TRAINS TUBES AND WATER TAXIS

I love travelling by train. A lot of people criticise the various train companies, making out they are late all the time and the service is poor, but I have not experienced any of this. Yes, there are occasional problems, but by and large they are efficient, comfortable and convenient. Today I am headed to Harlow Mill, just north of London and train is my transport of choice.

I sit on the train, which is on time, open my book, ‘A Year of Festivals’, and drift off to Roskilder with the author, Jarvis Hammond. You can’t get lost in a book when driving, well, not legally anyway. I manage to detach myself from my surroundings and drift away to the festival with Jarvis as my guide for almost one hundred miles. Then I notice we are just outside Reading. I look out of the window, then get back into the book. Roskilder comes to an end and we start heading for Latitude. I look out of the window again. We are still just outside Reading. We have not moved since I last dipped into reality. A voice that appears to be everywhere and nowhere at the same time announces that there are passengers are on the line, but soon corrects himself to say trespassers. I slip back into Jarvis. Well, more precisely, his book. My faith in the rail system is still in tact, its not First Great Western Trains fault that some Muppet has decided to go walk about on the track. For a moment my humanity slips and I think to myself that it would serve them right if the train just ran over them.

You can’t just stop and start trains when you feel like it. It’s not like the motorway; you have to fit in with the schedule of other trains. But because it was not their fault, I decide not to blame First Great Western for the train arriving in Paddington a full hour late. It is not as if I had any deadline to meet anyway. I stroll the length of platform one to get to the tube station, only to hear the tannoy announce that the Circle Line is being replaced by a bus due to engineering works. Well, you’ve got to work on the track sometime I suppose, it can’t be helped. Although walking back the way I just came, carrying my trusty rucksack and tent down to the other end of the station to jump on the Hammersmith Line was something I could have done without.

By the time I got to Liverpool Street I decided a cold Strongbow was in order, after all, I had plenty of time to get to Harlow. It did not take long anyway, it was a warm day and it went down so quickly I hardly had time to savour the refreshing apple taste. Then it was off to the machine to purchase my ticket. It was only when I had my ticket in hand that I realised that I did not know which train I needed to catch. The helpful lady at the information desk soon put that right. “Well, you really need to Cambridge train, but you just missed it and there is not another one for an hour. Your best bet is to get the half past express train to Stanstead but get off at Harlow Town, then get a connection to Harlow Mill”. The advice sounded fine to me so I took it (although I did wonder if it should be called the express train if it was making stops on the way).

I considered stocking up on refreshments for the festival but decided to get something in Harlow, thus avoiding carrying it any further than necessary. Then I sat on the ‘express’ train and opened up Jarvis again (you have a dirty mind you know). He was just landing at Stanstead Airport. An omen I thought, this is the train for me. The carriages soon filled up with weary travellers on their way home and excited travellers about to start their holiday. Then another voice from everywhere and nowhere announced signal problems directly outside the station, which were causing a delay to all trains departing from platforms one through to ten. I looked out the window. Platform seven. Never mind, Jarvis and I were having fun. The train started to fill up with people that had technically missed the train, or would have if it had been on time. Forty-five minutes later we started moving. The train had emptied a bit by now, some had already decided they were going to miss their flight and had resigned themselves to another night in ‘The Smoke’. I was not too concerned; I had been spending quality time in Spain (Latitude was history now). I was at Benicassim, soaking up the rays; this brought a really big smile to my face as I had recently purchased tickets for this year’s event! Then I remembered the ticket was for daughter number one, not me. We raced out through the north of London and out beyond the M25 and soon I was deposited in Harlow Town.

I had not been to Harlow before and was not sure of the geography. I considered walking to Harlow Mill; it could not be that far away. Then I remembered my 24 hours lost in Falkirk, purely because I got off at the wrong railway station, mistakenly thinking it was only a village. I went in search of the platform I needed for my connection to Harlow Mill. After wandering for ten minutes (no mean feat on a station as small as Harlow Town) I came to the conclusion that I needed to wait for the Cambridge train that was due to leave Liverpool Street on the hour. If I had waited I could have taken my time on another pint of big boys happy apple, instead of standing on the platform of a station in a depressing looking town reading the Samaritans sign wondering if I was in need of conversation.

It started to rain. Not any old rain, but old skool, hardcore, biblical rain. It was accompanied by thunder and lightening. Jarvis could not distract me from questions in my head about what shape my tent was in when I packed it away. I had a nagging feeling that there was something wrong with it, nothing that would stop me camping in on a beautiful sunny day, but might put me off camping in a monsoon. It stopped raining. I don’t recall seeing hail this late in June before, but now I was seeing it. Thoughts of my wellies back at home went through my head. The thought of changing platform and getting on the ‘express’ train to Liverpool Street went through my head.

Eventually the Cambridge train rolls into town and transports me from one end of Harlow to another with the speed only an hour late express train can. The hail has subsided back to just plain rain. A quick squint around the area reveals a trading estate, an Indian Restaurant, and a pub from a famous chain and a tool hire centre. No sign of an offy. I had no intention of getting soaked in a search for an off licence that might not even exist so I headed for the river. There had been a promise of a water taxi, but I had already been alerted to engine problems. This was not a good day for public transport. I headed ‘north, with the river on my left, for about 15 minutes’.

Perhaps it is about time I let you in on where I am headed.

