There are many ways to start off an adventure to another country.
Some advocate a last minute, impulsive purchase of a one way ticket and just to wing it, upon arrival, to find a place to stay. Others may be too timid to undertake anything less than a full board, door to door accompanied trip amongst a like minded body of people, initially quiet, reserved types but by the end of the fortnight, becoming life long penfriends or at least willing to trade cards on birthdays, anniversaries and at Christmas.
I, personally, fit in between the two categories of travellers.
I like to have a definite schedule but am quite prepared to self-assemble the different phases of the journey. This does give control over proceedings but can mean an equivalent period of time spent on-line and watching that loading symbol to the trip itself. It is amazing what can be accessed and acquired on line as part of an excursion. Going direct to the national timetable for Deutsche Bahn can be a bit intimidating in the planning of a shortish cross country rail trip. It is a bit easier when noticing and activating the english language version but only after largely completing the transaction in german. Of course, many german words have some similarity to english, what with common historical associations, but it is not always a good thing to guess and agree to accepting a term or condition because it looks like it might be useful to have on phonetic grounds.
The outcome of many, many hours of browsing can be condensed into a large brown envelope in the form of printed off tickets, passes, vouchers, coupons and policy documents. There are specific instructions from issuing organisations to use bright white standard guage A4 paper when reproducing the important pieces of information and in good clear ink. This facilitates, at the ticket barrier and boarding gate, the identification of a barcode or encrypted data to, in theory, speed things up. The airport official at one check in showed equal amusement and contempt at my thick card sheet overprinted with my flight reservation details which had to be folded, scored and folded again before the instruction to "tear along the dotted line" could be attempted.
3am on the morning of departure.
Not much sleep from 10pm bedtime because of a fear that the ordered paper contents of that brown envelope were mischievously shuffling each other about so as to be completely out of sequence. As a back-up I did empty said envelope and write out on the front of it a potted summary of the main travel details but then had to dash to the office to make a photocopy of it to go in a second envelope containing copies of the originals. Did I need copies of the copies of the copies?
Even at the hour of setting off from the house to the airport I recalled that horrible realisation, only a matter of weeks prior, that my passport had expired. A ten year passport, at the time of taking it out, seems perfectly adequate for what is a foreseeable future. The photo of me at 39 years old resembles me a bit but a decade does play havoc on facial features doesn't it?
I also remembered that the passport had been for my first ever long distance holiday abroad which I feel is a bit embarrassing to admit to what with the relative ease of foreign travel. My defence at being challenged about my apparent fear of flying was that I had still not visited parts of the UK yet alone on a worldwide basis and these should take priority. As it is, that long planned trip to Aberdeen remains shelved with other notions of going to Cardiff, Liverpool and Cadbury World.
The over-used saying about any journey starting with a single step was dismissed in my mind and replaced with 'getting the car started'. The actual three hour, at least, drive to Stansted Airport from East Yorkshire was actually my main cause of anxiety in the whole logistical exercise. This was principally because it was reliant on me in making sure the car was roadworthy, fuelled and driven safely. In all other legs of the journey I could devolve the power to others.
Two recent things were worrying me in motoring terms. The front offside tyre was losing pressure over a seven day period and with reference to a VW chat-room my car was showing typical signs of middle age mileage stage which meant, like humans, slow starting and a grumbling reluctance to get going. I gambled a bit on the tyre after a quick foot pump session and just tolerated the fitfull and lumpy progress up the road until the engine temperature guage moved off zero.
In all my last minute preparations I had forgotten to have any breakfast. I had allowed 5 hours for what the AA Routeplanner assured me was a three hour and one minute travelling time. I could probably get by for the duration on my body fat deposits.
The M62, M180 and A1 were surprisingly busy at 5am with a strong representation of unliveried white vans and lane-drifting overseas juggernauts. The A1 is a good route down the eastern side of the country although quite historic in its dual carriageway status and frightening in the amount of crossroads between small hamlets at which, invariably, a tractor sits waiting to drag itself across the thundering flow of fast moving, blinkered traffic.
At regular intervals in an otherwise pitch black rural surround are the bright and brash petrol stations and american style diners to which motorists are attracted like moths around a lightbulb. Beyond the arc-lights and signage however are the sad sights of former roadside pubs, transport cafes and slightly more upmarket versions of greasy spoon establishments. The Little Chef's persist but look a bit dated and sedate compared to the new kids on the block.
I remember, as a child, wishing for my parents to pull into a Little Chef on the way to or from a family holiday but with no realisation about how much it would cost to feed our car-full of five kids and two adults.
