Ticket to ride

I have a railcard. It cost £26 and promises the earth, or at least a certain amount of Britain, at my disposal for far reduced ticket prices. I have used it once already. I did actually try to use it twice, but the first time it wasn’t allowed. I had agreed to meet E in a local town in order to celebrate our wedding anniversary by going to a concert. He was coming straight from work; I was catching a bus and train from home once the babysitter was there. (It’s not that Ted isn’t old enough to babysit, it’s not even that he wouldn’t be any good in a crisis, it’s simply that he might not notice the crisis as it approached).

At the station I proudly waved my railcard and asked for an adult return. “How many children?” I don’t think he was asking how large my family was, but how many I had brought with me. “None,” I smiled contentedly. “You can’t use this railcard then.” “But…” “No, it’s a family and friends one; you have to take a child with you.” I didn’t want to take a child with me. It was my wedding anniversary.

The next time I used the card I had the full complement of children and husband with me. Last Saturday we went to the Cotswolds for the day for a family party for my brother’s birthday. I had planned the route. There were four trains and a taxi involved but it would be cheap, environmentally less damaging than a car, and efficient enough to get us to the restaurant on time. A friend, Bob, gave us a lift to the station. We bought our tickets. Lexy in particular was touchingly excited about the trip. The day was bright and sunny. There was a guard there to tell us which of the two trains in the station we should catch.

A word of advice. Do not believe that guards have an infallible knowledge of the best route to your destination

Five minutes later we alighted from the train at the next station to await our connection. Only it was the wrong connection. True, you could get to our destination this way, but ONLY BY ADDING AN HOUR TO THE JOURNEY. Sorry, I felt the need to shout that.

The taxi was booked at the other end. The restaurant was booked. Five other people would be waiting for us.

As is common in these situations we had a little row, made some calls, stomped our feet, and settled down to wait. Then I spotted the car hire place next door. It was open Saturday and Sunday. We could hire a car for a day and whiz down the motorway. Except, they would be shut from noon Saturday to early Tuesday because it was Easter and we would therefore have to hire a car for three days. Except they were all out of big cars. “I could treat you to a Mercedes,” said one of the staff. My eyes lit up. A Mercedes! I’ve never driven one of those! “That’ll be £332 please.” I still haven’t driven a Mercedes.

And so we waited for the train. And then we caught it to Reading where we waited again. And then we caught another one. There were no spare seats. We stood. The children loved the open window and couldn’t understand why we didn’t want them playing with it. We tried to reach the taxi company as the taxi was shortly due at our final destination. We couldn’t. Thankfully, my sister-in-law, sitting in a car in a traffic jam somewhere in the Cotswolds, was able to. We changed trains again. We stood again. The children played up again. The taxi charged us £10 more than we had expected.

Why? Why? Why had we made the decision to live without a car? What a stupid thing to do. Later, on the way home, lightening had struck a signal box and all the trains were out on one of our many lines. We had an hour's delay. We arrived at our local station just after the bus had left from the next door bus station. The train was not late - that is simply the way the timetables have been planned. We took another taxi.

In terms of finance, a car would have been cheaper at the weekend. In terms of speed, convenience and general contentment it would have been better. On the other hand, what harm was done? We were tired and hungry, but not so that we could not cope. We inconvenienced everyone but really an hour isn’t that long. The restaurateurs were fantastic and stayed open for an extra hour for us. This fact, combined with excellent food and service, means that we would recommend The Falcon at Poulton, Glos, to anyone (www.falconinnpoulton.co.uk), so that extra hour’s work may not have been such a bad thing. And the children had yet another lesson in discovering that sometimes things are not very convenient but you have to manage anyway. I doubt they appreciated that though.

Also, aren’t we just so smugly ecofriendly?