Shortly after the Tofu Love Frogs reformed Paddy came up with the idea of Frogstock, a festival that would feature the Tofu Love Frogs and bands featuring ex Love Frogs and bands that had a remote connection with the Frogs. It did not happen in 2007. It did not happen in 2008 either. Paddy is never one to give up on a good idea (or a bad one), 2009 is to be the year of the Frogstock, all be it slightly scaled down from the original plan. And this is where I am headed.

DUBLIN: Pubs, history, music and football

Just got back from five days in Dublin, possibly the friendliest city I have ever visited. It was a Cardiff City RAMs tour with 50 of us on the trip to watch Wales play Ireland in the Euro 2008 qualifiers, but to be honest football did not play a big part in the trip.

Apart from the first night when we all got together, we did not really see much of the rest of the motley RAMs crew, it was mainly me, The Artist Formerly Known As Ginger and Secret Squirrel. While the RAMs were off like a stag party without a wedding and drinking large quantities of alcohol, we were seeking out the local culture… and drinking large quantities of alcohol. They went to the races, we went to the castle; they went to burger king, we went to Cornucopia vegetarian restaurant; they went to lap dancing nights, we went to reggae dance hall nights; they went to the pub and we went to… the pub; they went to the football, we went to… the football….. actually, there were a lot of similarities!

Dublin is a well established city, set up by the Vikings and its history has been of resistance for hundreds of years. 800 years ago Ireland was invaded by Anglo Norman forces and the island has was pretty much under ‘British’ rule right up until the early 20^th century.

The GPO , site of the siege of the 1916 Easter Uprising

The 'Four Courts'

The most interesting story of Dublin (for us) centres around the ‘Easter Rising’ of 1916. There are lots of sites to visit, locations of battles during the rising, but they are not quite as exciting as one might think. The GPO for instance, site of a major siege during the rising is, as the name suggests, a post office. A pretty impressive post office, but a post office none the less. The ‘Four Courts’ was another building where there was a siege, but to look at it today, unless you know about the history, looks just like a court… which it is.

The castle courtyard, with Liberty appropriately showing her back to the court on the other side of the river with the scales of justice.

The castle is pretty remarkable only in that it is probably the most unremarkable castle we have seen. It does not dominate the sky line as most castles do and you will only find it if you are specifically looking for it. When you find it, from the outside at least, there is not an awful lot to see. Although we suspect the guided tour of the interior is probably more interesting.

The Stilleto in the Ghetto

In 1966 the IRA blew up a huge statue of Nelson, very similar to Nelson’s Column in London, because it was a symbol of British Imperialism. It has recently been replace by a huge metal spike 120m tall built a ta cost of 4.4 million euro. It has had a mixed reaction with some commenting on the idea of having a giant needle in the middle of a city with a growing heroin problem. It is often referred to as the stiletto in the ghetto. It dominates O’Connel Street, which was renamed in honour of the ‘Liberator’ Daniel O’Connel in 1924.

The Artist Formerly Known As Ginger takes time put for a pint of the black stuff in between record shops.

One thing that stands out about Dublin is the fact that almost every third building is a pub (well almost). The pubs are friendly and even when there are big crowds at the bar, a small number of professional bar staff seem able to serve you in a matter of minutes. And they seem to have incredible memories, remembering what your round was amongst the all the customers they are serving and sometimes you find new drinks arriving before you had even decided you wanted another one. The locals a re friendly and even when completely wrecked they are jolly drunks rather than brawlers. This is even true in the Temple Bar, which is wall to wall pubs and restaurants. Temple bar can get VERY busy on times and it is very touristy. It can be something of a draw for those that like international hen and stag parties, but the price of the town does not make it competitive, compared with the likes of Prague and Tallinn.

The Hill 16 is allive to the sound of music

"Your'e supposed to be at home"

We suppose we should mention the football, as that was the purpose of the trip. Ireland were crap and Wales were crapper. It was like a Sunday league game. The stadium however was a bit special. Croke Park is the home of Gaelic sport and until earlier this month it had not hosted a game of non Gaelic origin. It was site of a massacre during ‘Bloody Sunday’ in 1920 when the Black and Tans opened fire on the crowd. Following the closure of Landsdowne Road for refurbishment this year the GAA finally changed the rules to allow rugby to be played there and this was the first ever football match in the stadium. The current stadium is the fourth largest in Europe, holding 82,500 fans. The Wales fans were housed on Hill 16, which gets it name from the fact that it was originally built from the rubble of the stadium that was left after the Easter rising of 1916. the atmosphere was great, the sun was out, the stadium was brilliant, the game was crap.

The Ghost of Rory Gallagher haunts the streets, even at 4am

Dublin has had its fair share of poets, authors, and musicians over the years, James Joyce, Oscar Wilde, U2, Thin Lizzy and of course The Dubliners to merely scrape the top. Today the city has dozens of independent record shops and live music venues scattered around the centre and there appears to be buskers on every street almost 24 hours.

On the last night we found our selves in a little club hosting a reggae ‘dance hall’ night which most of the gang enjoyed but it was starting to annoy me towards the end of the night that they never play a record right to the end… it reminded me of Zoë Iguana skipping tracks on the car CD player.

Anyway, we headed home on the Monday knackered and skint. I did think to myself that I would not rush back, but they have started holding an annual anarchist book fair and the word is there is a thriving anti capitalist scene in the shape of the Workers Solidarity Movement. They were pretty orgainsed when we went over for May Day in 2004 and it seems they have grown from stregnth to stregnth ever since. We tried to meet up with them on the Friday afternoon in their social centre, but they were out! Who knows, we might end up at the bookfair in the future.

TALES OF THE DRINK CAN BE FOUND ON THE IGUANA CIDER BLOG