Inspecteur Sands

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A call for Inspecteur Sands was one of the first things I heard when I walked into the train station this morning. It's quite strange hearing it in French: at first it's quite funny, but then you quickly remember to look around you for the nearest exit.

A day after the grand opening of St Pancras International station, it was my turn this morning to wait under the Barlow train-shed roof. The promise of arriving in a foreign city in just over two-and-a-quarter hours, combined with the magic of travelling by train and the awe-inspiring surroundings, was too much for me to resist. So here I am, writing after an incredibly pleasant journey through beautiful countryside, in, erm... Sheffield.

Travelling by train beats the coach on practically every level: it's far less stressful, faster, more comfortable, more refined, with a higher class of traveller completing the journey with you. Over tables, complete strangers strike up conversations. Couples gaze out on the fields and villages flashing past the window. Businessmen sit back and relax in-between meetings and schedules. I just sit back and read the paper... nice.

The train is a little bit more expensive than the faithful old National Express, however. Especially when you cock up the booking by ordering tickets for the day before, and then have to pay for a last-minute ticket in order to get home. Ahem.

The romance of train travel

This encounter, between a couple who had spent a secret weekend together (not that I was eavesdropping their conversation or anything), is priceless:

Woman: What are you smiling about?!
Man: Nothing... I'm just thinking about you.
Woman: Aww, that's so sweet.
Man: What are you thinking about?
Woman: Er- those crisps we just had.

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