Homeward Bound, Part I
23.07.2026
If travel broadens the mind, getting home occasionally requires a working knowledge of logistics, patience, and mild insanity.
Our merry little band of four was splitting apart, each of us heading off in a different direction and by a different mode of transport. My coach would carry me to London’s Victoria Coach Station before continuing to Stansted Airport. From there I fly to Madrid, catch yet another coach to Lisbon, and finally make my way home to The Shire.
My daughter left about an hour later by train to Paddington before making her own journey to Stansted and back to Spain, while the remaining two members of our party continued by car to the next chapter of their holiday.
Looking at my itinerary reminded me of an old German saying:
“Warum einfach, wenn es auch kompliziert geht?”(“Why make things simple when you can make them complicated?” Apparently, I had planned my journey according to this very philosophy.
The time together had been far too short, yet every good adventure reaches its final page. Shakespeare summed it up rather well: “Parting is such sweet sorrow.” Fortunately, ours merely came with the promise of seeing one another again very soon.
My taxi arrived outside the hotel at 5:15 a.m., precisely on time. Despite reaching the end of his night shift, the driver remained wonderfully cheerful and chatty. A few minutes later he pulled over outside what appeared to be a closed shop on an otherwise deserted street.
“This is your station.”
Station? I looked around. Falmouth’s National Express coach station was, in reality, a bus stop with delusions of grandeur. To be fair, there was a sign. Calling it a station, however, required the same imaginative leap that allows estate agents to describe a broom cupboard as “cosy.”
The street was empty except for a flock of seagulls circling overhead like members of an early morning neighbourhood watch committee.
“Oh look,” they cackled amongst themselves. “Another confused human.”
“Shame. She doesn’t appear to have any chips.”
They weren’t wrong. Breakfast consisted of two shortbread biscuits and a bottle of water. I wasn’t exactly presenting much of a culinary opportunity.
Thankfully, my coach arrived exactly on schedule. We departed at 5:40 sharp because, as one does in England, timetables are apparently viewed as legally binding contracts. Deutsche Bahn and several German coach operators could take notes.
Our first stop was Plymouth, where I encountered Britain’s continuing fascination with coin-operated public conveniences. Naturally, I didn’t have the correct change. Neither did two rather flustered German ladies from my coach, whose expressions became even more entertaining when I suddenly addressed them in German and offered them my coins. The change machine had chosen that particular morning to stage a rebellion, so Plan B involved chatting to the gentleman cleaning the facilities.
“No worries, my love,” he smiled. “I’ll let you in.”He opened the gate using the coins from his own little cup, and just like that civilisation was restored. One international incident had been successfully averted before breakfast.
Despite thoroughly enjoying my visit to Britain, one opinion remained unchanged after forty years. GTs and I simply aren’t compatible. I tried, I really did. Elderflower cordial, however, was an entirely different story. Whether served on its own or transformed into elegant mocktails, it became one of my favourite discoveries of the trip. Having a magnificent elder tree waiting in my Portuguese garden suddenly feels less like a gardening project and more like a delicious responsibility.
Another long-running debate also reached its conclusion: the great Cornish versus Devonshire scone controversy. Cornwall wins. Jam first, cream second. Otherwise the jam develops an overwhelming desire for freedom and promptly slides off the side of the scone. This, I feel, is simply good engineering.
Our second comfort stop took us to a motorway services complex so enormous it could probably compete with some shopping centres. Earlier on the coach I’d developed a completely irrational craving for sweet and sour chicken with noodles and spring rolls. Naturally, I’d dismissed the idea because motorway services are hardly renowned for fulfilling very specific culinary wishes. Then I walked inside. There, shining before me like a beacon of hope, stood Asian Chow. Sweet and sour chicken? Available. Spring rolls? Included in the meal deal. I briefly considered hugging the cashier. Alas, I do not hug bumblebees. Considering the miles still separating me from home, the universe had clearly decided I deserved this small act of kindness.
Unfortunately, not every travelling companion proved quite so delightful. My seatmate occupied the neighbouring seat in a bright yellow sundress. Under happier circumstances I might have compared her to a cheerful sunflower. Instead, she possessed all the warmth of a particularly irritable wasp.
When the gentleman across the aisle kindly offered her some snacks, she replied rather frostily. “No thank you. I don’t eat camping food.”
Well, that settled that. A few minutes later she reached into her bag, produced a rather pretty floral thermos and a bag of Haribo liquorice mix, then happily began working her way through it.
I quietly accepted that somewhere in the universe there exists a very detailed food hierarchy in which camping food is unacceptable, yet an entire bag of liquorice is perfectly respectable coach cuisine.
I returned my attention to the passing countryside, find memories of my noodles, and the comforting certainty that headphones exist for a reason.
As I write these words somewhere between Cornwall and London, the wasp remains peacefully in her seat, I remain peacefully in mine, and an awful lot of travelling still lies ahead before I finally reach my little Frobbit House in Portugal.
After all, this is only Homeward Bound, Part I.
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