Cars, Boats and Trains - But no Planes

There was something about flying during COVID times that triggered a dormant fear of flying that is at a point with me now where I’d rather spend a day and a half travelling by land and sea to get home as opposed to  letting myself sit in a panic for the sake of only an hour and a half on the plane from Amsterdam to Belfast. I have flown over the past year but I’d just rather not, if I can. Some people would tell me I’m crazy for doing it but I’ve managed to find a bit of peace in it. Yes, you’re losing a day where you could be home and settled all in the one evening if you fly but it’s given me ample time to reflect and disconnect from the madness of a focused life. And when you’re flying over the UK and Ireland you can look down in glances in awe at the natural beauty below but when you take the long way round you get to be right in the thick of it. 

I’d gone on a family holiday around the Highlands of Scotland as a kid and remember being lost in the stories of the place, the Loch Ness monster and my favourites - big, shaggy-haired highland cattle. Like a cow from the 70s. I hadn’t been back until this summer when I was invited to a good friend’s wedding on the outskirts of Inverness. I’d left it late to book my travel because I was in two minds about flying so when push came to shove it was decided I’d take the overnight bus from Rotterdam to London and the train from London up to Inverness via Edinburgh. When I arrived I was introduced to the wedding party as ‘the fella who took a day to get here’ and everyone knew in an instant who I was. The bus from Rotterdam worked its way down to Calais for us to board the ferry to Dover and by the time we reached the far side of the English Channel the sun was up out of bed for the day. I’ve seen the Cliffs of Dover plenty on TV but to see them in real life with the sun bouncing off them first thing in the morning and the sound of the waves as you make that slow float towards the dock is as calming as a hot oil massage. No wonder the English kick up a fuss about the spot. But the London North Eastern line train up to Edinburgh and the connecting train to Inverness was where I was blown away. Up along the North Eastern coastline the North sea on one side of the tracks and the english countryside on the other was already a treat for the eyes then as you approach and surpass the border to Scotland you can start to see that the Scots are exposed to a bit more rain than the rest of the island because the grass is as green in the fields as it is in Ireland. But the cherry on the cake for me was travelling beyond Edinburgh and in through the valleys and between the mountains of the highlands. Forests for miles. And when you break out of the forests you’re greeted to the view of the mountainsides with a particular part of the journey sticking in my mind where one of the sets of many mountains we passed was mostly bare rock with only patches of grass sporadically blotted across its side. I looked at it and thought to myself, “No wonder the Celts came up with such great stories. How could you not be inspired to tell tales when you’re looking at all this magical scenery?” I have the same feeling about driving through the Wicklow Mountains when the purple heather is in full bloom, that together with a spin down to Glendalough makes you feel like you’ve time warped into Celtic Ireland.  And to then reach Inverness and see how clear the water is of the River Ness that runs through the city. You can practically see the bottom of it the whole way along. For a small city that’s impressive. You might not understand the significance of this unless you live in Rotterdam or Amsterdam where the rivers Maas and Ij are military green and as clear as mud.

The above is an example of when the long way round goes well. This is not always the case. In fact, most of the time it’s the opposite. But within the troublesome adventures I've been gifted with some gems along my travels. The most prominent one being when I accidentally spent a night in Paris - and for free! December 2021 I decided that rather than flying back to Belfast I’d be getting a train from Rotterdam to Paris, Paris to Cherbourg and from Cherbourg the ferry across to Rosslare, County Wexford, Ireland. Then a bus to Dublin where I’d spend the night in a hotel anticipating a bad dose of sea sickness that would need put to rest before taking the last leg of the journey on the bus from Dublin to Belfast (I would be glad of this decision because I’d the wobbly sea sick legs all night when I returned on Irish shores). So in total 2 trains, a ferry, a bus, a hotel and another bus. It’d be cheaper and quicker to fly but sure I wouldn’t have a story to tell if I did. So, on the way out Rotterdam there was a 2hr45min stopover time in between my train to Paris and the subsequent train to Cherbourg. I had to change stations when I got to Paris. 2 hours and 45 minutes. Deliberately booked with the thinking that there’s loads of time between my trains just in case of delays. What could go wrong? Well, strap yourselves in lads. I got on the international train at Rotterdam and as we left we’d not even passed the border into Belgium when the train came to a halt. There’d been a crash on the international line and we couldn’t move until it was dealt with. An hour went by. Two hours went by. Then three hours went by before we started moving again. So much for accommodating for delays. I was fucked was what I was thinking. I was definitely gonna miss my connecting train. One of the staff was going round each passenger to give them travel advice or alternative routes if Paris Gare du Nord was not their last stop. He told me that I’d stil be able to make the following connecting train that would get me to the ferry port 5 minutes before it closes.So i thought ‘Fuck it, i’ll take the risk!’ I had 20 minutes to get there and the only way I’d make it on time was on an electric scooter so I’d to download the app for one first. After the admin of the that it turned out the only available scooter was one without a phone holder. So I had to make my way through central Paris with a backpack on and a giant gripbag swinging off my left shoulder. All the while steering the scooter with my right hand and holding the phone with google maps in the left. As i went to turn left on a corner my phone dropped out of my hand and the screen went completely back.

