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Well, I'm back at my parents' now; and given that I was only an hour and twenty minutes late into Newcastle I suppose that I should be grateful.
The first odd thing about the journey was that I was booked on a ghost train. The departure boards at Oxford knew nothing of the 1200 Virgin Trains service to Manchester Piccadilly via Birmingham New Street. Several travellers asked staff whether the train was running, and they were assured that it was, it was just that some northbound trains weren't being picked up by the system somehow. One of the travellers was Colin Dexter, of Morse fame, who was greeted by station staff with the affectionate mateyness reserved in this country for local heroes; I decided that if Colin Dexter was happy, then I was.
The train turned up at 1200 as promised. I'd booked a cheap first class ticket about ten days ago, but found that the first class coach was 'out of commission', whatever that means. The train was two-thirds empty so there were no problems in getting a seat elsewhere, and I was waited on with drinks, a 'snackbox' starring a brie and grape roll, and a copy of The Times as paid for. The train got in on time to Birmingham, and this is where my problems began. On looking for my connection, the 1330 to Newcastle, I was faced with the caption 'cancelled'.
A trip to the travel desk revealed Virgin staff advising northeastbound travellers to take the next train to Derby, where a coach would take ongoing passengers to Sheffield. A power failure south of Chesterfield had led to the signals failing, and they foresaw no trains going north of Derby for some time.
The next Derby train was at 1349; passengers crowded onto one of the regional train platforms, 9a, and proceeded to pack the small Central train heading for Nottingham via Derby and all stops. There were no seats and little provision for luggage; lots of us stood. The Central Trains conductor kept being asked for information, but he wasn't briefed for long-distance journeys and I knew more than he did.
I arrived at Derby expecting to be directed towards a coach; instead, Virgin had decided to let the 1403 from Birmingham to Dundee run, and this arrived at Derby at the same time as us. I was annoyed, as this suggested that I and others had had to stand on an inadequate train just to relieve crowding at Birmingham and give passengers on the 1403 the impression that they were on a normal service. They were soon to learn that it wasn't. The passengers from the Central train piled on. I was one of the last to get to first class and there were no seats there or in any of the other carriages. Pressure in the vestibules meant that the normal rule that no standing is allowed in first class was swept aside as we filled the aisle.
I assume that the 1403 had to run just to ensure that there were enough Virgin trains in northern Britain. Extra stops were announced at Chesterfield, Darlington and Durham, which are not normally served by this train, which started at Penzance six hours earlier and called almost everywhere it could in Cornwall and Devon. A patiently frustrated Canadian family were in the carriage - the mystique of 'first class' took about a second to lose its attraction for the two children, who returned to their gameboys - and I was asked by the father how long it would take to get to Sheffield from Derby. About half an hour, I thought. I was out by twenty-five minutes. The signal failures at Chesterfield had not been repaired; Network Rail staff were thick on the ground; and our driver needed separate authorizations to pass through each signal, which on one occasion took fifteen minutes. I was not surprised to learn that the train following this one from Birmingham had been cancelled.
When we finally reached Sheffield I grabbed a seat which became available and clung onto it, even though different reservation lines came and went. I wasn't challenged which suggests that those who had reserved the seat had sensibly made other arrangements. After York normal first class service was resumed and a 'revenue protection officer' banished newcomers not holding first class tickets to the standard carriages; a woman who had had to wait over two hours at Derby without any provision for her ongoing journey was allowed to keep her seat. The 'snackboxes' were produced, but this time only had tuna. I said no, and took an orange and chocolate biscuit in compensation.
The rest of the journey was uneventful by comparison, and I'm grateful that I could sit down for most of it; I think this doesn't quite beat New Year 2003, where I stood most of the way. I'd expected to arrive at Newcastle at 1652, and would have shared a taxi with my sister who was arriving on a London train at 1650. Instead I arrived at 1815 or so. Still, if there hadn't been any trains at all north of Derby, as I'd been advised at Birmingham, it would have been a lot worse. I'm definitely going to write and complain, though.
