Planes, Trains and... er... just planes and trains

What was I saying? Oh yeah: Glasgow.

It all started, as these tales so often do, with a wedding. Actually, no, it started with me missing my flight from Birmingham to Glasgow on account of the fucking hopeless train service from Oxford. I should have known better, really: I have never had a train journey to or from Oxford that has gone entirely according to plan. Delays, unannounced cancellations or the train coming to a halt and standing dormant for hours for no apparent reason: any or all of the above occur without fail every time.

Nevertheless, I foolishly thought that taking the train to Birmingham International Airport would be the most straightforward way to catch my flight. I simply had to make sure that I allowed plenty of time to make my flight in the event of some unforeseen delay. I really should have known better, shouldn't I.

I was surprised to discover that there was only one train every hour to Birmingham Airport. To put this in context, Birmingham is about 65 miles from Oxford, they are connected by direct rail links, one of which passes through the airport's station before reaching main stations in the city itself. Oxford, although not a huge city, is home to one of the most prestigious universities in the world and a popular tourist destination and yet none of the train companies see fit to lay on more than one train an hour to one of the nearest international airports. OK, yes, London Heathrow Airport is about ten miles closer, but still, Birmingham isn't exactly a tiny hamlet whose airport is a short sliver of cracked tarmac overgrown with weeds.

But what do I know?

My flight was at 11.55am. The train journey would take about one and a quarter hours. Departure times from Oxford station were 8.30 and 9.30. If I caught 9.30 then I would be able to check in at the airport about an hour and ten minutes before my flight. That was pushing it a bit, I thought. I know, I'll be sensible and responsible and catch the earlier train and arrive at Birmingham with over two hours to check in. So I got up nice and early, checked the web for any reports of problems with trains that day, set off with my bags and walked the mile and a half to the station, arrived about twenty minutes before the train was due to arrive only to discovered that at the last minute, out of the blue, the train had been cancelled.

I was somewhat perturbed by this turn of events but consoled myself with the knowledge that I could still get to the airport in time to check in if I caught the next train at 9.30. No problem. It would be fine.

Or it would have been fine if the 9.30 train had not been forty fucking minutes late. Forty minutes. Technically speaking, I did finally arrive at the airport in time to check in for the flight if I had only been taking hand luggage. Unfortunately, I wasn't only taking hand luggage and the hold had been closed fifteen minutes before I got there. There was nothing for it but to fork out some ninety quid for the three o'clock flight that afternoon. I spent three hours in the departure lounge bar and drowning my anger.

I would like to take this opportunity to thank Cross Country trains for making me miss my flight and costing me £90. It gives me great pleasure to know that I will never have to step foot on one of your tardy, overpriced and overcrowded trains ever again. My thanks also to First Great Western for their equally useless services in and around Oxford during my time there.

Despite this less than auspicious start, my Glasgow Odyssey was destined to improve greatly; but that's a blog post for another day.

To be continued...

(Look, I'm just trying to inject a little drama and suspense into this ultimately unexceptional anecdote, OK?)