The 9:32 Ipswich to London

The 9:32 Ipswich to London. No trans-Siberian, Orient express, Indian mail, or Indian Pacific. This was English provincial rail and the carriages arrived late. But it did arrive, and who wants to be in a hurry, when rushing is so unfashionable.

My old pal Mikey Ryan has been lost in China for sometime. What had originally been a semester abroad stretched into a year and eventually years. I wanted to see him, which meant I had to go to China, I certainly didn't want to go to see all things Chinese. 

I had pencilled in a trip in 2009 but I was too poor and like all poverty it prevented me. In truth I was flat broke. I'd spanked a load of money, money that couldn't be spanked on a holiday to Miami. Then that Summer, I went to Italy. On a grand tour.  It took me another year to recharge funds, and claw my account from red to black. By January 2010 I was beginning to run a healthy surplus, and at least by my reckoning, it was too healthy for a single trip to Beijing.

The idea to take the trip hadn't been mine, an ex girlfriend had wanted to take the trans-Siberian. Id mocked the idea it at the time. Anyway, we broke up. I forgot the train, and for a little while I forgot her. Of course good ideas germinate with just the slightest of water.

One of my friends asked me to tutor his little sister I held him in such esteem it was a pleasure. Besides, it was good for me, it helped me weigh up the marginal costs and opportunities lost. And on top of that I'm the man for that sort of thing. When the job demands are theoretical, I can't put a foot wrong. One night her father lent me a book; "The Big red train" by Eric Newby (I've mentioned it before); a good book and a great name. It was the drizzle before the deluge of a real brain Storm.  As I read Newby's travel, the seed planted two years previously burst forth. 

Now the thing is, If you are travelling from Russia by train all the way to China, but you are starting in England, you still have to get to Russia. And who wants to fly to Russia to catch a train? That's Marxist talk, command economy logic, and I was schooled in Adam Smith. 

It would be an inefficient use of resources when I had track laid right to my door. So there it was. That was enough. Id been grabbed by adventure and no man can resist her. So I find myself riding the National Express east coast line, an hour fifteen to London, Liverpool street. Steaming through the suffolk and then the essex countryside. Passing, Ipswich, Chelmsoford, manningtree. A couple of years ago when I had worked in London I had taken this train almost every morning. It was a miserable, as if commuting could paint life grey. 

Circumstances change everything though, and this time the journey was pleasant enough. I had a window seat. A window seat with a table. Id been an Absolute Anaconda and placed my bag on the opposite chair. In the kingdom of the train, nothing except a Mc donalads  Happy meal says more clearly , dont tread on me.

The country rolled by. Thats a lie, it didn't roll, suffolk doesn't roll, at best it strolls.This flat fertile soil from march to September throws up first green then golden crops. The soil was fresh and the crops were just getting going. The going was good and you could see the fertile potential in the fields. 

Well, you have to see it. On just the right day in just the right light, when you're just the right person, it takes you back to the Garden of Eden. I promise you this land can be paradise on earth. The abundant wildlife and the little towns. I love this county. If there was one piece of this earth I could make my own it would be amongst the birds and trees of Suffolk; One touch of nature can make the whole world ten. 

At Chelmsord a thug invaded the train. He slipped through the sliding doors like a virus through an air-lock. He was bedecked in a tracksuit, two sizes two big and he stank of stale cannabis. The smelly passenger is a real hazard of any train in any country; poor personal hygiene is found all over the world. He had the peg-leg limp, that ghettotastic walk, which marked him out as supreme tosser. What a prick, know doubt, an Asbo warriour. At least he wasn't playing music from a faux diamond studded phone. 

He eye balled me.

I eyeballed back.

I was trying to blink "You Prick" at him. He sat on the other side of the train about 4 rows back. 

I looked out the window, I was trying to find the Garden of Eden.

Behind me I heard the tinny sound of tiny speakers pumping bad music. 

It was like the slippery hiss, in Eve's ear before that bite of the apple. It was just about to ruin everything.