Heading back to Blighty...

I never set my alarm, but was up by 0600hrs anyway and looking forward to what the hotel offered for breakfast, although I had a pretty good idea: cake, of course, and plenty of it. I was right... and I was happy!

A cream-filled croissant, a custard-filled slice of cake, some small round pastries full of custard, it was all happening on my table. The friendly waitress offered me a cappuccino and I accepted. Later she offered me another and again, I accepted. There was fruit, fresh fruit and a fruit salad which, I think, I ordered and then didn't eat, at least I can't remember eating it, such was the excitement of the cake and the frothy coffee. I had time and so indulged myself. A yoghurt followed and an apple, which I munched away as other guests arrived, well, two – make that three – other guests: a mother and daughter combo, actually five other guests, there was a couple of slightly rotund ladies and an edgy-looking woman with a roughish face who sat alone, like I did, and looked pre-occupied. 

Through the gate and waiting for the bus to the plane...

Breakfast over I went to my room and packed, not that I hadn't done most of it already, it was just the electric toothbrush and toothpaste to put away and then I waltzed downstairs to the rather baronial hall lobby where I checked out, told them how much I loved the hotel and then ordered a cab to the airport. It arrived in minutes and soon I was on my way. The journey took all of 15 minutes and then I was faced with the chaos of the airport which seemed to be unnaturally busy. There were school kids and holidaymakers queuing up for something or other, probably a flight, one queue wound its way out of the building (I saw it when my taxi pulled up). There were soldiers with guns and sunglasses and I was asked where I was going. I said "London" and all was well, I could continue into the terminal building. What the hell was going on? I would never find out. Perhaps it was because it was Saturday, who knows? Once inside I found the BA check-in and waited for it to open, then it was a case of handing over (ahem) my case, getting my boarding pass (seat 35F, a window seat) and then heading for another queue (for security). It all went pretty smoothly and I found myself standing with a lot of red-faced people, clearly skiers and those who follow other outdoor pursuits, like climbing. I wasn't bothered. There are so many things I won't do and climbing and skiing are just two of them. I won't jump out of an aeroplane either or go diving looking for sharks.

On the plane...

Once through I sprayed myself with a Polo aftershave tester (it was free so why not?) and then ordered a ham and mozzarella roll as I knew that BA would only offer a bag of shitty pretzels and a small bottle of mineral water. Once microwaved, the roll melted and became a spludgy mess on a white plate...but that didn't stop me.

The flight was alright. Most of it was clear, but as we approached the UK the cloud thickened and I found myself thinking of the Tory party, Dominic fucking Raab in particular, and all the shite the UK liked to pile upon its people who, like cockroaches, scuttle around under the cover of cloud, moaning about their lot. I, of course, was one of them too and now I was heading home to be as much of a cockroach as everybody else. Soon, little gaps appeared in the cloud, revealing England's green and unpleasant land. The plane shuddered as it penetrated the big chunks of cumulus dotted around the skies and I started wondering why the pilot doesn't aim for the clear bits and avoid the cloud? But of course, he never does, instead he heads straight for a fucking great lump of the stuff and we all suffer as a result... or I do, nobody else seems to be bothered. Soon we were down on the ground and from then onwards, everything was fairly easy.

I found a sign saying "last toilet before passport control" and thought: that's where I'm headed! There was something intriguing about the last toilet before passport control and the walk there was interesting too because there was nobody around. I started to wonder whether, when I left the toilet, I'd be 500 years in the future or something whacky of that nature. But no, I was still in the 21st Century and I was back on track. 

Looking down on Italy...

There was nobody at passport control, my bag was on the reclaim when I got there (reclaim conveyor 8) and soon I was swanning through customs without a care in the world. I headed straight for Costa Coffee, from where I write this blogpost, as there's a train strike so I thought I'd get my bearings, have something to eat (prawn and mayo sarnie, a Millionaire's Shortbread and an English Breakfast tea) and then head for home either in a taxi or by train. 

