17:16, Thursday: I’m on a train. Well, I’m waiting for a train. Hopefully the train isn’t going to be late. A train to catch a boat. I’ve already been on one train to get here, had to run down the street dragging my case behind me, fling myself across a level crossing as the train went past and then jam my shoulders in the doors as the thing tried to leave without me. Our local train station is great for dramatic last gasp do or die efforts to make the next train to London. This next one should be more sedate.
17:40, Thursday: Actually on the train now. It’s going to Liverpool, where we’ll swap for the overnight ferry to Belfast. It’s been ages since I went on a long distance train in the UK. This one’s got plugs and big winged headrests on the seats that block out the rest of the carriage. Which means it’s been a delightful surprise each of the three times already that I’ve been hit in the head with a roller bag trying to find where it’s reserved a space.
19:03, Thursday: The carriage is full of people complaining about how awful London is in Scouse accents. Can’t say I’m inclined to defend the place if I’m honest. Plus fewer tourists means I can get around quicker. The train was 17 minutes late before we even departed because of ‘signalling’ issues. The issue presumably being that the light didn’t turn green when it should have. Fortunately my wife being my wife we have a buffer of over an hour that wouldn’t have been there if I’d have been the one to book the tickets.
20:33, Thursday: There’s something delightful about a train-based picnic. I brought some homemade hummus with me, chopped carrots and some boiled eggs. A delightful repast. I added some sandwiches that I bought at the newsagents in Euston (not to draw any attention to the brand, but it rhymes with WH Smith). Modest little numbers, but nevertheless they cost the same as an all-inclusive holiday in a North African coastal resort. We’re now running 39 minutes late. Apparently being a little bit late makes you a lot late because they give your bit of track to another train. I’d just overtake all the slow people if it was me.
21:33, Thursday: On a bus. Took a taxi from the station that smelled of sick and checked in for the boat. I’ve never been a foot passenger on a boat before, you just have to guess what you’re supposed to do next and where you’re supposed to go. Now we’re sitting outside the terminal on a freezing cold bus while a man watches videos on his phone at full volume, watching people in their cozy cars drive onboard. I’m ready for my bed. Well, a bed. I think we’ve booked something down near the bilge pumps.
22:31, Thursday: Seeing what’s on the ship takes about four minutes. Some good offers in the little shop, people gathering around the bar and others staking their claim to a patch of soft seating they’re going to try and call home tonight. We’ve booked a cabin, which has fold out bunk beds, a tiny television and an en-suite bathroom pumping sewage smells back up through the plug hole. It’s surprisingly comfortable. Time for bed, after we’ve spent a few minutes watching all the truck drivers say hello to the lady on the welcome desk. Easy to forget this sort of thing is a regular part of work for some.
05:51, Friday: Never has a crackling tannoy been less welcome. Don’t know if the speaker in our cabin is broken, but the bim-boom opening jingle sounds like someone’s about to murder the US national anthem on an electric guitar that’s just been run over by a van. ‘Goodmoooorningleddiesngennlemen’ – anything is too perky at this time of the morning. Short of it is that we arrive in Belfast at half six and have to be out of our cabins by quarter past. What I hear is ‘Plenty of time to jump in the shower’. It’s quite lovely and warm.
08:51, Friday: Missed the bus connection from the ferry into Belfast, would have been three hours to the next one. Felt a bit strange just sitting around on the boat while all the important people with their cars went back to warm up. It’s a four-mile walk through the picturesque industrial heartland of Belfast’s docks to get to the centre. We have found a hipster cafe down an alleyway to get the feeling back. The rest of our weekend adventures beckon. We’re flying back to London – would I do this boat route again? Maybe, if I was driving.