Maybe the platform is where it all starts. It could be long before, it could be long after. But there is a moment, a feeling of beginning, of apprehension, the journey awaits. The ground before you lies blank, no guiding footprints in the virgin snow. Not yet past the point of no return, or over the last obstacle, but the platform is the start of something. To step from that platform, that safe haven, perhaps that was the start.
A small boy bounces up and down in his papoose; his jet black spiky hair quivers in the strong breeze as the mountain air rushes up his nose, his eyes are wide and glowing, a big smile creeps across his chubby cheeks, a giggle and a gurgle escapes, blowing bubbles of spit dribbling down his rounded chin, His tiny face, red from the wind lets out a noise that can only be described as its said ‘gahhhhaaammb’ incomprehensible to you and I but who knows what was going through that child’s mind as he sat wedged onto his fathers back bouncing merrily away. His Dads jet black hair, the summit and the sky. The sky, the summit and back to the hair.
Walking through the unknown crowd searching for a familiar though unlikely face, there was a noticeable change in the type of people at either end of the station. At One end stood the Businessmen all suited and booted, important meetings to attend to, all rushed, all impatient, all on their phones. In the middle of the platform stood couples, old and young, grandmas and granddads, small groups, families, all eager to get away but all seemingly happy in their own world. However at the far end of the platform, where the last carriages would arrive stood a few odd characters. In front and to the right stood a lonely looking girl, clutching a small bag as though it contained something precious, deep-set eye makeup and a miss match of odd clothes. Close behind me stood a woman in her 40’s wrapped tightly in hat and scarf, a large rucksack on her back gripping her cagoule as if expecting certain rain. And finally a man with leather boots, jeans the rose up to a gold eagle leather belt. He wore a black leather jacket, over which lay shoulder length silver and black hair and an incredible matching beard. My mind could only settle on one thing, he was a travelling rock star and guitar god among meagre men such as myself. His stories exciting, a past of sex, drugs and rock and roll.
These people I now stand with all have something in common. It may just be me but I had made my mind up that a feeling was shared. We wait at the far end of the platform, the far end of the train because we want the journey to last that little bit longer, wanting to stare out of the window longer, wanting to have a seat for longer, some might not even want to really arrive or leave in the first place, in my case I think the journey should be the longest bit, even if its on by a few meters difference.
“lets tell a Jim story”
“yeah”
“ok you start”
My Gramps raised his hand and scratched his head, brushing his grey hair back into its combed position. As if thinking hard he looks up the never ending hill for some inspiration, Looking back into the excited blue eyes of his grandson he smiles. Looking up at his son he begins.
“Once upon a time there was a whoopee cushion called Jim, He decided to go on a journey and so he went to the train station and bought himself a ticket to London”
“Dad, its your go”
“ok”, he said bending down close to he sons face “ standing on the platform Jim the whoopee cushion couldn’t wait for the train to arrive, it was very busy but Jim jumped aboard the train to find there was only one seat . . . ”
“ Jim ran for the seat, and jumped on it, but as he did a fat man sat on the seat too”
Three generations instantly raised their hands to their lips and in practiced synchronicity and blew an almighty fart noise from their mouths
“phhaaaarrrrrrrpppppp” They all instantaneously bent double laughing.
It may seem strange now but looking back it was certainly an effective way to get a small child up a fell.
I sat down making sure I had a window seat, Noticing that the rock god with the hair had followed me onto the same carriage, turning my head to the window I tried to avoid his seat-searching gaze. I like to sit by myself on trains, not through being antisocial more for personal space, being unorganised and messy I quite like to spread out. Turning back to the aisle I was confronted with the hairy mans crotch, I recoiled, blinking, turning back to the window and back again in the hope that the image had changed. The man was fully stretched stuffing his bag into the overhead storage. A thought ran through my head, he probably isn’t use to such little space what with tour busses and posh hotel rooms. He chose to sit next to me, I panicked, this was all happening very fast. I just wanted to be by myself with my thoughts and the longing loveless typical train journey stare out of the window like every other single passenger. I tried to consider how I could have chosen my seat better, I looked at him in the hope he would say something, then surveyed the train for other options but there were none. Most other passengers were already absorbed in books or the daily paper. There was no way out.
The rain splattered against the windscreen. Every droplet making its own individual thud. Joining together to make an operatic rumble, like drums in the jungle. The sky was tainted a murky grey as it fought to keep the overpowering black cumulonimbus at bay, but to no avail. Looking through the rain the sea was barley visible, the waves were muddied brown crashing in one on top of the other, forcing the first aside only for another to break in its path battering the shore. Looking left through misted glass the beach ran for miles, endless brown sand that would on any summer day have bared the bodies of hundreds of holidaymakers, however today the vast expanse was barren. A similar view from the opposite window, this time ending in a rocky cliff face, jagged and blackened by the wet but holding strong to the storm. I looked behind to the back seat to see if the kayak gear was still there. Turning back I looked up to the man in the driving seat. “What are you going to do with me here all day daddy?”
