I have an old theatrical friend in London called Percy who asked when I was going to be back in town. Ryanair and the new local airport make it easier than it was, but because of the density of Poles now in the UK and the consequent mass movement back and forth from Poland to Britain, it is quite challenging to find cheap seats as they are all snapped up well in advance.
Percy (who never flies) wondered why I didn't get the train like he always does, and I'll certainly look into it. Long train journeys can be blissful but sometimes cost the earth. I remember last Christmas it was impossible to find a reasonably priced plane ticket as they had all been bought up months before, and so I was forced to pay a fortune or take the coach, which in the end is what I did...
26 hours of arse-aching monotony, and any chance of reading was frustrated by brainless Hollywood action films with loud Polish voiceovers which were shown throughout most of the journey. Poland is as flat as a pancake and the Autobahn through Germany all look the same, so the view isn't too exciting. On reaching the coast one does not even have the ferry crossing to look forward to as the coaches now go through the channel tunnel.
Still, it was certainly more memorable than most flights and it's easy to strike up conversation. The highlight of the journey was when at 4am and just about to cross into Germany, we stopped off at a truckers type cafe which was annexed to a small motel. Suspended in a nocturnal limbo between sleep and reality, I stumbled out of the bus and into the bitter winter night. Taking in several other sleepy souls, we crept carefully across the ice like extras from a zombie film and entered the gloomy foyer of the motel where I instantly felt I'd been transported back 30 years. Heavily made-up females, looking deeply available, lounged in large brown leather-look armchairs and with a twinkle in their eye surveyed all who passed. A short splindly fellow with a handlebar moustache and a polyester suit stood pouting at the reception, presiding over a wall of empty pigeon-holes under which hung rows of keys. A turn to the left took us through a dimly lit corridor and into the 'restaurant' which teemed with life. A brassy bleached blonde wearing a grubby apron stood commandingly behind a formica counter dishing out hot broth with chunks of stale bread. Bigos and sausage were also on offer. Big bellied bruisers sat round tables hunching over bowls of gruel which they shovelled down their gullets, half of it running down their chins. Groups of middle-aged women downed shots of vodka between hysterical bouts of laughter and thick cigarette smoke engulfed all. The din was equal to that of any nightclub in the West End on a Saturday night.
"Sounds marvellous" said Percy in all seriousness. I'm not sure I could put my posterior through that again, although it's preferable to paying 300 pounds to fly. That coach trip across Europe cost me a mere 50 quid return.
