Worst Journey To Date

My plan now is to travel North East, and combine with Fran for her holiday exploits further south, and then to see a small portion of Europe. First stop, my once-upon-a-time home, Birmingham. I used to be very attached to Solihull, where I was born. Leaving there really tore me. It used to be that going back to England felt like going home, but that’s less evident now since most of my childhood was in Fiji, and all of my adolescence has been in New Zealand.

The only trouble with going to Birmingham would turn out to be that there really aren’t any Youth Hostels there. I don’t understand it at all. But this means that I would have to either pay more to stay in a hotel or stay with people I don’t really know. I had two options that I knew of, the first being my dad’s cousin’s daughter, Christine, who by a slip in our family tree happens to be dad’s elder. Or maybe, though I wasn’t sure if they would like it, my brother’s best friend’s family who he knew twelve years ago. I tried to ring the latter, but the phone number was incorrect. By a stroke of luck, however, it was Sunday, and a friend of Fran’s came over to walk into Winslow with her. We got talking, and it turns out her sister’s family live in Birmingham. So that’s how I came to stay with the Tuckett’s for two nights, the 23^rd and the 24^th. Then I rang Christine, which I had been a little reluctant to do as I didn’t know if she would have room or if I would be too much of a burden. She was delighted, however, and so we agreed I would stay for the next two nights with her in Solihull.  

Getting to Birmingham was a mission and a half! Far out! This is how my day went… To begin: Winslow (bus) -> Buckingham Tesco; Tesco (bus)->Milton Keynes. That was all fine, even with all the stuff I was carrying. From Milton Keynes I wanted to get a train to Birmingham New Street. I couldn’t figure out the self-serve ticket machine so I asked a guy behind a counter. The ticket cost about twice the price that it had said online. I had ages to wait, so I sat in the cold station for a while and read my fabulous book about the Trickster archetype, eventually plucking up the bucks to get a drink. I got on the train and of course chose the worst seat possible, facing backwards with no window. But I didn’t get a chance to move. When I got off the train it was rush hour. The New Street station was thronging with people all hurrying in different directions with purpose and intensity. I got in everyone’s way. I carried my luggage up the stairs and wondered if I would need my ticket to get through the barrier. I checked my pockets and couldn’t find it. I checked the barrier and found I did need it. I looked through my bag about three times, looked everywhere – all I could find was the receipt for the ticket. But the men on the barrier looked grumpy, like those bus drivers who get mean about forgetting student I.D even if you look twelve. Anyway, I went back onto the platform, my heart in my throat, pounding like a frightened bird in a cage. The train was still there, and there was a round official looking guy doing the policeman stroll on the platform. I blabbered something about my ticket and he was not very helpful. He said I could go on, but I had to hurry because the cleaners were coming. At least, I think that’s what he was mumbling about. So I went back on the train, scared to death it would start to leave the station at any second. I didn’t recognize the seats. I was in the wrong carriage! Still dragging my luggage with my heavy pack on my back I squeezed up the aisle as fast as I could. The next carriage looked more familiar, and sure enough where I had been sitting, there was that flipping mischievous orange and white card.

Back up the stairs I found my way through the barrier. Fran had mentioned it would be a good idea to bring flowers to thank the Tuckett’s for letting me stay. I saw some and bought a bouquet, which I then had to try not to crumple. Then I tried to figure out where I was. It wasn’t the same as the website said it looked. I went up an escalator and found myself in a mall. With the place still swarming with people, I wandered along, needing the bathroom, needing to find the 45 or 47 bus, and hoping to find an exit sign, or someone to ask. As I headed towards a ‘Customer Reception’ sign, a young man with an earring and a ‘Love Film’ tee emerged, grinning, from the crowd. ‘Hey ma’am, can I have a minute of your time?’ I replied ‘I’m really not in the mood aye’ – the episode with the ticket had me close to tears, or hitting something, or both. Half hoping this guy would be able to help me I let myself be dragged to the stall. I was too spent to do much else anyway. As he was explaining about this DVD renting site I surreptitiously looked for an ‘exit’ sign. I caught the words ‘just enter your e-mail here’ and  saw him begin to disengage – I told him I was travelling, ‘No, no fixed address, but hey, can you help me?’ He pointed me in the right direction for the bus stand. Cheers bro.

It was drizzly outside. I found the right bus stand but the number of people waiting was worrying. How would I manage to stand, or sit in an over-crowded bus with my suitcase, my backpack and this sodding/sodden bouquet. When the bus came a trickle of people came off, and the crowd seemed to condense to get on. A kind man let me go on before him and even lifted my luggage on for me. I said ‘Single to Cotteridge’, with a £10 note to give the driver, since I didn’t know if it would cost £2 or £6. The driver was gruff, and grunted that it was no use putting that in as I wouldn’t get change. This did not comprehend. What bus driver can’t give change?! People were pushing past me to get on. I had the right change somewhere, but as I tried to explain I wanted to put my stuff down on the bus so I could find it, some really kind stranger leant over and put the change into the tin. It was so nice of him! I spent the next five minutes trying to find change to repay him, eventually realizing I had some in my pocket.

On the bus I stood close to the front, just where everyone had to squeeze by me, I would have moved but there wasn’t enough room for me and my luggage. I put the flowers down, and while holding my bags in place tried to figure out where I was and where we were going. I knew I should be on Pershore Road, and that I needed to get off at Cotteridge, near Cotteridge Park. I didn’t know if it would be a long journey or if it was that park that I just went by. I didn’t even know if I’d see the park from the road. I decided rather than go too far, I should get off on Pershore Road and walk. I got off just past a park, and found it wasn’t the one I wanted. I never saw the one I wanted. I walked and walked, for maybe half and hour, maybe more. Eventually I got to what I thought was the end of the road, it was drizzly grey and I was frozen and really needed the bathroom. I rang Cathy, and it turned out I was in the perfect place for her to come and get me.

I should explain a bit better, Cathy is Fran’s friend Liz’s sister, her husband is a chemistry teacher I think, her eldest daughter is called Lucy and studies maths in Durnham, their second daughter is currently having a gap year in Tanzania (yeah I feel like I’m bumming around on mine in comparison), and their son is still at school and plays cello. They were so kind to me, but with such a distant connection I felt like I had no right to eat their food and use their electricity. Dinner was a little awkward, lots of questions and trying to understand each other. I felt exhausted, I swear my answers must have made hardly any sense and as much as I tried I have a feeling I wasn’t at my best socially. As a small repayment I did the washing up, but they insisted I was their guest and I think I didn’t end doing it all. I did it the next night though. I think doing the washing up is the least I can do for people, and as it’s not the most enjoyable task people are usually pretty happy to let me at it. 

The capricious tiafish

xoxoxoxoxoxoxox

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