Easter mini-Interrail return, day one: Leominster - York
Not the journey I was expecting.
Everything was organised. I'd spent lots of time earlier in the week doing what I apparently do well: faffing about on the Interwebs looking for trains while I should be doing other things.
Originally, I'd planned to go via Edinburgh on the return leg of this wonderful Easter mini-adventure but when I started looking, the accommodation I wanted wasn't available. As I am relatively certain I once visited Edinburgh during my twenties, but can’t recall any more details than that which means that I’m either getting old or I was very drunk – if you can imagine such a thing – I decided I'd visit York instead. I'm relatively certain I haven't been to York before, and as it's closer I could leave slightly later in the day.
The Transport for Wales 12:12 Premier Service would breeze me to Manchester and finally afford enough time for me to indulge in a two-or-even-three-course meal, whereupon, having arrived replete at Manchester Piccadilly, there'd be time to waddle to Manchester Victoria. From there, I'd board a TransPennine Express to York where I would arrive mid-afternoon, snoozed, fed, and relaxed, with bonus time to do some exploring. What could possibly go wrong?
Everything.
I arrived at the station in Leominster to find confused zombie-like people lumbering around the car park moaning at the very real horror of a replacement bus service. A notice next to the entrance to the platform announced that services between Hereford and Shrewsbury had been suspended due to a collapsed culvert and urgent repairs somewhere around Craven Arms and that the 12:12 Transport for Wales Premier Service was now the 12:29 far-from-premier rail replacement bus service to Shrewsbury and after some deliberation, I decided I would not take a bus to Shrewsbury and would instead take full advantage of my Interrail pass to change my plans last-minute to thwart the thwarting.
Journeys dutifully updated in the app, and after a quick dash to the Co-op to buy a newspaper, I took the 13:13 rail replacement bus to Hereford, which should have got me to the 13:43 Transport for Wales to Newport, whence I'd have time for some free stuff on a GWR service to Bristol before settling down for four hours of trainy goodness to York. Some youths who had clearly not expected to have their tickets (or lack thereof) checked on the train between Leominster and Hereford looked positively put out at being told to buy tickets before they were allowed on the replacement bus.
We missed the 13:43 as the bus got stuck in Saturday traffic in Hereford, so my plan changed again to the 14:40 West Midlands service to Birmingham New Street which came with neither first class nor free stuff. Nonetheless, I made new friends on the platform and once on board pretended I was in first class at the four-seat table I'd claimed for myself, stretching out to enjoy some views of the Malvern Hills through dirty windows as we rattled north.
One of my new friends was on the train to Malvern and intermittently would come up with new ways of ensuring I could have my "free tea and biccies", but in the end I settled on a new plan which involved getting a CrossCountry service to York. At Malvern, a group of people installed themselves at the table opposite and waged an eye-stabbingly dull conversation about graphics cards and ad-blockers.
"My computer has been struggling because I'm a graphics snob," one said, to which another enquired whether it heated the person's room. We were briefly distracted by the purpleness of Bournville. They used dates as numbers – "on April two I..." – it was most strange.
In Birmingham New Street there was time to witness Ozzy the Bull doing his thing on the station concourse. The bull is the de facto unofficial symbol of Birmingham and harks back to the 16th century when it was considered perfectly acceptable to bait bulls outside a church. Ozzy is an eight-meter-tall animatronic bull built by a special effects company for the Commonwealth Games of 2022. It looks around with glowing eyes, much like the machines of Toulouse.
After dealing with a puppet traumatised by a giant bovine, there was extra bonus time to look at a (now-)classic Inter-City train with diesel fumes and everything going to London on some kind of heritage tour, and also to strike up a conversation with the driver of the 16:30 CrossCountry service to Newcastle, stopping in York. I think the exact moment our friendship ended was when I asked him whether he knew he was waiting for the wrong end of the train; this particular service comes into Birmingham and then goes out whence it came in the opposite direction, and driver-to-be was waiting on the platform where the arriving driver would hand over the train so he could then go to the other pointy end and get us under way.
I know that now.
On board the train there was some free stuff on offer but I remained whelmed neither one way or the other. A nice lady with a trolley came and filled my little table with pretzels, crispy things, and a slice of cake and a cup of coffee (bags, not instant) and then was never to be seen again. Outside the window, the landscape was pretty but featureless, and that which wasn't missed due to intermittent bouts of snoozy-time were slightly lacklustre through the grimy windows. The church in Chesterfield has a wonky spire. In Sheffield I briefly considered changing to a TransPennine Express, just as the doors were closing.
My hostel is unexpectedly grand. Micklegate House is a Grade I listed building which was completed in 1752 as a town house for John Bourchier of Beningbrough Hall. When he died in 1759, the house passed to his wife and then through various other passings and acquisitions ended up housing successively the Departments of Mathematics and Archaeology of the University of York. In 2015 it was converted into a hostel, and around the building there are plaques giving history of each of the rooms. I am in room 13 on the second floor which slightly humdrumly served only as "a bedroom for the honoured guests of the Bourchier family" back in the 18th century. I say humdrumly because a plaque on the third floor which I went to first – continental confusions – indicated that another room was a room "probably" frequented by Mrs Beeton who shared it with "at least three other servants."
To my knowledge, I have never stayed in a Grade I listed hostel before, so it's all very exciting. The place is grand and is the largest house on the street, three storeys high and seven bays wide, with large staircases and stained glass windows on the landings. I am sharing my room with one other person, another new friend called (you can call me) Chi, an international student from China studying in Southampton who somehow finds himself having a little York adventure this weekend.
After some "and where are you from?" conversation, we decided between us that we'd embark on a mission for falafely goodness, as he had never had a falafel before and was keen to try one. Our first stop, to prepare ourselves, was a pub with a terrace giving on to the River Ouse where we also decided it would be a good idea for him to try cider and for me to try a pint of Inch's, fortuitously from Herefordshire ("I'm from there").
We made even more new friends.
Somewhat unsurprisingly, our subsequent and later mission to find a falafel was not the resounding success we'd set out hoping for it to be. In fact, after much scouting for falafely goodness, we eventually ended up weaving our way through the drunken shouting outside a church-cum-nightclub to Chico's chip shop where we feasted on chips and curry sauce, an inter-cultural discovery which was met with enthusiastic nods of approval. While we ate, a table of very animated ladies were not too subtly celebrating a 50th birthday.
At first it wasn't completely apparent whose birthday it was, but between us we deduced it was probably the ample one who was making up for having left most of her clothing at home – save for a Viking helmet proudly adorned with a pink phallus on each horn – by shovelling chips into her face in a manner that would probably not have enamoured Mrs Beeton, shortly before declaring her love for one, or all, of us present. A brave undertaking, all things considered. Everyone sang along for the umpteenth rendition of Happy Birthday. We ate our chips purposefully and slipped out inconspicuously for fear that we too may be consumed.
Back in the hostel, I had a swift Mahou before retiring.
