Today was just supposed to be the unremarkable start of the trip home. But enough unfolded today that I think a post of its own is warranted. First of all it is important to note that I am checked in to the Marriott Bonvoy Hotel at Manchester Airport with a drink and a dinner under my belt. It is also worthy of note that this is the first stop on this entire journey where I have a proper desk upon which to type out some words. I hope it hasn’t been obvious that each of the previous posts has been tapped out on an iPad with a tiny keyboard perched on my lap balanced between shaky knees. Proofreading took longer than composing.
I awoke this morning in the Lee-Side B&B in Robin Hood’s Bay after the soundest sleep I have experienced in months! That’s what exhaustion and a good bed will do for you. Before I nodded off, I reserved an Uber ride to take me down to Scarborough to catch my noon train over to this place. Claire, my landlady, had indicated that “Uber does not come out here” but the app had me booked with a driver at my precise location precisely at 11 AM – plenty of time to go 30 minutes to catch my noon train.
With time to spare after breakfast I went for “a wander” as Claire called it. And my wander took me down through the old town to the slipway where I could toss my actual Sand Hill Cove pebbles that I pretended to toss yesterday when I went there with Jeff from Florida. That’s right. The photo last night was staged. Here is the actual event photographed by a nice man from Darby who happened to come along with his wife as I arrived.
Same spot. Same clothes. Different shoes. [I actually tossed THREE heart-shaped stones from my home beach. Each was tossed with a different wish attached.]
Then back up the hill to meet my Uber. Or so I assumed. Uber did not arrive. After spotting him the ten minutes that they allow for customer wait time, I headed over to the local bus stop to catch a ride to Scarborough. On the way, I received a message from Uber that my ride was cancelled but – GOOD NEWS, I have a £20 credit [which, of course, I’ll never be able to use] Two locals and I stood and waited… and waited… and waited for the 11:08 bus to arrive. The local woman called the bus company to see what was up. No satisfaction. The couple advised me to take the bus to Whitby where I could catch a train. A Whitby bus came two minutes later and I hopped aboard. Once on the bus, I researched train connections to Manchester and was chagrined to learn that there was a train at noon but not another one until 4PM! Happily I made the noon connection with ten minutes to spare but an expected three-hour train ride was instantly transformed into a five-hour ordeal through Middlesbrough, York and Leeds. Long story short – I made it. But the lesson learned is to trust locals when they tell you “Uber doesn’t come here.”
There were two train experiences of note. The first pertains to the, dare I say, the “abnormal” attachment of Englishmen to their dogs. Dogs are everywhere! They are welcomed in bars and restaurants. Every second pedestrian encountered in the street has a dog on a leash. Maybe two! Or even three! But today’s dog story occurred on the train from Whitby to Middlesbrough. A young man was attached to two yapping little shits for the entire 90-minute ride. He even took them out to relieve themselves at two of the station stops. Sheeeesh!
The other event on the train was more entertaining and fun. When the train stopped at York, a group of ten middle-aged women boarded and glommed the seats all around me in Carriage B. I was at a table seat so two of them sat across from me. Before the train started to roll, one of them pulled two chilled cans of gin and tonic from her purse and handed one to her mate. A moment later there was the pop of a champagne bottle in the seats behind them and plastic cups were distributed among the group and the wine flowed – ultimately three bottles of wine. One of my seat mates sensed that I was curious and explained that it was a birthday celebration for a woman across the aisle who turned 70 today. All of this happened between York and Leeds – a 25-minute ride – where they got off to continue the party.
I recently read a novel which included a description of such a party on a train in England. I was incredulous because our puritanical American way of life would never allow such a thing to happen. So another lesson learned: if the author of a novel hails from the place he is describing, it is likely that the events he describes are actually based in real experience.
PS I’ve updated yesterday’ lessons learned.
THE END – FOR REAL THIS TIME – SEE YOU IN NARRAGANSETT.