Not just a hop, skip and a jump

Going out for a day off the Island

View of Portsmouth from IoW Ferry

There have been very few times over the last 2.5 years that I haven’t found something to write about for these weekly missives. Of course sometimes it is easier than others, and other times I start in one place and end up in another. Or I draft something almost to completion and then decide it isn’t quite right, and toss it out to craft something else entirely.

But these last few weeks have been quite a struggle for me. Not to actually do the writing, but to think of something—anything!—that is not about the grey weather, my grey mood, or any other dreary topic.

Ryde Esplanade Train station, IoW

Earlier this week in an attempt to shake up my lethargic brain, I met up with a friend Off the Island for a day mooching around Brighton, a slightly bohemian coastal town on the South Coast, a couple hours east by train from Portsmouth on the Big Island¹. She lives between Portsmouth and Brighton so we met on the train along the journey. By the time she joined the train I had already been en route for a couple of hours, as leaving the island is rarely a simple hop, skip and a jump. It is rather:

• a 10-15 minute walk to the island train,

• a 20 minute train ride to most of the way to the ferry terminal,

• getting off and another walk for the last half-mile in the bracing ice-filled easterly wind down the pier to the ferry terminal. They are doing repair work on that last stretch, AGAIN. Otherwise the train goes all the way out the pier to the Ferry.

• Then there is the 25-minute ferry ride across the Solent to the rail terminal at Portsmouth Harbour.

Sometimes (I wish I could say usually), we can walk off the ferry and up a ramp into the train station, and from there, you can catch mainline trains North to London, West to Salisbury and beyond, or East to Brighton. But this day, the station was fenced closed except for a small pathway guiding us to leave the station and walk out front to find the “Replacement Rail Line Buses”. There I needed to find the bus going to the East, not the one heading West.

After 20 minutes on the bus, we arrived at the designated train station. I waited for the Brighton Train to arrive, and counted the number of carriages carefully so I could let my friend know which one I was on. I got on the second one of four counting from the front of the train as it came into the station. I sat facing forwards at a table, and settled myself in for the ride. I noticed that most of the people getting on chose seats facing the other way. Hmmm.

The train whistle blew, and away we went.

Backwards.

Ah, right. The clues had been there. The reason I had to take the bus is that the trains weren’t going on to Portsmouth; in fact they were TURNING AROUND at this station, so my train came in AND LEFT on the same track. I switched sides around the table and faced forward again. I also messaged my friend that I was in the THIRD carriage, not the second as I had thought. Whew.

By the time we arrived in Brighton it had been three and a quarter hours since I left home. Still, the sun was shining, and I had a friend to wander through the small Laines² with all their independent craft-filled and colourful shops. We supported a few of the small businesses we visited, and eventually found a relaxing place for a leisurely lunch. Then off we wandered again through a few more tucked-away alleys, admiring the gems district with its gold and silver jewelry, eventually reaching the broad beachfront. We walked and walked and walked until we reached the next town. The air was fresh, the sun still shining, and we chatted away.

Various photos of Brighton taken a few years ago, in summer

Eventually it was time to catch the return train. We skipped the earliest train as we were still enjoying a cup of tea after our long walk. We planned to catch the next one in half an hour, but it was cancelled. So we got on a 4:15 train that would reach the last train station around 5:20. From there I would catch the bus back to Portsmouth, in time for the 6:15 ferry. That bus journey had taken about 20 minutes in the morning so I figured I had enough of a buffer to account for afternoon traffic. The train was packed but we got a seat together and continued chatting away.

When I arrived at the train station to wait for the bus, there were well over a hundred people milling around also waiting. Shortly two buses arrived, and there was a mad scramble whilst everyone figured out which bus was going where. Of course the signs were incorrect on the buses themselves.

By the time we left the station, I had a little over 30 minutes before my ferry. Well, you can imagine how it went. Traffic going into Portsmouth was typical awful rush hour traffic. Plus we stopped at several other locations to pick up and drop off passengers. We eventually rolled into Portsmouth five minutes after my ferry had left. The next ferry was in an hour.

All that time on the bus, I was less worried about missing the ferry as I was that my phone was almost out of battery. Plus it was freezing cold. Due to a very crowded train, I hadn’t been able to sit near an outlet, and this bus didn’t have outlets either (many of them do now). I had my phone turned off except to send an emergency message to Pete about my delays. ALL my tickets were electronically stored on my phone, so I really needed to find an outlet before I could get on the ferry and train on the Island.

I headed down to the Ferry terminal, walking through the darkened train station to get to the ferry end of the building. But hooray! The automatic doors opened to the Ferry terminal, and a warm blast of air wrapped around me, together with bright lights and plants in the waiting room like a cheerful greeting. Most surprisingly, the cafe was open and the staff there helped me find an outlet so I could recharge my phone. They even offered me cords and plugs if I needed them.

And with that simple blast of warmth, light and kindness, all the stress of the last hour washed away. Now I could charge my phone to have access to my tickets and to let Pete know when I would (finally) make it home. And I could get warm again.

The last bit of excitement of the trip came when 45 minutes later I opened my ferry ticket in the app and the ticket had vanished! Gone! And I had only checked it an hour earlier. Fortunately the ticket office was still open and I explained my ticket had just vanished. He took my phone, and went to a history tab within the app (who knew?) and found my ticket. He said, “you were supposed to be on the 5:15?” And I said “yes..” and waved my hands, “but there were the train works and bus delays….” I didn’t mention that I had skipped the train that would have enabled me to make the 5:15. Anyway, he fixed my ticket and all was good.

So after the ferry ride to the Ryde Pier head terminal, then taking the van that drives us from the terminal to the train station on the Esplanade (the icy cold route I had walked in the morning), and finally taking the train back to my village, there was Pete parked in front of the station, saving me the last 15 minute walk home in the dark. It was now after 8:30pm, 13 hours from when I left the house that morning. I was so very grateful for the last car ride home.

So that’s what it takes sometimes just to shake up my lethargic brain. But even with 8 hours of travel for 5 hours of companionship, none of the travel hassle came close to minimising the joy of spending time with a friend, some good food, random window shopping, and hours spent walking in conversation in the fresh air. Those five hours were worth EVERY stage of the trip.

Photo by Helena Lopes on Unsplash

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Thanks as ever for reading this week. Hope you are finding little bright spots in your February days whenever you can. It takes work, but it is worth it!

Until next week,

xoxo Sabrina

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1. We call the mainland UK ‘the Big Island’, primarily to amuse ourselves, since we live on the little Isle of Wight off the South Coast.

2. There are many stories and discussions about why the Brighton Laines are spelled with an ‘i’, but they are shown as Laine on the street signs now. The names have changed back and forth between Lane and Laine, and the word Laine comes from an Anglo-Saxon word denoting a division of agricultural land.