"A Very English Journey" (Part 1) by Robert Wingfield
Our Submissions Director, Robert Wingfield, will be sharing his travelling experiences with us every Monday. Enjoy reading part one of his travel blog "A Very English Journey".
(Port Area ~~~
Tinos Island)
Part One: LUTON HO
Sitting here in the Psestaria Grill on the Greek island of Tinos, I have time to reflect on the joined-up transport systems that have brought me here. Firstly, though, to fortify the inner man, let’s have a look at the meal I finally tracked down, in a country that thinks nobody needs to eat before 8 in the evening.
Fortunately, one place was open for a weary early traveler. Knowing virtually nothing about Greek food, I went for the house specialty, ‘Gyros’, mainly because this is likely to be the best value, but mostly because I couldn’t understand anything else.
I was not disappointed. I originally thought ‘gyros’ were something that guided missiles or helped people who are out of work to buy drugs, but in this case, I suppose they are pronounced ‘geeross’ and that's fine by me, because they were excellent and very welcome. I've spent most of the day in transit (not one of those vans, usually driven by maniacs) and not eating. Actually, it was too dang hot to eat anything, and everything has been a bit of a struggle, as with all travel. Traveling is like childbirth (I’m told): a long period of torment, followed by much pain, instantly forgotten upon its conclusion. I think that both can be summarized in four words: “You won’t enjoy it.”
However, before I forget the journey, let me recap, and relate how I escaped the ‘Sceptered Isle’ in the first place.
The ‘first place’ was actually Bedford, a small county town in the south Midlands of England, famous for its cosmopolitan community, and John Bunyan, a man who wrote a book a few centuries ago.
From here, Luton Airport is a mere toddle down the railway line, and they run a train every half hour, all through the night, although it isn't actually the same train. If it was, it would have to go very, very fast along 200 km. of track in order to get back in time for the next run. I conclude that they keep more than one somewhere. Mine was an early train, running late because, according to the drafted-in driver, they hadn't thought to schedule anyone to drive it. He wasn't happy, but he did a great job, and got me into the airport station ahead of time. There was a bus waiting to take me to the terminal.
Luton Airport is one big construction site… allegedly to improve things. As I recall, ‘things’ used to be fine here, before they decided to make money from people dropping off their dearly about-to-become departed. Now you can't go within two miles of the place without incurring an extortionate parking charge. Despite this deterrent, there are still hundreds of people who feel they should clog the single road in and negotiate the endless roadworks. Of course, the airport bus has to become part of this queue. What should have been ‘plenty of time’ became ‘barely enough’. I scampered around a maze of temporary fences with helpful signs, pointing in all directions except into the terminal. If I’d needed a bus for John-O-Groats or Land’s End, it would have been simple. In fact, I did consider it at the time, but I’m not one to give up at the first setback.
Inside, security is tight. My trousers are not, because Security make me take off my belt, and then my shoes, and remove all liquids and anything metallic, so that they can film them with X-rays, and giggle at the things people take on holiday. My writer’s hat is viewed with deep suspicion and examined thoroughly. One or two of the inspectors try it on but find themselves unable to pen any masterpieces in the allotted time, and return it to me, slightly bent (the hat, not the inspectors, although they did look tired).
Eventually, I’m past that hurdle, the flight is called, and the passengers are herded into a room smaller than the Black Hole of Calcutta, to await boarding. This involves a load of people paying a surcharge so that they can push to the front of the queue. Seats are already allocated, so is that really of benefit? The rest of us watch them with indulgent smiles upon our lips, and then board calmly afterwards through the extra door opened at the back. I always like to sit at the back of a plane; you rarely hear about aircraft reversing into mountains.
We leave the runway, fortunately inside a plane. Horrors! I realize I am surrounded by babies. However, despite the changes in cabin pressure, they were actually little angels, sleeping or gurgling… but not screaming. I developed a liking for traveling babies, based on this, but not for the fat chav who leaned on the back of my seat to chat about trivialities at the mother. My personal space was invaded. This must happen a lot when 180 people are wedged into a tin tube for (four) hours.
* * * *
It was hot when we landed at Mykonos, almost stiflingly hot. In the vaguely air-conditioned terminal building, there was a queue, but the wonderful Greek method of Customs involves showing your passport at a man in a booth, and him waving you onwards without looking at it. I love the laid-back way they do things here... at least until I am walking down the long road from the airport. They are laid back so much that they don’t bother making a pavement that you can walk down. Every few meters, there is an obstruction: it might be a bush with colorful flowers, or a gaping chasm, or simply someone's gateway. A wheeled suitcase was not the right vehicle to negotiate these hazards, and all this with the sun beating down relentlessly upon my hatted figure.
I got down the hill eventually. The pavement has disappeared completely by now, so I dodge the cars coming from the other direction. Unlike, sensibly in the UK, people drive on the other side, here. This causes occasional confusion and danger to life. I try to get out of the way of a buggy containing two unsteady young people, and my feet disappear. The road has developed a surface like a sheet of glass. I pull myself upright, while a man on a moped is concerned, but I wave him on in embarrassment. At this point, I remember the exact same thing happened to me in the same place on the last visit. There are slight smirks from a couple of guys further down. They try to sound as though they care, so I politely thank them, and continue on my way, again unhurt as per the last time.
‘HMS Victory’ is a preserved wooden ship. It was Admiral Nelson's flagship at the Battle of Trafalgar (21 October 1805). Here, he was fatally wounded by an unsporting Frenchman, who, rather than accepting that Britain rules the waves, and give up straightaway, shot him from a nearby sloop (whatever that is). There is a plaque on the floor, which says, amongst other things, “This is where Nelson fell.”
“I’m not surprised,” quips the guide, every tour, “I nearly fell over it myself.”
I think, then, that there should be a new plaque in Mykonos: “This is where a famous author fell—well, he would be famous if anyone had heard of him.”
TO BE CONTINUED...
(Part 2 on Monday, July 9)
Robert Wingfield is a multi-genre author with 18 works to his name.
His other 'One Man in a Bus' travel diaries are available on Amazon: 'Sicily' and 'North Cyprus', the latter helping to fund the good works over there by Kyrenia Animal Rescue.
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