,
Speeding
through one of the pitch black tunnels connecting St. Pancras International
railway station to ventures beyond, my inner claustrophobic was starting to
panic, as the gap between the stops was beginning to feel more like an eternity
than the short journey it in reality actually was. Really uncertain of whether we were
underground or in an above ground lengthy tunnel, all that I knew was that the
walls were closing in on me and I was surrounded on all sides by an
uncomfortable enveloping darkness. No
matter then, that the lights were brightly lit in the wagon car, jovial
conversations taking place, the rational non-claustrophobic passengers
oblivious to the mounting terror that was snaking its way throughout my entire
body, unable to comprehend my irrational fear of entrapment in any type of
enclosed space. Where were the
trees? Where was the light? Absolutely
nothing but the unsettling blackness which greeted me upon glancing out of the
window panes!
Seeking to
appease my fraying nerves, I nonchalantly attempted to strike up random
conversations with a few of the passengers, in my inquisitive intent to gather
a bit of info about the excruciatingly long journey time between stations. Sporting my Hudson’s Bay purchased 2012
Olympic jean jacket, emblazoned with a plethora of Maple Leafs and hockey
badges, I was quite the sight indeed, a somewhat frazzled middle-aged crazy
Canuck somewhat freaking out on a crowded train tearing along the “yet unseen”
apparently lush English countryside.
Not knowing
what to make of such a sight, a borderline freak-a-zoid trapped on an hour long
rail journey to the white cliffs of Dover, the local Brits were beyond perplexed
at having to appease the curious antics of a Canadian foreigner sequestered in a
wagon car on a routinely scheduled railway sojourn to the outskirts of
somewhere.
Eventually
the murkiness gave way to light, the high speed bullet at long last emerging
from the tunnel of darkness, the streaming rays of sunshine dancing
on the glass panes, a welcoming beacon of hope to my now permanently jagged and
frazzled nerves.
Vowing to
remember NOT to travel by train the next time I traverse from London to Dover
Priory, my mind was busily finagling other forms of non-claustrophobic
transport that didn’t entail the remote possibilities of entrapment
underground. This is why the Kid and I
were travelling by rail in the first place, as we were planning on taking the
ferry across the Channel to Calais and continue by rail to Bruges and then
onwards to Paris. It would have been a
lot quicker to cross the English Channel via the Chunnel, but there was no way
that I would ever consider setting my pink-sneakered foot in such a confining
space, enclosed in a speeding train, travelling at the sound of light
several km below the water. No
matter then, that the entire journey underground would be a mere 20 minutes,
enough time in which to completely unhinge my raw-edged nerves, sending my
wildly over-active imagination into a downward tailspin of no-return.
It’s a very good thing then that I hadn’t an
inkling of a clue that the rail journey from St Pancras to Dover Priory, with
stops at Ebbsfleet and Ashford International, would also involve several
kilometres of deep underground tunnels, one of which snaked 1.5 miles under the
river Thames! Did I mention the 20 km
long tunnel, which had me in quite the freaked out state indeed, resulting in
my frenetic darting up and down the aisle, tapping each unsuspecting passenger
on the shoulder, my quivering voice anxiously inquiring as to how much longer
this subterranean portion of the journey would be? Yes, sad but true.
No wonder
then, that not one person on that excruciatingly elongated sub-terrestrial journey
dared to inform me that, yes, we were indeed several kilometers deep, burrowing
through the recesses of the English countryside at 140 miles per hour. Most
likely they were petrified as to what that glint of knowledge would entail, unwilling
to be witness to a middle-aged pink-sneaker clad Canadian screaming for the
light, sobbing hysterically that she was trapped miles below the river Thames, counting
down the minutes until the speeding “Javelin”
emerged from the other end of the tunnel. No, just best to plead ignorance,
placate the distraught and panic-stricken foreigner and change the subject by
asking about life in Canada and whether or not they also have subterranean tunnels
linking distant boroughs? Yikes!!
The
well-known phrase “the light at the end
of the tunnel” thus took on new meaning, becoming my mantra for the
remainder of the 65 minute journey, as we barreled through kilometres of
underground paths, en route to the white cliffs of Dover.
Come
discover an underground plethora of tunnels and subterranean paths kilometers
below the city of London, linking far-away metropolises and towns. Come discover the criss-crossing trails of
train travel with me.
Next week –
where do my pink-sneakered footprints find themselves? Stay tuned!!
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