I have a lot of train journeys coming up. I could have hired a car for but why? What luxury to be seated on a train with ever-changing landscape and fascinating tail-ends of cities to observe – all those gardens, kitchens, sheds and conservatories to look out on; all those other lives to imagine. The comfort of a rattling tea trolly or bar to visit, and conversations to listen into and jot down, AND you can write, think, muse and not have to steer anything except yourself occasionally to the loo.
Apart from walking and swimming, I’ve probably had more writing ideas on trains than anywhere else – something about the movement and the gentle hum of voices and ready material all around.
I can still recall London train journeys from my childhood: sitting on bumbling old trains with that particular itchy seat cloth, looking out on stringy suburban gardens as we took an overground to Kew, or got off at Mortlake – or some other such marvellously bizarre named station. Clapham junction, Blackhorse Road, Wapping, Gospel Oak, Turkey Street, Seven sisters, Hatch End, Bushy . . . poetry in motion.