An eventful couple of days.
Yesterday began with a quick run along the canal. As usual, I turned off at the second road crossing and ran the half mile or so up to the main road back to the village. This tiny lane up to the A4 takes me past the hamlet of Ufton Nervet and over an unmanned level crossing. I’ve plodded along this sleepy cut-through a hundred times. I don’t think I’ve ever seen a car or even a person on the lane.
How could I have guessed that this track, this level crossing and this ramshackle collection of farmhouses, would become international news just a few hours later?
The afternoon was spent at West Ham, watching us lose 2-1. An entertaining game at a ground I don’t think I’ve visited since the 1970s. In those days it was an atmospheric, claustrophobic cauldron of a place with all four stands butted up against the narrow pitch. Now it’s just another expansive stadium with stands reaching to the heavens and a home support that could barely raise a whimper of enthusiasm until they regained the lead shortly before the end. With the likes of West Ham starting to become a sterile brand, and a visit to Upton Park being marketed as just another pricey “Experience” to add to the tick-list, it’s time to worry. Those Tower of London ravens must be packing their bags as we speak.
More heartening on this dismal day was the drive through London. It’s a long time since I traversed the capital like this. I used to do it all the time. When I shared a house in Balham with a French guy, Olivier, we would often go off in the early hours of the morning to search for smoked salmon bagels in Whitechapel or Spitalfields. The drive across town at night was always astonishing. Hard to say why. Perhaps you have to know, understand, love, London, as I do, to appreciate just how different a place it is after midnight. It’s a shame the Americans have hijacked and devalued the word “awesome”. Very few things in this world truly deserve the label, but London, and particularly London at night, when you’re young and sassy, really is awesome. The drive today reminded me of those times.
And then Saturday night happened. At first I thought it was fireworks. As we approached our village, we saw the sky illuminated by blue flashing lights. The line stretched across the fields to Ufton Nervet and beyond. Dozens of fire engines, ambulances and police cars. Then we heard that the London to Plymouth Inter-City had crashed at the level crossing. It was surreal to think that where I’d earlier trotted across the railway line, people were now lying, dead and seriously injured.
This morning’s canal run was a sombre affair. I knew I’d not get near the crossing so I carried along the towpath as far as I could. As expected, the path had been blocked by the police, and the usual early morning runners and dog walkers were being diverted along one of the muddy paths through the fields on the other side of the river. The mud got wetter and deeper, and in the end I had to stop and turn back. It was only now that I caught a glimpse of the train through the wood, cork-screwed along the track in the light early morning mist like something out of a disaster movie. And a new village had appeared overnight in the scrubby field next to the level crossing. Tents, caravans mobile cranes and other heavy plant now filled the space.
It was a terrible scene, and I didn’t linger.
For the record, I managed nearly seven miles, but this doesn’t seem too important just now.
pictures © BBC
