Train Times

I ride the train.

Away from daily life; from paid labour, from domestic chores, from reality.

My book stays on my lap. Too much to see.

Once through the city we climb through mountains, close in places to cloud. There are villages below us and blue skies above. Near to journey’s end the sun comes out to ripen the oranges in the trees and warm the sleeping cats.

On boarding the wooden vehicle a station plaque informed us of the origin of the electrified track: 1929. Stepping on the platform at the end of the line we are back in-to that time. Between the wars, sleepy yet still in recovery. Sadly, no blissfully, unaware of horrors yet to come.

Drinking strong coffee at a café in the square life goes on around me, if somewhat subdued and leaner than before. The generations gap is clear; the missing men. And what of the women they left behind? Many unable to fulfil the almost only feminine destiny of that, if not so much this, era. No husband, nor children for them. And those that do mother are raising the fighters of the future. Loss is everywhere be it known or not.

The peaceful, at least for now, streets tempt me with their wares. That and the mix of wonderful smells. I fill my basket with fresh produce and later stop to eat bread and cheese with scarlet tomatoes so ripe I need to hold a napkin to my chin.

A final stroll, an exchange or two of pleasantries, and it’s time to travel home. Half way through the return trip my phone, quiet all day, pulls me back to the here and now. The insistent string of chirps reminding me of who and what I have ignored whilst I’ve been away.