The terrain for much of the 180 miles due south is flat and boring but with some quaint placenames alluded to out of sight by grubby, unlit road signs. The sky is becoming less dark as dawn approaches and then as though instantly it is daylight.
To my left is a vast flat expanse of the Fens and if it were not for the ancient hedges I am sure that you could make out the curvature of the earth. The first traffic congestion is around Cambridge but it is after all the early morning rush hour around 7am. All vehicles have single occupants heading for work, perhaps into London which is a shortish commute. The M11 does carve a way straight into the East End after all.
The junction for Stansted looms up quickly and it takes a few moments for my lane-groggy eyes to focus on anything in peripheral vision such as a large directional sign. I miss the turn on first approach and career around the large traffic island for a full 360 degrees before getting the right exit for the Mid-Stay Car Park. This was another on-line booking, last minute being an oversight. The brown envelope was disturbed to extricate the printed sheet and as foretold the equipment at the barrier recognised my number plate and payment details and let me in. I silently congratulated myself on getting to this point in one piece and with three correctly inflated tyres.
As I climbed on the Shuttle Bus I could not recall locking the car after disembarking. In an action common to half the males on the bus I made the futile action of pointing the key fob in the direction of the parking bay and pressing the locking button many times. I was too far away to see any reassuring flash of side lights.
Infrequent use of airports does instill confusion in my mind about what to do and what not to do and in what order. First call is always the large information boards. I panicked at seeing that my destination was now boarding. It took a rifling through the brown envelope to reassure me that I was on schedule and the flight shown was the earlier one I had dismissed as an option in the planning stage.
I had checked in a week before, on line, which I found unnerving. Could I really vouch for my bag not being tampered with before I had even packed it?
The queue at the Ryannair desk was already snaking through the cordoned off lanes but a helpful staff member, upon seeing my small rucksack baggage, gave me free passage straight to security. There are distinct advantages in travelling light. Who needs soap, towels, deodorant and a full change of clothing anyway?
I had forgotten the procedure, again from infrequent use of airports, for correct negotiation through security so I just followed the practice of others. Shoes off, coat and bag in the plastic tray, empty pockets of metal objects, phone out. I was fascinated by the machinery for scanning and could see the Operator skillfully studying the X-Rayed images of my rucksack, notable by the large outline of a brown envelope containing a wad of dense papers and also a packet of Jacobs Cream Crackers. This was an emergency supply in case the plane came down in a barren area between Stansted and Bavaria and I had to fend for myself until rescued.
I came to my senses when the metal detector activated as I walked through it. My belt was removed in the close presence of two members of Border Control and I was escorted into the full body scanner. I seem to remember the controversy around the introduction of this high-tech piece of equipment in that it left nothing to the imagination. Fortunately, at the beginning of my trip I did have on my best underwear.
After a technical breach of my Human Rights, I was then through and accepted into the glossy environment that is the airside lounge and shopping area.
To the impressionable, such as me, it was a wonderland, a real Whickers World of high living and sophistication where it was possible to purchase every manner of gadget and fashion accessory to accentuate the experience of globe-trotting. I was not sure, however, about the role and function of a piece of Swarovksi Crystal unless it was particularly good at signalling to passing rescue planes in a single handed action whilst eating Cream Crackers with the other.
I opted for a coffee and Danish pastry from Pret a Manger. Everything is home made, apparently. The waiting areas in an Airport are fascinating for watching people, not in an intrusive way, but out of casual interest. A week before Christmas and many student types are heading home, to visit relatives or just escaping to warmer climates. The lumbering of my flight along the runway, later, will indicate a cargo hold full of presents for loved ones.
The listing of my destination creeps up the board and reaches penultimate status in terms of the 'Go to Gate' instruction. It is a case of hovering around with there being not enough time to get another coffee or make a downpayment on a Swarovski ornament. Click, the board gives the go signal.
Some 12 minutes and possibly two miles distant through corridors and up and down escalators is the boarding gate. Prority passengers have their own queue but still have to walk out across the rain soaked apron and climb the steps like us mere mortals.
It is a free for all in terms of seat choice for the majority. Like me, a good proportion of fellow passengers have read that crash survivors have tended to come from seats between the wings and there is a bit of a beeline made for these positions.
Assured by the packet of Cream Crackers in my possession I sit anywhere,but still close as possible to the strong spine of the aircraft. In true Lord of the Flies fiction that prized Jacobs product could prove invaluable in a batte for survival after the downing of the plane in the forthcoming one hour and twenty minute flight to Memmingen, Bavaria.
(disappointing, yes, but to be continued...............)
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