Dawn was just lightening the sky as the ship docked at Ramsgate Port. It seemed to take forever to get off the ship, but customs and immigration were quite fast, and we emerged from the port buildings with six-month visas.
It was quite warm outside, with daylight fully risen even though it was only 4:30 am. We began to hitch at the foot of the huge chalk cliffs that backed onto the harbour and had a ride with a truck driver named Steve within ten minutes. Steve took us as far as Dartford, and we made our way down off the motorway, through some long grass and bushes, into a little town where we caught a bus over to Deptford.
We joined the throng of commuters waiting on the platform — black and white striped suits, newspapers folded — and caught the first train that came along bound for Waterloo East. Rushing along the tracks, looking out at the suburbs of London, memories came flooding back. The rows of houses afforded a brief glimpse into people’s lives: a cat here, rows of vegetables there, laundry hung out to dry, tables and chairs—the stuff of ordinary life.
When the train reached Waterloo East we somehow managed to extricate our packs from the now-crowded train, and we walked out into the main concourse of Waterloo Station. Linda went off to the toilet, and I just sat there with the packs, letting the sights, sounds, and memories wash over me. People rushing to work passed by in all directions, all dashing somewhere and gone in a flash.
There was anger, happiness, resignation, and madness painted on the faces. A woman pushed a baggage cart past with one wonky wheel. The cart wobbled like a drunk on his way through a park. A businessman walked past with his head twitching spastically. People munched takeaway fast breakfasts or sipped coffee at one of the several cafes. Pigeons swooped around the rafters.
As I sat there, I thought back to that evening back in February in the Andrews Creek hut, where it was quiet and cool, and the chattering creek was such a different sound to the rushing rhythm of Waterloo Station, which surrounded me now.
We caught the Northern line down to Kennington and walked for about ten minutes through a labyrinth of housing estates to Lucy’s flat. We spent the morning talking to Lucy, then walked up to Westminster Bridge Road and caught a Number 12 bus over to Piccadilly.
As we crossed Westminster Bridge, with the pageant of the Thames set out around us, I finally realised that we were actually back in London. We spent the rest of the day just wandering around the streets and had takeaway curry for tea.
CurseOfTheTraveller 