It was a good trip overall and while I had been inwardly moaning about air travel from the minute I reached the airport, as we approached Gatwick today I asked myself whether there had really been any major hassles. The answer, of course, was no, there was nothing from the outward flight to the inward one that was really bad... apart from BA cancelling my return flight, but even that meant a few free hours in Verona, a wander around the city, a really nice dinner in Caffe Dante and, of course, a night in a decent hotel.

On Wednesday afternoon when I flew out to Italy I had the choice of queuing for a human being to check me in or use the machines; I opted eventually for the latter and it was alright. The flight out was ok, there was no turbulence, and when I reached Verona there was Maria waiting to pick me up and take me to Storo and the Polentera hotel. 

Approaching Gatwick airport.

On the return trip it was roughly the same: the taxi arrived within two minutes of being ordered, I checked in fairly successfully and yes, I queued for security but there's no way around that. It didn't take long and soon I was through and chilling (if that's the word) before the flight and, as outlined above, that was fine too. That said, however, I'm annoyed that flying is so cheap. Certainly, when I can, I'll take the train (like to Dusseldorf in June). I can't get the train to Detroit sadly and I'm guessing that a cabin on a cargo ship will be beyond my company's means and will add around 10 days to the trip. So I'll have to put up and shut up and make the most of what is thrown at me.

I'm not a great fan of flying, but I do a fair bit of it one way or the other. I don't mind it on a good day when there's no weather to deal with, but if it's cloudy and rainy (or worse) then I invariably get a little anxious. I'm  not overly keen on long flights because there's bound to be turbulence somewhere along the line and I hate it. Also, long haul flights leave me knackered and incapable and in need of recovery, so yes, more rail travel, certainly in Europe is on the cards, but when it comes to the US or the Middle East of the Far East I'll have to put up with flying.

England's green and unpleasant land, well, it's not that bad...

In search of the last toilets before passport control at Gatwick airport.

"Last toilets before Passport control!"

All this and Platform Zero too...

The trains are getting worse and worse. Alright, generally speaking they're not bad. Now that's how you turn things round in two sentences: the trains are gettting worse to 'they're not bad'. How's that for indecisive? Well, it's true; one minute they're fine and the next they're not. I feel really sorry for anybody using Thameslink at this present time – not 'this present time' as in this very moment, but sort of 'around now', ever since they messed around with the fucking timetables, things haven't been too good on the trains. There's been delays and cancellations, mainly the latter for Thameslink 'customers' – and God, do I hate that word 'customers', as if we have a fucking choice! Customers! We're passengers whether we like it or not, not customers who can pick and choose.

Platform zero at Redhill in Surrey...

What I hate most of all is standing on the platform, waiting. And there's a little display unit hanging down over the platform giving the scheduled time of the train, let's say 0809, and the time it's actually going to arrive, let's say 0811. And it's like this when I arrive and initially I sigh with relief: despite leaving the house late I'm still able to catch my train because the damn thing is late by a few minutes. Fine! But things change. I look up at the display: 'Expected: 0815'. It's getting further away, not nearer! And then I realise what's happening. Perhaps it's the station that's moving, not the train, and as a result, the train is getting further away. If I simply stand on the platform for long enough, the station will arrive at my destination – another station. There will be an almighty crash as concrete clashes with concrete, I'll probably fall over, but at least I'll be at my destination where I can jump off the platform, dust myself down and then watch as my station, Purley Oaks, crunches off towards the south coast, dust and bits of concrete falling by the wayside as it rumbles along, taking my destination station with it, one big mass of concrete and bricks. And then, later, on my return journey, I'll have to get a bus as my station would have crashed into the buffers at Brighton or Bognor Regis or Southampton Central. All over the cuntry there would be piles of broken up concrete as railway stations on the move reach a dead end and find they can travel no further. And meanwhile, the trains are getting further and further away, some of them are on ferries crossing the North Sea, others are heading to Greenland, some are crossing the Atlantic and others are colliding with bulk carriers somewhere on the English Channel.

"Don't jump!"