The first odd thing about the journey was that I was booked on a ghost train. The departure boards at Oxford knew nothing of the 1200 Virgin Trains service to Manchester Piccadilly via Birmingham New Street. Several travellers asked staff whether the train was running, and they were assured that it was, it was just that some northbound trains weren't being picked up by the system somehow. One of the travellers was Colin Dexter, of Morse fame, who was greeted by station staff with the affectionate mateyness reserved in this country for local heroes; I decided that if Colin Dexter was happy, then I was.
The train turned up at 1200 as promised. I'd booked a cheap first class ticket about ten days ago, but found that the first class coach was 'out of commission', whatever that means. The train was two-thirds empty so there were no problems in getting a seat elsewhere, and I was waited on with drinks, a 'snackbox' starring a brie and grape roll, and a copy of The Times as paid for. The train got in on time to Birmingham, and this is where my problems began. On looking for my connection, the 1330 to Newcastle, I was faced with the caption 'cancelled'.
A trip to the travel desk revealed Virgin staff advising northeastbound travellers to take the next train to Derby, where a coach would take ongoing passengers to Sheffield. A power failure south of Chesterfield had led to the signals failing, and they foresaw no trains going north of Derby for some time.
The next Derby train was at 1349; passengers crowded onto one of the regional train platforms, 9a, and proceeded to pack the small Central train heading for Nottingham via Derby and all stops. There were no seats and little provision for luggage; lots of us stood. The Central Trains conductor kept being asked for information, but he wasn't briefed for long-distance journeys and I knew more than he did.
I arrived at Derby expecting to be directed towards a coach; instead, Virgin had decided to let the 1403 from Birmingham to Dundee run, and this arrived at Derby at the same time as us. I was annoyed, as this suggested that I and others had had to stand on an inadequate train just to relieve crowding at Birmingham and give passengers on the 1403 the impression that they were on a normal service. They were soon to learn that it wasn't. The passengers from the Central train piled on. I was one of the last to get to first class and there were no seats there or in any of the other carriages. Pressure in the vestibules meant that the normal rule that no standing is allowed in first class was swept aside as we filled the aisle.
I assume that the 1403 had to run just to ensure that there were enough Virgin trains in northern Britain. Extra stops were announced at Chesterfield, Darlington and Durham, which are not normally served by this train, which started at Penzance six hours earlier and called almost everywhere it could in Cornwall and Devon. A patiently frustrated Canadian family were in the carriage - the mystique of 'first class' took about a second to lose its attraction for the two children, who returned to their gameboys - and I was asked by the father how long it would take to get to Sheffield from Derby. About half an hour, I thought. I was out by twenty-five minutes. The signal failures at Chesterfield had not been repaired; Network Rail staff were thick on the ground; and our driver needed separate authorizations to pass through each signal, which on one occasion took fifteen minutes. I was not surprised to learn that the train following this one from Birmingham had been cancelled.
When we finally reached Sheffield I grabbed a seat which became available and clung onto it, even though different reservation lines came and went. I wasn't challenged which suggests that those who had reserved the seat had sensibly made other arrangements. After York normal first class service was resumed and a 'revenue protection officer' banished newcomers not holding first class tickets to the standard carriages; a woman who had had to wait over two hours at Derby without any provision for her ongoing journey was allowed to keep her seat. The 'snackboxes' were produced, but this time only had tuna. I said no, and took an orange and chocolate biscuit in compensation.
The rest of the journey was uneventful by comparison, and I'm grateful that I could sit down for most of it; I think this doesn't quite beat New Year 2003, where I stood most of the way. I'd expected to arrive at Newcastle at 1652, and would have shared a taxi with my sister who was arriving on a London train at 1650. Instead I arrived at 1815 or so. Still, if there hadn't been any trains at all north of Derby, as I'd been advised at Birmingham, it would have been a lot worse. I'm definitely going to write and complain, though.