SHUFFLE ABOARD

I’m on a train, barrelling up north. Third in two days. I’m off to a work function in St Andrews, and so at the end of this train, Edinburgh, then a connection across the Forth Bridge.

I can’t imagine what the Victorians would make of this. At the beginning, it must have been marvellous, as though the world were changing with shiny engines in clouds of steam. The dizzying spin of trees and fields, the colossal power of a locomotive pounding its way through the lazy English countryside. It must have been like living in the future.

It didn’t feel futuristic yesterday when I got on at Birmingham New Street. I was standing in the middle of a long carriage, case between my legs, rucksack bulging from my back. There must have been 200 people on that train, and only 100 seats. Not exactly the golden age.

It did get better. But it hasn’t done much for my enthusiasm for trains. Actually, I’m probably a bit bored of them today - lugging your case about, squishing into a seat, standing in the aisle, trying not to sneeze. It would be alright, save for the overcrowding. Was it always like this? The modern system, the inevitable conclusion of Victorian wonder, is of course, capitalism - and that means selling more tickets than there can possibly be room for, and expecting the ticket holders to just shuffle aboard and get on with it. Which we do.

I wonder if it will happen with space travel? Will the novelty of rocketing to the moon wear off? Will passengers file miserably aboard rickety shuttles and not even bother looking out of the window? Will there be companies profiteering from commuters who have to take laptops and spreadsheets to Mars? I reckon that’s how today’s kind of train travel would look to those wide-eyed Victorians who weren’t sure whether 60mph would kill them, but were still excited to climb aboard and find out. How did it ever get so dull and so lifeless when it started so brilliantly?

“We are now approaching… Darlington” said the automated announcer. Darlington. That’s one end of the Stockton-Darlington line where it all began isn’t it? Well. That’s apt. The train squeaks into the station and pulls slowly to a halt. Couple of hours to go I reckon.