Manchesterford bound...

I'm off to Manchester to visit a mate for the weekend. A last minute decision and a welcome diversion. I used to catch this train every day once, when I worked in Abergavenny. The three and a half hour train journey feels interminably longer as it winds through the Welsh Marches.

After 45 minutes or so, a recorded voice announces that we will shortly arrive in Abergavenny. A ripple of chatter passes through the carriage as it's clear to most that the last station was Abergavenny and we are now on the outskirts of Hereford.

The mix of accents changes as the journey progresses. The sing song Welsh accents interspersed with a couple of broad flat Manchester accents become tempered with the modulations of Standard English as we move north and take on more of a border market town middle class mix.

The conductor picks his way through the carriages. He is tall and slim with buzzed salt n pepper hair. He's in his late thirties and wears an earring. He is confident and has a broad smile. Handsome. The woman pushing the refreshment trolley is more squat and less confident. Not so handsome in her nylon tabard and Deirdre Barlow glasses.

Looking out of the carriage windows, one side is flat and English; the other side is hilly and Welsh. Everywhere is shrouded in a dank dampness that blankets us from any April sunshine. Although, this begins to lift and look a lot brighter as we snake our way northward.

The architecture of domestic housing changes; gone is that South Wales dark stone and whitewash, replaced by a Victorian red brick build. A few properties boast St George's Cross or Union flags. Y Ddraig Goch is noticeable only by its absence.

A man takes the seat opposite me. He types furiously on his Apple laptop. He's in his late twenties. He wears a dull green t-shirt and a fawn corduroy flat cap. He's short and his plump legs are poured into that fashion must have, skinny leg sand coloured chinos. The folly of youth.

Blue sky is now visible between the monumental stacks of cumulus clouds. I continue reading my book, The Two of Us, Sheila Hancock's account of her life with John Thaw. I'm impressed by her honesty and envious of the happiness she found with this man.

Across the aisle sit a fat girl and her male friend. They're students. I know this because they've just been discussing their exams in May. The carriage becomes filled with a strange stench that emanates from them; cheese and onion from the crisps he's eating and a heady chemical mix from the black nail varnish she's applying. I feel sick.

The train is now quite full, as it crawls through the suburbs of Manchester. People are laughing and children are yelling and babies are gurgling and grunting. I shall be glad to get off; to escape this carriage and these people, to stretch my cramped legs, to soak up Manchester and, of course, to meet my mate.