I had toyed with the idea of saying something for a while now, probably a good 5 minutes. I kept looking at him and then back to the window, hoping he might make the first step. I couldn’t think what to say. At first all I could thinking of saying was “why did you sit next to me” not through anger more actual questioning. I still consider myself a youth, and wearing a baggy hoodie, ripped jeans, and a scruffy hat, I can see why you wouldn’t want to approach me. Yet this fella, whoever he thinks he is, is willing to sit next to me for a good hour and a half train journey. With the youth of today being so frowned upon I take it upon my self to try and change peoples opinions, opening doors for old women, and saying my please and thank you. However Hairy Bloke has taken all the fun out of it, and unless he’s just trying to overcome a fear, I’m pretty sure his opinion doesn’t need changing by me.
The train now pushed along at a steady pace, the slow constant wiring of the engine now at the back of my mind, the countryside flashing by. Now we had left the city the landscape had had completely changed. Wire fencing became great woods with huge pine trees creating their own perimeters. The semi-detached housing estate transformed in rolling hills ever growing in size, similar in style to the simple drawings of hills in a child’s book. The gross knitted network or roads became intertwined rivers crossing back and forth below the track as if the train was a cat chasing a never-ending ball of wool. The weather was not great but the landscape was bright enough on its own to inspire. I turned back to the man sitting next to me, fully prepared to start this inevitable conversation only to find his head now also buried between the pages of a book, on the pull down table in front of him lies a statue of liberty bookmark. Back to the window.
He looks up at me, I look back at him, he winks. Two meters of near vertical rock separate us, yet a 12mm rope binds us tightly together.
“How’s it looking mate”?
“Yeh, not to bad” I replied “I think once I make the step up it’ll just like walking up a slide”
I look back at the rock; searching with my eyes for cracks and crevices I can put protection in. “ there should be plenty of gear on it”
“Go for it”
Twelve moves later I come to a stop, looking back at my feet, I lift each one in turn tenderly from the rock and then place them back in an attempt to provide a more solid stance, I repeat the process again this time with my hands, releasing my grip before grasping the cold stone again. I looked through my legs following the trail of slack rope down through six carabineers before disappearing over the edge. A voice yelled out, possibly sensing my anxiety “you alright man”
I looked back at the next couple of moves, the crux of the climb, stepping out from my safe corner and onto the bare face before moving up and into the safety of the yew tree and the ledge. Didn’t like the look of it. “yeh I’m all good mate, just looking for sum gear” For a split second I had a moment of negativity, ‘what if I fall, will my gear hold me, I cant climb this, I don’t even like leading, my dad does that bit . . . I wish my dad was hear now”
I flashed back still in the same position but this time peering round the rocky outcrop I could see dad smiling, tucked into the ledge tied into the yew tree, belaying me up towards him, and then he was gone. “Its weird having spent all your life following one person, trekking up fells, bouncing down rapids, climbing sheer faces, to find a point were usually his encouragement would easily pull me through. But now I stand alone, on this rocky platform, the crux just above me. The route before me should easy, but taking the first step out seemed unreachable. This time my guiding figure is no longer holding the end of the rope. Now the rope is in my hands.
“Sorry, what are you reading” at first my voice comes out cracked and dry, weak having not spoken for a long time.
“Pardon” said the man with the hair
“What are you reading, if you don’t mind me asking?”
“Its called OIL by Upton Sinclair” his strong Scottish accent rang through, deep but mellow.
And so it turns out I was wrong he’s not an incredible rock god, touring the world, searching for adventure but instead George is head botanical gardener for the university of Aberdeen who loves blues, and was down south to attend a three-day blues festival. Its amazing how much you can find out about someone in such a short space of time, in only a few minuets a whole wealth of knowledge is discovered about someone else’s life, links to so many people, his daughter, his cousins in Australia, suddenly the world doest seem quite so big. If you just have to go looking for it. I will always talk to people on the train from now on, everybody has a story to tell, some better than others, people don’t just talk enough these days, hiding away in their own modern tech world, keeping their guard up, their network of fences.
However saying that the child in me would still in part like to see George as the guitar rock god I always thought he was, strolling away down the platform, a new start point in his long journey, another town, another audience. From my point of view his story is coming to an end, my story is only just beginning.
Thank you for reading, any comments are welcome.
