seat 70
What I did not realise, nor could I have anticipated, was that on LNER, when you find a seat that says available, someone else can reserve it after you have sat there. I find this unfathomable and disgraceful. And I only learned this after that school from Cumbria reserved every seat in the carriage, after I had sat down.
Luckily for me, the children were just told to find a seat and sit in it, and they all did find seats. But many other passengers did not. There were people on board trying to get to places like Liverpool, Carlisle, Blackpool and Glasgow.
When we departed, the train ran non stop except for pick up only at Stevenage, and then at Retford, Doncaster, Wakefield and Leeds.
I know Doncaster station so well, but I’ve been there just once in 25 years, and that was to collect a car.
It wasn’t an uncomfortable journey, but it was stressful. We had just minutes to connect with a Preston train at Leeds, and that train too had just minutes to connect with a Barrow in Furness train at Preston.
I made it home in the end, and in one piece. Meeting each connection with just minutes to spare. And I finally made it home just before midnight, where a glass of wine was waiting for me. Very long day.
My stop, later than usual.
Before arriving home, as always, the Follow Me Bridge, in the dark, and alone, stands between the me and the glass of wine every time I travel. Click here for the short ghost story.
I am outraged. I haven’t been this incensed since I learned that cigarette vending machines in pubs didn’t vend packs of twenty, but 16 in a twenty pack. Outrageous. And that was over thirty years ago.
Any way. It turns out that buffet car wine doesn’t come in 25cl bottles like you might reasonably expect, it’s 187ml. each miniature bottle is 1/4 of a proper bottle, not 1/3. It’s not even a glass of wine, they might as well sell it in a can.
But they are included in the meal deal. So there is that.
The Train Line App wouldn’t sell me a ticket for my usual train and indicated that the first two off peak services were cancelled. This was an issue for me because I’m an hour and a half late for work on the best of days, but there was nothing I could do.
Instead, I bought a ticket for the 07:58 from Lancaster, with a change at Crewe for a faster service in to London. Not ideal, but would avoid an extra hour of lateness.
It also meant that I had time for a Gregs Bacon bun with dob of brown sauce.
It was a fine morning to sit in the shade, munching bacon, and watching trains. A class 88 passed through at half past seven, heading north on the mainline, running light. Then five minutes later, at 07:35, the allegedly cancelled 07:41, the one I should have been on, whizzed through Carnforth, on time. It was a nine carriages train again, too short for comfort, so I avoided that misery again at least.
I arrived at Lancaster at 07:53. On the Airport train, a class 195, bright clean and airy. Well loaded but comfortable. Plenty of time to catch the 07:58 for Euston, when it arrives at 08:33.
While waiting, I take a moment to check the morning sevices. None of the trains I wanted to catch this morning that showed as cancelled on Trainline, were actually cancelled. Slightly miffed about that.
The platform tanoy announces that the next direct train to Euston will be the 08:41, expected at 08:44, and only nine carriages again. I have to chose between the 08:41, due Euston 11:12, or the earlier 07:58, due 08:34, estimated for Euston at 11:55. The plan was to change from the slow train at Crewe for a faster one, but the 08:41 is fastest, and I had already missed the faster connections at Crewe, so there is no point. I decided to suffer the faster shorter train.
08:31, the platform PIS announces the slow train is running so late that it will skip the West Midlands and run direct to London. I take a moment to quietly express my gratitude and make my way to the correct part of the platform to board one of the unreserved carriages.
I gradually become aware of a large group of primary age school children forming around me, they are going to London too. I reckon about fifty of them. This was going to be a loud journey.
I left Lancaster at 08:41, but not on the 08:41, on the 07:58. The one that goes through the midlands, except that its not going through the midlands, so unless we are over taken by the 08:41, we should get to Euston first.
The train seams pleasantly loaded, the hoard of school children having boarded a different carriage, sparing my peace, but I am only too aware that anyone could get on at the next stop. This gives me the idea for a short story, The Later Train.
The Later Train.
Lone traveller is seated by the window enjoying the journey home when the train is joined by a group of three drunk but good tempered Glaswegians from 1973. They some how missed their own train and found themselves in 2026. Hilarity ensues.
After leaving Preston, no sooner than I had formulated that idea, we are forewarned by the Train Manager that a large group of children will be joining at Warrington, their train was cancelled, and they will seated in Coach G. I am in coach G. I am reminded of the time when the wires were down and we had to travel up to Leeds from Kings Cross. Thankfully, they cannot reserve seats that are already occupied on Avanti, unlike LNER. Ugh.
