by The railway station was on the way back to the airport from my accommodation. Just before 9am I put my ticket in the machine at the station and got a nasty surprise. I’d been sold a ticket that was only valid for the night before, even though there were no trains the night before. An impossible ticket. What a bugger. I traipsed back to the airport, thinking that would be my best chance of some kind of refund, but honestly expecting to have to fork out an extra 60-odd quid. The Polish lady I spoke to was very helpful, however, and back at the station I eventually got a reprinted ticket at no expense, once I’d figured out where the ticket office was. The guy at the office wanted to know who sold me that useless ticket at quarter to ten at night, but I didn’t want to incriminate him.
I took the train to St Pancras, then the underground to Paddington, a huge station that I’d somehow never been to before. All the trains from Paddington seemed to be going to cool places, like the one I was about to board, whose final destination was Penzance. My journey to Plymouth was painless, except at the beginning when the only way I could get a seat was to use the loo. A lady from Sweden said that in her home country you’re guaranteed a seat if you buy a full-price ticket, as you should be. My train stopped at Reading, Exeter and Newton Abbot, and passed the coastal towns of Exmouth and Teignmouth. The sea! I hadn’t seen it for almost two years. I arrived in Plymouth at 3:30pm. At this point I’ll give you a run-down of my mum’s siblings; this trip report will become too clumsy if I don’t. Mum had three older brothers, D, B and M. Sadly D died of cancer in 2010, as did M in 2014. B is still going strong at 76; he and his wife J would be joining me in Romania after my brother’s wedding. After the three boys came Mum’s sister K, then Mum, closely followed by her brother G. Finally, seven years after G, came her baby brother P, who (it’s hard to believe) has just turned sixty. All five surviving brothers and sisters were attending the wedding.
K and G met me at the train station. It was a novelty to see G on that side of the world. He’d never previously been further than Australia. There was no question of his wife ever making the trip; they’ve lived separate lives for decades. We were all amazed and delighted that he took the opportunity of my brother’s wedding to say “sod it”. I went back to the train station with Mum and B, to book my seat on the train back to London. It would be a bank holiday; on that day a seat is imperative. B had been in Plymouth four days and, much to Mum’s annoyance, thought he knew the place like the back of his hand.
After trekking across town, we were a few minutes late for the 6pm wedding rehearsal at the 17th-century Citadel Church. The padre, as he was called, was hilarious. His humour put everybody at ease, and personally made me feel privileged to be part of such a happy occasion. He’d previously had a long career as a dancer, and clearly enjoyed being on stage. At one point he told my brother that he didn’t have to make his wedding vows as if they were military orders: “Forbetterforworse! Forricherforpoorer!”
We didn’t attend the drinks session at the mess, and besides we were all hungry. We shared some so-called giganti pizzas that weren’t that big; I could have eaten twice as much, but of course I’d get plenty of opportunities for that the next day. G really amused Dad and me when he proudly proclaimed to a bemused waitress: “I’m from Palmerston North!” That doesn’t exactly cut much ice even in his own country.