The train companies, the railway people, Chris Grayling, everybody involved, is taking the piss out of the customers and no more so than at Redhill station. They've gone one step beyond by introducing a Platform Zero. Standing on it makes me feel small, stupid and exploited, it's the train station equivalent of the naughty step, the place you don't want to go, the place you can't believe exists – perhaps it doesn't exist. Platform Zero is a long platform, it can take trains that are so long they're still at their station of origin when they arrive, you could literally get on the train and walk all the way back to Brighton.

No wonder the Samaritans have a sign at the end of most platforms asking suicidal 'customers' to 'talk to us'. Talk to the Samaritans before flinging yourself in front of the train is the message.

In Luxembourg...and letting the trains take the strain

I set off on Wednesday morning by car (I was the passenger). We were headed for Folkestone where we picked up a train – the Euro Shuttle – that took us across the English Channel. The journey took approximately 35 minutes. We simply sat in the car and when the train emerged in Calais we drove off and followed the road signs to Rheinberg, a small town not a million miles from Duisburg from where I would later catch the first of three trains to Luxembourg.

Exactly how Luxembourg is spelt is anybody's guess: is it 'Luxemburg' or is it 'Luxembourg'? Or, indeed, is it Luxemborg? It's a mystery, and while I initially made a decision to go for the former, I saw the word 'Luxembourg' on Luxembourg station so that is how Luxembourg is spelt. It has to be. If the station gets it wrong there's no hope for any of us. So, for those not completely clear, it's 'Luxembourg'.

This is the first time I've been to Luxembourg and sadly I'm not going to get much time to look around. Up until today, my only connection with Luxembourg has been Radio Luxembourg when I used to lie in bed as an early teen listening to the Emperor Rosco on my crackly old transistor radio.

The Orsoyer Hof hotel near Rheinberg

Last night was spent in the Orsoyer Hof hotel in what I can only describe as a small hamlet on the outskirts of Rheinberg. It was what I would call a 'blast from the past'. Very mid-to-late seventies, the Orsoyer Hof's restaurant bore a strong resemblance to the old UK steak houses and the past was reinforced by the music on the sound system – Procol Harum and Hot Chocolate. I chose beef stroganoff as it was the only thing I could recognise on the menu, but the portion size was such that I couldn't finish it all. Rare for me, I know, but it was just too much.

The hotel room was sort of okay, although I'm not a great fan of rooms that open directly on to the outside world as those in the Orsoyer Hof did. The rooms were below street level and accessed by a single flight of stairs.  In all honesty it was a bit dingy all round. The breakfast was piss poor – rolls and processed cheese, no tea, no cereal – and overall it wasn't really my scene. Having said that, bed and breakfast was only 47 Euros so there was little room for complaint, although I wouldn't return.

We enjoyed an amazing lunch in Restaurant Caruso in Rheinberg, the only restaurant I've ever visited that doesn't have a menu (the chef/proprietor simply comes over and asks you what you want). We chose sole and pannacota, not forgetting a decent bottle of wine. Unbelievably good. The sole was filleted in front of us and was as tender as you like and accompanied with some al dente pasta and a rather delicious tomato and garlic dressing.

View from the train to Trier Hbf

After lunch I was driven to Duisburg where I hopped aboard the 1612hrs train to Koblenz. There was a 20-minute wait for the 1822hrs from Koblenz to Trier Hbf and then a short walk across the platform at Trier Hbf to catch the 1952hrs to Luxembourg.  The second part of the train journey from Koblenz to Trier HBF was wonderful as the train hugged the northern banks of the Mosul – some great scenery as the train passed through Tries Karden, Cochem and Bullay where quaint houses nestled on green hillsides leading down to the water's edge. The train arrived in Luxembourg after dark at 2045hrs and I crossed the road to my hotel, the Best Western International, which was across the road from the railway station – the most conveniently located hotel I've ever had the good fortune to check in to.

