Strangers on a train

Travelling to Manchester

For the first few months of working in Manchester I was commuting by car and train. I drove from Bakewell to Grindleford, where I picked up the slow train from Sheffield to Manchester. This journey through the Hope Valley has to be one of the most spectacular in the country. Snow was piled high on the hills when I started at the beginning of April, but as the snow disappeared, the lambs emerged. Early morning starts never came naturally to me, but the ticket collectors on the train were cheerful and the birds in the woodland surrounding Grindleford station were full of happy songs. Gradually I came to recognise fellow travellers and some new friendships were established. I also had some remarkable encounters with old friends and connections. On my first early morning journey the person sitting beside me recognised my voice from my 8th Day days. I commuted to university back in the day, on the train from Todmorden to Leeds. Again I made friends and forged connections that became a significant part of my life. A train journey has to be a liminal space, a linear link between departure and destination. The track itself is a place where anything can happen, a boundary, literally a line in the landscape. Things happen for me when I travel. On one level it's because I talk to strangers, and I can't remember a time when I didn't, even as a child. It's about the opportunities that come from being on public transport too. Now my journey to work is on a busy bus, along the Oxford Road corridor. More buses than you can shake a stick at. Passengers mostly ignore one another, but share intimate details of their lives in loud phone conversations. There can be half a dozen different languages being spoken around me. It's fascinating but there aren't the connections I have experienced with train travel. My children bought me a senior railcard for my birthday last week, at my request. I am hoping to make good use of it in the coming months. I am a passenger.