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I'm on a train, I can't complain
Jun. 14th, 2015 10:12 pmEngland made me, but England frustrates me. I want to write a long complaint about trains and you, yes, you have to read it. In ye olden days of the early '90s, if you wanted to go anywhere, you rocked up to your nearest train station and bought a saver (valid after 9.30 a.m. Mon-Fri and bank holidays) or a super-saver (valid weekends apart from Jul and Aug). Then privatisation happened. Now, I don't think that privatisation was wholly a bad thing. Obviously it's 95% a bad thing, but it did open up new routes: for example, when I lived in Sunderland (1991-95), the only place you could go to was Newcastle, but now you can travel directly to such exciting cities as Liverpool. Ditto, there used to be a Doncaster - Manchester train every two hours, but now they are more frequent. Also, if you book 12 weeks in advance you can buy cheaper tickets than twenty years ago. It's the suckers who don't book 12 weeks in advance that are paying for the rest of the service, probably me shelling out £200 to go to Doncaster if and when (when) my parents fall ill.
Adverts for train services are all: Look at this beautiful countryside, overcrowded Londoners, but you can't do anything at the last minute because the weather looks good. You have to plan, you have to book, you have to search for the cheapest offers, you have to spend 45 minutes negotiating with the computer (and the printer, because that's another way train services save money by charging you to print tickets). We decided to go to Dunwich, the city that fell into the sea. Dave wanted to cycle some of the way so that meant buying three different tickets. Because it cost £26 (single) to go to Sudbury on one line, he decided to go to Manningtee, which is a few miles away, but £10 cheaper on another line run by the same train company. When he got to the station, they told him he couldn't take his bike on the train because he'd got there too late and the guard's van was locked. No-one seemed to care that he'd booked on that train, even the next train's conductor, who, on some lines, get commission for charging people who are mistakenly on the wrong train. Having a guard's van and being able to safely leave your bike is great, but every other train in the whole of the south east has a carriage for bikes and wheelchairs. There was no information at Liverpool Street to indicate this, in fact the man at the ticket barrier told me "Carriage D" (as per my ticket), but didn't say: take your bike to the guard's van at the front. The trains were British Rail stock (BR was stamped on the window that you had to open to unlock the door from the outside) and were made in the 1960s. According to a train nerd at Liverpool St, they were about to be decommissioned in the 90s, considered unsafe, but not under the new privatised companies who carried on using them.
We've had trouble going east before. A few years ago, Jo had her fortieth birthday near Wickham market. The last train before the "rush hour" kicks in was at 2.30 p.m., i.e. two and half hours before people normally leave work. I couldn't even get to my reserved seat, the squash was unbearable. One time we went to Southwold, the train back from Darsham was cancelled so we had to wait TWO HOURS for the next one. The conductor told us off for being on the wrong train. At Darsham there are now TV screens, but a few years ago there weren't, and it was up to the taxi driver whose office was next to the station to come tell us there was a replacement bus. No bus turned up and anyway, we had bikes with us. We pointed this out to the ticket inspector and his response was "Well, I'll let you this time," as if he were doing us a favour letting us travel two hours later then we wanted. On British trains, you are treated worse than a Ryan Air passenger.
The day didn't get much better as Dave got two punctures shortly after we set from Darsham to the coast. He walked and I cycled alone, ending up at Dunwich Heath, which was beautiful, desolate, loomed over by Sizewell B. It wasn't as bleak as Dungeness, dotted as it was with holiday apartments, National Trust tearooms, and sandy heather, but it reminded me of it in its stark prettiness. Dave had gone to Dunwich village with its ancient ruins, friendly but limited greasy spoon caff and helpful cyclists. On the way back, it started to rain. There's nothing more tedious than cycling in the rain and I'd have cancelled the planned day out if the forecast had indicated rain. But no, we couldn't do that, because we'd paid for train tickets and my Doncastrianess is not going to let me flush £30 down the toilet.