My ticket for the train was on there. My ticket for the ferry was on there. My QR code for my PCR test was on there. I was fucked. I picked up the scooter in the middle of the busy parisian streets and slammed it as hard as I could on the ground, falling to my knees immediately after. I was fit for crying out of sheer rage. I could still hear Google Maps taunting me to turn left but the screen was pitch black so at least I’d some hope that the phone wasn’t completely done for. As I was on my knees like a soldier in a film who’d been shot in the stomach, a kind stranger came over and put his hand on my shoulder in the middle of my defeated rage and said in the most stereotypical French english, “Everysing is going to be oké. Whatever your problems, you are going to be oké.” I didn’t know whether to hug him or choke him but as I looked up at him and over his shoulder I seen the sign for a phone repair shop so I guess in a way he was right. I was going to be okay. For the sake of 200 euros I was going to be okay again. I’d to wait in the phoneshop for them to get the shell of my phone model delivered across from the far side of town. I’d been thinking through my plans now. My ferry was a flexi ticket so I could change it to the next day and book a hotel and new PCR test when the phone was back online.

While I was waiting another Irish fella came into the shop to fix a crack on the screen of his iPhone. He caught the eye of my Odense GAA gripbag which would immediately identify me as Irish to another Irishman. He came over and we got to talking and it turned out that this fella was working on a Data Centre in Paris with a company I used to work alongside in Denmark. He asked me what my story was and I told him about the mad day I’d just had and he turned to me and said that one of his roommates was away back to Ireland early for Christmas so I was welcome to stay in his roommate’s room for the night. “How much do you want for the night?” I said. “Don’t worry about it” he said. Once both our phones were fixed he took me on round to his penthouse apartment, slap-bang in the middle of paris with a view of the Eiffel tower out the living room window. After settling in he gave me the key and give me free roam of the apartment to go in and out as I like, “Just leave the key on the table when you’re leaving tomorrow.”

First port of call was an adventure through the streets to find a bite to eat. I was starving. If someone put a cow in front of me there and then there’d only be a pile of bones left at the end. Ravenous. Walking through the side streets I was swooned into an Indian restaurant by the waiter at the front exclaiming, “the food here is so good that if you don’t like it, you eat for free.” I went for the Tikka Masala and he said about four times in a row, “You know that’s spicy, you know?” In other words, “You know you’re white, right?” I was like yea challenge accepted. I near enough took the blue paisley pattern off the plate. The waiter came back to collect the plates and I had to admit defeat, “Lucky for you that was delicious so bring me the bill…” After that I hopped on an electric scooter (with a phone holder on it this time) and took myself on a little date to see the Eiffel Tower and the recently charred Notre Dame Cathedral. I was in awe of the abundance of beautiful architecture to the point where it made me wonder what Belfast or Dublin would look like if Ireland was a colonial power. I got back to the apartment after that and had a pleasant enough sleep now prepared to have my nose prodded for a QR Code out of dodge. The ferry back was where the journey flipped on its head again. I’d been able to amend the departure date on the flexi ticket no problem but there were no rooms left on board this boat so I’d take residence in the pet lounge, spending the night of the 16-hour voyage lying with only my overcoat as a blanket in a partially lit room. Managed to make a few furry-faced friends in the morning though and since I’d no room, I’d to sneak up into the truck drivers’ bathroom to use their showers. Wasn’t until I got to my hotel room in Dublin that I realised that I was heavily motion sick because I still felt like I was floating at sea when I stood still. It was like a terrible high that only came down when I lay in bed and stuck on some Afrobeat and Highlife music to distract myself. My mind fixed on getting home for Christmas with a pestering thought that no planes fell out of the sky on their way to Belfast digging away at me. It took me four days to get home. The flight is an hour and ten minutes. Do I regret it? Nope. Otherwise I wouldn’t have a story to tell. But if there’s anyone out there who also experiences the jitters when they’re flying send me an email or a DM on instagram on how you deal with it. Non-alcoholic methods only please.