Just a journey

The First Great Western train from Exeter to London Paddington station did not travel slowly. Between three en route stops it hurtled along at 123 mph through the rolling countryside of South West England. The patchwork of hedge-lined fields looked fresh and healthy under the pleasing pattern of clouds and blue above. Acres of corn looked ripe and golden, and in places combine harvesters were already at work. White sheep dotted green grass and black and white cows chewed the cud.

I was a littler anxious about the time it might take to get from Paddington station to Kings Cross to connect to the East Coast line. The Hammersmith and City line Underground train moved slowly between stations. But I was sitting next to a pretty, slim, black girl, with swept-back hair, bright eyes and pleasing lips. I watched her reflection in the window opposite our seats but somehow lacked the nerve to chat to her. How strange it is that we can be so close to people and yet so far away.

Exiting the train at Kings Cross, I had to hurry up the stairs and out into the fresh air briefy to make my way across to the mainline station. The splendid Gothic Victorian architecture of adjacent St Pancras station soared into the sky above. Soon, the 12:05 train to Peterborough was flagged up on the indicator boards and I was walking along the platform to board the train. For £10 I had secured an upgrade to First Class for this leg of the journey.

First Class is certainly a treat. The seats are wide and comfortable and there is free wi-fi, free drinks, free snacks... I was immediately offered tea or coffee and shortly after enjoyed an egg and cress sandwich. I took fruit juice rather than alcohol, needing to be alert for a long and difficult meeting ahead.

The East Coast line is electrified and the trains generally smarter than First Great Western trains. I guess we were hitting over 130 mph for some of the time, restricted by the track. Only the Eurostar trains to the Continent routinely travel at 185 mph on rails laid to cope with such speeds.

A journey for me is a good time to read. I had a copy of Margaret Drabble's novel, 'The Peppered Moth'. It was an fascinating story, following the fortunes of a family from a North of England mining town from the end of the First World War until the 60s. The narrative moved backwards and forwards in time, capturing the everyday of each decade with insight and verisimiltude.

A book is a bit like a journey. The imagination travels through the surroundings and the lives depicted by the writer; people and places come and go; we meet people without meeting them and see the world without connecting with it, both voyagers and voyeurs.