When we arrived at Darsham, soaked through and shivery with half an hour to go to the train, we espied a plant nursery with a café (the only one in the area; Darsham station doesn't even have a Pumpkins). After locking the bikes, walking through the gardens, going into the shop, and right to the back of the building where the café was located, sitting down, THEN they said that they were closing "so we have time to clear up", forty minutes before the advertised time. If there had been a sign or a closed door or even some indication that 5 p.m. closing actually means 4.20 p.m., I would maybe have felt less aggrieved, but instead, I slid into a massive strop against England and its hopelessness. It feels like you're either stuck in noisy, over crowded London with its amenities, or you make an effort, hindered on all sides by train companies, to go into the countryside where's there nowhere to buy a a puncture repair kit or a coffee at 4.20 p.m. and it just rains constantly. Yeah, yeah, this is first world problems, but I checked my privilege and I was heavy with PMT, so all of this complaining is justifiable.
I haven't even started on Virgin trains.
Adverts for train services are all: Look at this beautiful countryside, overcrowded Londoners, but you can't do anything at the last minute because the weather looks good. You have to plan, you have to book, you have to search for the cheapest offers, you have to spend 45 minutes negotiating with the computer (and the printer, because that's another way train services save money by charging you to print tickets). We decided to go to Dunwich, the city that fell into the sea. Dave wanted to cycle some of the way so that meant buying three different tickets. Because it cost £26 (single) to go to Sudbury on one line, he decided to go to Manningtee, which is a few miles away, but £10 cheaper on another line run by the same train company. When he got to the station, they told him he couldn't take his bike on the train because he'd got there too late and the guard's van was locked. No-one seemed to care that he'd booked on that train, even the next train's conductor, who, on some lines, get commission for charging people who are mistakenly on the wrong train. Having a guard's van and being able to safely leave your bike is great, but every other train in the whole of the south east has a carriage for bikes and wheelchairs. There was no information at Liverpool Street to indicate this, in fact the man at the ticket barrier told me "Carriage D" (as per my ticket), but didn't say: take your bike to the guard's van at the front. The trains were British Rail stock (BR was stamped on the window that you had to open to unlock the door from the outside) and were made in the 1960s. According to a train nerd at Liverpool St, they were about to be decommissioned in the 90s, considered unsafe, but not under the new privatised companies who carried on using them.
We've had trouble going east before. A few years ago, Jo had her fortieth birthday near Wickham market. The last train before the "rush hour" kicks in was at 2.30 p.m., i.e. two and half hours before people normally leave work. I couldn't even get to my reserved seat, the squash was unbearable. One time we went to Southwold, the train back from Darsham was cancelled so we had to wait TWO HOURS for the next one. The conductor told us off for being on the wrong train. At Darsham there are now TV screens, but a few years ago there weren't, and it was up to the taxi driver whose office was next to the station to come tell us there was a replacement bus. No bus turned up and anyway, we had bikes with us. We pointed this out to the ticket inspector and his response was "Well, I'll let you this time," as if he were doing us a favour letting us travel two hours later then we wanted. On British trains, you are treated worse than a Ryan Air passenger.
The day didn't get much better as Dave got two punctures shortly after we set from Darsham to the coast. He walked and I cycled alone, ending up at Dunwich Heath, which was beautiful, desolate, loomed over by Sizewell B. It wasn't as bleak as Dungeness, dotted as it was with holiday apartments, National Trust tearooms, and sandy heather, but it reminded me of it in its stark prettiness. Dave had gone to Dunwich village with its ancient ruins, friendly but limited greasy spoon caff and helpful cyclists. On the way back, it started to rain. There's nothing more tedious than cycling in the rain and I'd have cancelled the planned day out if the forecast had indicated rain. But no, we couldn't do that, because we'd paid for train tickets and my Doncastrianess is not going to let me flush £30 down the toilet.
When we arrived at Darsham, soaked through and shivery with half an hour to go to the train, we espied a plant nursery with a café (the only one in the area; Darsham station doesn't even have a Pumpkins). After locking the bikes, walking through the gardens, going into the shop, and right to the back of the building where the café was located, sitting down, THEN they said that they were closing "so we have time to clear up", forty minutes before the advertised time. If there had been a sign or a closed door or even some indication that 5 p.m. closing actually means 4.20 p.m., I would maybe have felt less aggrieved, but instead, I slid into a massive strop against England and its hopelessness. It feels like you're either stuck in noisy, over crowded London with its amenities, or you make an effort, hindered on all sides by train companies, to go into the countryside where's there nowhere to buy a a puncture repair kit or a coffee at 4.20 p.m. and it just rains constantly. Yeah, yeah, this is first world problems, but I checked my privilege and I was heavy with PMT, so all of this complaining is justifiable.
I haven't even started on Virgin trains.
