I am in a rush as I madly decided to meet my Irish relatives at Cardiff station and take the train to Milford Haven. I have two hours so only pack the essentials – laptop, camera, mobile phone and credit cards. Clothes and toiletries can follow with Richard tomorrow. (my friend Olwen once said that If I was travelling I would need a couple of pallbearers to carry all my stuff - she meant Sherpas but given I am on my way to a funeral she may be right!)
3 hours, no buffet but a little old man serving tea from a trolley– it’s just like being home with Jack. The trolley-dolly, last seen serving afternoon tea on Stephenson’s Rocket, must be seventy if he’s a day but perhaps he’ll get younger as we head west and the years roll back to 1947. Did you know West Wales is in a different time zone to the rest of Britain? Colleagues say that accounts for my slightly old-fashioned prose style and the use of words like ‘hamper’ and ‘hinder’. I blame it on too much Miss Marple.
The journey is made worse by a slightly drunk, older gay type – you know, all leaning forward conspiratorially and patting the knee while making recommendations for day trips to Tenby for ice-cream. People seem to believe Northern Ireland is all inner-city bombscapes and would be surprised to learn it has lovely beaches … and yes, ice-cream. No-one mentions we are on our way to a funeral but then with all the laughing and storytelling you’d never know.
By 9pm we reach Milford. It’s shut, or at least appears to be closed for repairs.
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