The hotel was fantastic from the word go and there was good news from the moment I checked in: a complimentary glass of wine, 10% off my meal and free WiFi. Perfect! Room 304 was good too: an LG ('Life's Good') flatscreen television (Pistorius not guilty of murder, said CNN, but he could be guilty of culpable homicide*), a decent double bed and a gleaming bathroom, unlike last night's gloomy looking shower room in Rheinberg.

When I reached the restaurant it was full of Japanese people and I feared that I was invisible to the waitresses, but I was wrong and soon I had my free glass of red wine. I ordered roasted salmon with potatoes and carrots – good old 'hospital food' – and ordered a second glass of wine and some sparkling mineral water before signing the check and heading back to the room. It was 2200hrs and I was considering a walk, but in all honesty I needed to relax, and, besides, it was dark so what could I possibly see other than closed shops and shadowy people making their way here and there, to and fro.

Room 304, International Hotel, Luxembourg

If I'm up early enough I'll have time to take a stroll around Luxembourg, but after the meeting there will be just one hour before I catch my train back to Brussels Midi and then my second train to London St Pancras International.

It's been a rushed trip in many ways. I've got a meeting tomorrow at 1100hrs and I've got to be on the 1324hrs train to Brussels Midi in order to catch the Eurostar to London.

I'll take a stroll tomorrow morning, albeit briefly, and I'll see if I can find some 'Boris Bikes' but I doubt I'll have time to ride anywhere as another day of train travel beckons. You're probably wondering why I didn't fly back home. Well, the price was roughly the same, but flying means a taxi to the airport, it means hanging around beyond passport control for an hour or so spending money on food and drink in the process, so I figured it would be cheaper and more relaxed to simply jump on a train and the fact that my hotel is right across the road from the railway station makes the train the best option.

The view from room 304...

I've got about an hour to explore Luxembourg so I better make the most of it.  This is one of the most rushed trips, as I've probably said before.

I had a pleasant breakfast this morning consisting of cereal, yoghurt, fresh fruit and a cup of English breakfast tea and now, here I am, putting the finishing touches to this post. Outside the sun in shining and I'm about to go out for a walk prior to a meeting and then, after the meeting I'll head over to the railway station, which is visible from where I am sitting now, and catch the 1324hrs train to Brussels Midi and then I'll find the Eurostar to London. I've probably said all of this before, but I don't want my blog to look too untidy, hence the extra words.

Back in the UK...
I'm now back in the UK, meeting over. Before I embarked upon my journey home, however, I had lunch in the Alfa brasserie across from Luxembourg station – not brilliant, it has to be said, apart from the Leffe Brune and the bread rolls. I took the train from Luxembourg to Brussels Midi and it took an age. The most frustrating part of the journey – actually, the only frustrating part of the journey – was when we approached Brussels and I discovered that there were loads of Brussels stations: Brussels-Luxembourg; Brussels Schuman; Brussels Zuid; Brussels Nord; Brussels Central; and, of course, Brussels Midi.

Yes, Luxembourg has Boris Bikes...

I had an hour to kill on Midi station and wandered aimlessly around looking in shop windows and getting generally bored. I didn't want to spend money in a café or drink a beer in a bar so I window-shopped and never bought anything (that is, after all, what window shopping is all about). But then, fed up to the back teeth with Brussels Midi railway station, I decided to go through the motions of international travel: putting suitcase on conveyor, ensuring lap top is in a basket of its own before sending it through, then putting laptop back in suitcase and, of course, I almost forgot, showing my passport twice to French and then British passport control. The only bit of good news was that I managed to transfer from the later train (the 1856hrs) to the earlier train (the 1756hrs) and got home earlier than expected.

Oh, and talking about the spelling of Luxembourg (as we were earlier on in this post) I have photographic evidence that Luxembourg is spelt 'Luxembourg' and here it is. If you're going to get the spelling of a place name correct, the solution is very simple: go to the railway station.

* Pistorius is guilty of culpable homicide (manslaughter) and is awaiting sentencing.

Proof that Luxembourg is spelt 'Luxembourg'