traveling strange

As I sit on a train headed Scotland way, we seem to be rolling on into a thick fog, which is ominous, if only slightly. The countryside out the window is picturesque, green fields with bare trees dotted throughout. The view is complete with black faced, white fleeced sheep. We leave behind us York, a town refreshingly different from the grand bustle of London. Busy without seeming crowded, the strange blend of medieval buildings and modern life in York was strangely comforting. It was a town that seemed to go to sleep in the eve, unlike the aforementioned capital. Apparently there are ghost tours after dark, but for us, when the sun set, it seemed perfectly natural to climb into our bunks and call it a night.

The last few days have been surprisingly devoid of drama. At the Astor Hyde Park, our brilliant hostel in London, a worrisome pair of encounters with what I shall term 'the traveling strange' seemed to foreshadow a trend of eccentric, bizarre and disturbing characters we would encounter for the entirety of our journey. First there was Mr Worsley (discussed in a previous post... you'd know him as Steven) and almost immediately after his departure, 'the man in the coat', who's name we never learned. The man in the coat was a whole different kind of strange, with none of the questionable charisma or storytelling drive of Steven. In fact, where you could hardly stop Steven talking, this strange fellow seemed to be generally at a loss for words, unless he was asking a set of seemingly imprinted questions, such as “You are here for what, study? Holiday? Work?” For the first moments of conversation, this young man's French accent and quick but fluent speech could almost convince you that you were dealing with a traveler, who despite the strange fashion of a white buttoned up shirt under a ratty businessman's black coat and a penchant for standing silently on the fringes of conversation, was otherwise generally normal. This illusion would be shattered however, when after a few brief exchanges (the usual sort of icebreakers and introductions) he would clam up abruptly, an embarrassed grin covering his face as he ceased to make eye contact. He would appear to be on the verge of speaking, but never managed more than 'Ok', or inaudible mumbles. If he did again speak, it would only be to utter one of the same questions he'd asked you not two minutes previous. The difficult thing was disengaging from this non-conversation without appearing completely callous. It was a relief for everyone when this fellow departed the hostel the next day, not the least of which the hostel staff, who'd had to move every other occupant of his dorm to alternative accommodation, upon their insistence that they didn't feel at all safe being alone in the room with him. Apparently here, he found words aplenty, but not for others, as he chattered away to himself. Circulating throughout the hostels were veiled rumors that his behavior within the dorm had been even more disgraceful and unsettling for other guests, though this cannot be confirmed.

In any case, although he seemed particularly interested in abortive conversation with yours truly, the blessing was that we were not among his roommates. I did, however, plead a pressing errand to avoid a second conversation with him (one had been more than enough) and promptly dashed out the hostel door. This was somewhat an awkward position to find myself in, as I'd intended not to be going out into the brisk London morning, but to while away the hours before lunch in the hostel kitchen, warm and comfortable. So without a jumper, in a short sleeved shirt, I wandered for some time through foggy streets. With church bells in the air, it was amazingly atmospheric, though the cold somewhat ruined any true appreciation of it. When shivering set in, I risked return to the hostel. Fortunately man-in-coat was nowhere to be found - not that I put any real effort into looking, outside of a cautious survey of each hallway before entering. The rest of the morning was spent safe in our own dorm room, doing a bit of a pre-pack of our bags. It might be relevant to note here that this was the day prior to our almost-disastrous train episode, which James has previously informed you of. One can only conclude that this pre-pack was a bit of a waste of time. Though perhaps without it we'd have lost precious seconds – as it was, it was only seconds of difference between making it to the train-bus, and missing it.

In conclusion, as we power onwards, through a foggy green we haven't seen in Australia for a more than a decade, I am filled with trepidation. Was it simply a feature of London, these odd vagabonds? Or was the quaint country-ness of York simply a reprieve, and shall Edinburgh yield even more of these traveling strange?

Only time shall tell.