Just The Ticket!

          Returning from London the other day on a ‘super off-peak’ ticket, we were refused boarding on two ‘off-peak’ trains and had to wait an hour for one that allowed ‘super’ passengers. Now, I would have expected a ‘super’ to trump a mere ‘off-peak’, but the system follows a different logic, baffling at best, incomprehensible at worst. In the event, the later train was almost deserted and therefore more comfortable and calming. And the fact that it got held up behind a slower train also worked in our favour, as we then qualified for a 25 % refund for late arrival. Now that’s what I call super.

          The next morning, I caught another train, the ‘bus-on-rails’ up the ancient single-track serving the Tamar valley. My mission was to get to the orchards at Cothele where, earlier in the summer, I had been eyeing up the variety of apples on offer. My enthusiasm for a harvest, however, was premature – as I’m sure any horticulturalist could have told me. The trees were weighed down with colourful fruit, tantalising but unripe. I made my way back to the station, not unduly disappointed. After all, it had been a lovely walk and the pasty I had purchased from the local shop was one of the best I have ever tasted.

          The train trundled into the tiny, unmanned station of Calstock, where a dozen or so of us day-trippers were waiting to be taken home. I found a seat that would allow a good view and, as we pulled away, patted my pockets for my phone. That’s when I got that sinking feeling. I searched my back-pack, frantically, but I knew it would not be there. I had left the phone on the platform, on the low wall where I had sat waiting for the train. Having put it down while I fiddled around with various pairs of specs, I neglected to pick it up when I stood to board.

          I remember that years ago, if one lost one’s wallet, the incident became an emergency – racing to cancel debit and credit cards and having to cope with dismay at the loss of one’s ready cash. Possibly, there was also a driving licence or other form of proof of identity and an intimate photo of a loved one that could never be replicated. The loss of one’s phone, by these criteria, is trivial, but in other ways, more catastrophic. The contents are – or should be – secure from acquisitive predators, but they are also temporarily inaccessible to oneself which, given they include diary, contacts and numerous indispensable apps, makes it awkward to communicate – especially as one has no phone! My mind whirled through possible courses of action. I consulted the ticket-collector, who told me the staff on the train were on their last shift, so they could not help to retrieve it. He advised me to remain on the train for its return journey (it turned at Plymouth to go back up the valley) and, with luck, my phone might still be where I left it.

          The fresh crew boarded the train and the kindly ticket collector said she had been told about my predicament and would not insist I pay again. Nevertheless, I spent the next hour alternating between despair and resignation. Every stop tested my patience and every mile my resilience. As the train pulled into Calstock, I stood at the door, scanning the wall and saw that it was still there! With unseemly haste, I leapt from the train and ran down the platform, dodging elderly trekkers and parents with toddlers in tow. A young woman stood next to the phone and had been ‘guarding’ it in the hope that its owner might turn up. She was almost as relieved as I was that we were reunited. Even the ticket collector leaned out and gave me a smiling thumbs-up. I clutched the phone closely all the way home and noted that there is a human side to the rail ticketing system after all.