Train to Oban

The following work was written by me while on a week-long writing course at the Arvon Foundation in Devon, around three months previously. It is a semi-fictional work, and is not meant to cause offence. I am half Welsh and half Scottish so bear that in mind while reading.

They say history is a series of errors, that we learn and improve from our mistakes. I disagree. I say we learn and improve despite our mistakes. It was of huge mistakes I was thinking as I stood on the platform to Bristol Parkway, the lone traveller standing in the rising sun of an early and dusty Saturday morning, waiting for the 0800 hour train to the end of the line.

                I boarded the train a little resentfully. It had been two years since I had been to Cardiff and I had no desire to return. Last time I entered Wales I had a flaming blanket thrown at me by an intoxicated farmer, I was almost impaled by a rabid ram, and only narrowly survived a bridge swing with my life. This was all before reaching the Welsh side of the Wye.

                It is safe to say that Wales is a dangerous country with its bloodthirsty animals, perilous mountains and crazy inhabitants. It is also strangely and undeniably beautiful with its forgotten vales, crumbling castles and backwater rivers. I say this all with cautious recognition of my Welsh heritage. I am, after all, half Welsh- however I’d be very surprised if these Celtic genes were in fact much use at all. I blame my Welsh side for all my more unfortunate traits- my poor grasp of maths, my boring hair and, most of all, my vegetarianism.

                Two hours into the journey my thoughts on mistakes came again to the forefront of my mind in a surge of worry, prompted by the voice of a woman on the tannoy. As soon as I heard the accent, alarm bells started singing in my head. It was in Scottish.

‘Och age! Buffey bar wid Haggis an’ ale! Wee delays at Inverness, an’ den on tah luvverly rainy Oban!’

The alarm bells by now were all wailing, culminating in one huge confusing crescendo. Oban. The end of the line. The wrong line.

                As a dying man sees his life flash before his eyes, I was struck by an epiphany of such nightmarish resolutions that I’m pretty sure I dozed off for a bit. I didn’t hate Wales, with its fluffy sheep, kindly residents and beautiful landscapes. My encounters were just accidents. My Welsh genes were in fact used for all my more positive attributes- my dashing good looks, my ability to flip pancakes, and the way I can remember all the words to Livin’ on a Prayer.

                I hate Scotland. I hate blood pudding and haggis. I hate the way it always rains, I hate the fact that the other half of me is Scottish. I hate the fact it loiters up there in the north, doing so much of nothing, yet any time there’s a war or World Cup they have to rely on us to drag them along. I have nightmares of men in kilts. Yet here I was, sitting on the 0800 hour train to Oban. I was riding on a one-way journey to hell.

                And so I ended up in Oban. I awoke to a rural station overgrown with weeds, takeaway boxes and ancient newspapers that dated back to the 1400s. However, Oban wasn’t so bad. The food didn’t make me ill, the hotel bed didn’t break my spine and the station sold tickets for a return journey the very next week.

                In the end, I learnt my lesson- read the signs on trains before boarding, not after. I also learnt that maybe mistakes are useful… But that’s quite boring.

Tom Bedford fin, 21/09/2013 21:36 (Thank god for copy & pasting)