We crawled through Rugby at 10:36, and made an unscheduled stop at one of the platforms. I could see from the App that the 08:41 was just minutes behind us, and wondered if we had stopped for it to over take us. And then it over took us.
I don’t have tracking for my own train by this point because we are off route, but I was using the tracking for the train behind us to judge our progress, but now we are behind it, its harder to say.
The children are well behaved, but they are very loud. Singing, clapping, shouting.
We passed one of the Lumos at Milton Keynes, and shortly after that, the kids noticed that they are on a tilting train. “Why did it tip just then?”, “why does it look like we’re flying?” How could they be taking the train to London and the teachers not even mention the technological marvel that allows us to travel faster on a curvey bendy route such as this. The state of education these days…
And is it just me, or does the automated voice say “Novanti Trains” instead of “Avanti Trains”?
The Way Back Home is Always Long…
Like the day before, I checked the times and the length of the trains for the journey home. The half four was a nine carriages train, too short, but the half five had no consist information yet, so I decided to chance it and said yes to a couple of beers.
Halfway through my second beer I checked the train app and saw that the half five was cancelled. That will explain why there was no consist info. There was no consist. A consist being the composition of railway vehicles that combine to form a train.
No problem, have a couple more beers.
Its very hot in London at the moment, its warmer than the Canaries, the place we like to go for hot weather.
Not being sure of where I was exactly, I left the pub, the name of which I have already forgotten and headed for Euston. I must have got turned around somehow because I noticed that things didn’t look familiar, but did not look unfamiliar. I thought I was on Gower Street, heading towards Euston, but was actually on Tavistock Place, heading the wrong way, and my feet hurt. Lucky I need the exercise.
Arrived at Euston, at about 18:00 and went straight to the Cornish Pasty stall. I had walked passed the stall so many times and regretted not buying anything once on board the train and everyone opens up their hot food. So I bought a steak and ale pasty. Seven quid odd. Fuck off! For a pasty? It is what it is I suppose, but seven quid, fuck right off. Pardon my French.
Boarded the 18:30 at about ten past six at coach G, walked right through it. No air conditioning. It was like an oven. Found a seat instead in Coach U. And then ate my seven quid fuck off steak and ale pasty.
Seven Quid Cornish Pasty!?!?!?
There was a bing bong noise. The Train Manager had an announcement. Do Not Sit in Coaches G or C, they are over heating! And because the shop is located in Coach C, there would be no shop on board this service. And thus, the theme of this Journey’s disruption was established.
It could have been worse. I could have been on the Tring train.
Standing Room to Tring
In fairness to Avanti, the train left on time, and only lost half an hour by the time we reached Lancaster, and that was due to scallies. And the Half Six on a Tuesday is clearly the time to travel. Even with the cancelled half five, and the unusable coaches G and C, and also D, as it was later announced, there were still spare seats. And free chilled water being handed out throughout the journey. So I can’t complain.
And how can I complain with the English scenery, the intermittent air conditioning, and the free water.
The Scenery
All was going well until we were approaching Warrington and we hit a red light. Trespassers were reported on the line, and they had left debris on the line that had to be cleared before any trains could proceed. Can’t everything I suppose.
But I did a pic of a 769 at Wigan.
These long days of travel disruption could have been avoided if I’d simply taken a hotel outside of central London. Wimbledon has had a ripple effect that means all of my cosy two star Bloomsbury hotels are now the same price I would expext to pay at The Plaza, but there were alternatives, but then I’d miss out on all of this.
We took a road trip to Yorkshire at the weekend to take the kids to see my parents, their grand parents.
The thing to do at the start of any day, not just road trips is to get a proper breakfast, and we are blessed to have in our vicinity a truck stop that does proper breakfast for decent breakfast money.
Proper Breakfast
A good strong cup of tea to wash down a plateful of sausage and bacon and black pudding, and hashbrowns, and mushrooms, and tomatoes (properly cooked, not half a grilled tomato like served at lesser places), plus toast and some proper butter.
And brown sauce. Can’t forget the brown sauce.
After breakfast, we returned to the car and I gave it a quick inspection before we headed toward the motorway.
I was immediately reminded of that meme that was doing the rounds a while ago. The one with the car in the nineties covered in dead insects, contrasted with current day, the clean car. It serves to illustrate the loss of wildlife along our road sides.
I have mentioned it before, but I recall seeing high speed trains arriving at Doncaster station, their yellow frontage blackened with the dead flies collected along its way. Occasionally, there would be dead bird stuffed in to one of the exhaust grills too.
Its true. We don’t see this as much, but its not completely barren out there. I have noticed trains arriving with a coating of flies covering their frontage, though not as heavily as those long lost childhood summers.
Duggan's Dig 