S is for Swift, Sea-Saw, Sway-Walking and Sick Bag

Euston was a bit of a nightmare: large clumps of people everywhere, their heads canted backwards, studying those Heavenly timetables that constitute passengers' major reading material in stations or airports, wherever one is poised on one side of the vast (if rapidly traversable) contemporary abysses that separate home from elsewhere. Going back from whence one came is always a wee bit of a letdown (in middle-age anyway) in that it brings home the sheer velocity of passing events; they are here/gone, or even gone/here, before you can blink.

The train to Chester was delayed, and as I only had about 10 minutes to make the connecting train to Holyhead, this was worrying. I met a woman in the same dilemma at the Info booth and she suggested getting another train (just departing) for Crewe, where, after a 40 min. wait, we could, according to the guy at the booth, catch another connection which would bring us to Holyhead in time for the ferry. Of course this didn't make any sense if you stopped to think about it. But all was okay, because once off the train in Crewe we managed to catch the original not-so-late-departing train we had been booked originally booked on.

I managed to get a seat, which was terrific (the train from Chester the previous Monday had to lose five of its carriages due to faulty electronics and it really was a cattle-crush). By the time we arrived in Holyhead the weather had decidedly shifted to Unsettled (forty shades of grey, the true colours of the Irish flag).

The Swift is indeed the fast ferry, standing above the water like a kind of giant catamaran or moving bridge. As we pulled out, I became enchanted with the lovely colours of the circular wash as The Swift turned, in the powerfully leisurely way large craft do, and nosed out of the harbour.

It soon became clear that this wouldn't be a calm crossing. Not seriously rough of course, or else it would have stayed in port, but enough to make walking somewhat difficult. Unless you have the sea legs of a regular boat-farer, a crossing like this insists you walk like a very drunk person.

I've never been bothered by sea-sickness and rather enjoy these battles with gravity and uprightness, so I headed up onto the little deck at the back of the craft (part of which is the smoking area) to get some sea air and watch the comedy as people, including myself, braced themselves against walls, clung to nearby supports or risked little dashing plunges for foreign parts, a few yards distant. A funfair ride then, very different to the more solemn outgoing journey on the far larger Ulysses.

My cousin Dave (Slant) had kindly agreed to meet me in his car, so we had a pleasant ride back to the house, stopping for a Diep takeaway for himself (I had M&S fish and chips waiting in the fridge).

Home then. Now, take a break why don't you, Time.

More stuff here if anyone's interested.