I’m off to Devon tonight; aboard one of the best-kept secrets of Britain’s railway: the 19:04 from Paddington. I am having dinner in the dining car, as we surf through the night along twin strips of steel. Speeding at 125 miles per hour, Sarah the chef somehow cooks in the kitchen for us lucky 16 and Aaron’s team deftly serves up soups (thanks to some fancy footwork, I’ve noticed) without a spill down the aisle.
It’s a full house tonight; numbers have been steadily growing these last few years as more people discover this semi-secret weekday - (it runs at lunchtime too, as well as in the other direction, AND to/from Swansea) - attainable occasional luxury.
We’ve just called at Taunton and I’m having my freebie coffee and mint. I’m enjoying the shared spectacle of once-strangers at tables swapping stories of travels, decisions which changed their lives, careers extraordinary and yet - as every conversation always turns in this carriages - finding commonality in a love of all things & places which lie out this way West.
At Tiverton Parkway the ever-chatty Michelle clears away glasses, and visibly restrains herself from striking up chat… she’s just seen the time. Here, I am reminded of my last trip last year, riding aboard this incredible survivor of an age of romance which - and this carriage is proof - is not yet all gone. That day was a time when I was low; really, very low. Two kind friends swooped in and took me far, to see more friends down by the sea, and we came home that night on the evening diner. Some poor soul - troubled by something terrible - was in such a bad way that they had ventured on to a bridge up ahead, so we stopped at Tiverton whilst someone unseen did their magic and that night, likely saved a life. As we waited, some aboard and some on platform, others from standard joined the dining car on discovering that it’s a free upgrade if there’s space, and you’re buying a meal. As I stood in the evening sun, mulling over the meaning of life and how its ups all have downs but deciding that therefore all its downs must always have ups, one of our fellow diners (a much-loved actor of worthy great repute) was now, it transpired, desperate for a spliff. With wine glass now on the platform, she brought out her sweet-scented roll-up. But she *knew* that one cannot smoke upon a station, so in a move executed as elegantly as those she makes upon stage and screen, she lit up and leant over the railing - on one leg to ensure she was well over - into the car park. It’d never stand the test of a court of law but no judge could surely fail to be impressed.
Good news soon came from Control of the line and person safe up ahead, and we all returned to the dining car in better spirits perhaps, than we had all been in whilst in our own separate little worlds. That journey back to London was full of chatter, joy and relief.
I don’t flash cash - I have none to do it with, despite what some might presume of people who work “in the media” - but there is a romance to dinner in the diner and something very special about eating a proper meal on a train. Sometimes the quiet solitude of a table for one, saved up for and planned for, is the restaurant of my dreams and an escape away from London.
Another time it can be a journey unexpectedly learning from others’ life experiences, or a safe haven to hide in having had a day of sad loss, or a place to celebrate something chuffing great with mates.
Whatever the occasion, I’m grateful for the Great Western Railway Pullman Dining cars and the staff who work on them.
At £38 for two courses and coffee, that often-first-class-from-standard upgrade, the chat, the solitude, the people and the smiles, to me it’s real worth is far more than that. The @gwrhelp dining cars remind me that life, and indeed our railways, really can be great.
@RAC_Care 2 years ago you left my family on the side of the road. Car broke again 5pm yesterday. Car was picked up this afternoon. Promised a hire car this am. RAC unilaterally cancelled it without telling me. No-one will call me. Stuck 250 miles from home. Appalling