The journey home from Edinburgh Pt III....

are you sitting comfortably? Then I'll begin.

Having decided we could not stomach a return to Manchester via the standard rail network a collective decision was made to find a more direct means. Thus with joy we broke free from the surly bonds and parallel lines of the standard steel track and instead began lifting and laying our own route. It was labour intensive work but with sweaty and bloodied hands we toiled to tear up what we passed over re-using the burnished steel again and again and again. Small flies and the boiling sun scorched us raw and tiny dust devils spun in trying to cause maximum embarrassment by touching us in intimate places. It was no use striking out for a flailing arm only encouraged their gleeful little voices to make personal comments about what shit lovers we were. Some of it was very close to the bone and many men went impotent or developed the 'Shrivel' a mind disease that flattered the stricken with feelings of immense loss. Particularly wearisome was when one devil commandeered the train intercom calling out false lottery numbers in a bold attempt to break us. None believed that freedom would be without cost so we made camp, broke out the grand pianos and sang excerpts from The Barber of Seville.

Under a dawn sky the final notes of Mozart's piano concerto No21 'Elvira Madigan' faded to be replaced by the striking of metal upon metal as we again began to move. The under sixteen's many of whom had been been driven out by the classics returned with tales of enormous burgers who lived in Spatterland directly south. We edged further west. By late morning our progress again was halted as the only evidence of the station listed on our map was a closed wine bar situated beneath a neon sign that intermittently declared 'SHIT' though it might have been 'SHUT' as half the 'U' looked burned through. Many were meant to leave the train at this point and bags were indeed unloaded. From the roof of the forward car a small child pointed to dust that was approaching at speed. Expecting a devil attack we again unloaded the pianos and prepared the overture for La Boheme however it turned out to be the border rushing north to meet us. Oh how we danced at such a turn of events, only ninety miles to Manchester. A medium sized party bound for Glasgow decided to stay with the bags believing the station was due any moment and waving babies they shouted their farewells. I wasn't the only one to weep however the tears may have had more to do with a groin devil than anything sentimental.

Morecombe Bay is a shallow west coast inlet ten miles or so across and in Grange over Sands we hired someone to guide us. These are treacherous waters where tides sweep in very quickly and everyone was wary. For greater efficiency we passed the rails via those from first class who were lined along the roof, waiting at midpoint only for some fool who'd bought an hour ticket for the deckchairs rather than the half hour we had all previously agreed. Jacob our guide told us of a train last year that was completely sucked in by quicksand losing all hands and also shared that his own father had led the fated journey. With typical country humour he laughed and said he was sure it was his father but it might have been his brother, then becoming grave he declared "Oyve suddenly forgotten moy name!" Once landed at Carnforth we sent him on his way but not before tying a parcel of food to the puma that had never left his side. It was a lithe and beautiful animal remarkably well fed and some made links to the many missing elderly whom we previously assumed had wandered off. As an argument brewed between the zoologists and geriatricians we hunkered down, took stock and tried to relax. In fact it became so relaxed we released the castanet players. ARIBA! *

PtIV The Manchester Approaches will follow when I get a moment.

(* to my Spanish speaking friends I've no idea if that's a word or even if I've spelled it correctly. Nevertheless it's a cheery cry.))