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Anecdotes from an Anorak

Coach Tour

 

Waiting on a Sunday morning for the grand arrival of Shearings luxury coach.  Small mini bus pulls into the Hemel Hempstead bus station Bay 5 – really an oily patch of tarmac outside the King Harry Pub.  The door is pulled back to reveal a motley lot from Milton Keynes.  Cramped, with no choice of seats we were in front of a family, grandparents, parents and daughter.  Why is it that some women’s thoughts are connected directly to their tongues?  Over the next 2 hours she had verbal diarrhoea covering life’s events where she had “been there, done that, got the T-shirt”, plus what might happen to the rest of the relations left back at home. The granddaughter, a busty, leggy attractive blonde in a strappy little number, broke the incessant chat with an occasional girly squeak.

 

The question was, were they going on our coach tour holiday?  We sincerely hoped they were transferring to another coach at the Dover interchange stop.  I was faced with a trade-off between mouth almighty, or the blonde sex on legs.  We continued to wonder, when the talking stopped, replaced by a wonderful quiet.  Crunch, suck, chipping sounds, rustle of cellophane.  The reason for the momentary silence was the boiled sweet gob stoppers.  We were not sure if the chipping sound was the breaking of sugar coating on the sweets or the enamel on their teeth. 

 

We too were all feeling peckish after about an hours travel: the family were no exception, the only difference was that they had come prepared – sausage rolls, cake, the lot.  But do you think this silenced the woman – No!  Food sloshed around her moth at the same time as the monotonous words.  It was fortunate that the seats were of the high back coach style otherwise we would have been on the receiving end of the say it and spray it debris.

 

Luckily my earlier dilemma over the blonde was at an end as the family disappeared into the crowds at Dover.

 

Professionals

 

Coach full of Shearings professionals here.  Hardly a groan when the driver, Paul, announced a 6.30am Monday morning call.  Cases outside rooms prompt at 7, then down to breakfast.  We were early, but still no match for the professionals.  Did they go to bed?  Did they wash before coming down?  The average age for the coach seemed greater than ours and the majority originated from up North, so they may indeed only bathe once a week.  Yes, I recall the days of the mills and mines, tin bath in front o’t fire.  Being early didn’t do them any good, because the maitre’d made everyone wait at the door of the restaurant anyway.  It gave time for us to pair off the travellers.  Who was married to whom, who were siblings with whom.  No blue rinses to be seen, the women had various shades of natural looking dyed hair.  How chemicals have improved. 

 

The men sported varying shades of grey, either all over or just on the sides of their heads.  Was the woman with the dark permed hair and assertive style spectacles really married to the man with staring eyes and monks haircut?  Is the ‘emergency service’ built man with No 2 haircut, married to the woman who does cross-stitch whilst travelling through the textile regions of France?  Is she married to the little man who spends most of his time slumped forward fast asleep?  Maybe all will be revealed by Tuesday!

 

 

Oblivious

 

Caused a bit of a minor upset at breakfast this Tuesday morning.  Had to move a chair and place setting to make 2 seats together.  Did I detect some moans and whisperings amongst the professionals, who, incidentally, raided the restaurant in such a hurry as to leave only one vacant place on every table.  Back on the coach at 9 prompt and Mr Sleepy also promptly slumped forward into his dreams.  Bit of re-arrangement up front of the coach.  Those in the first two rows, who had probably booked their tour 2 years in advance.  One lady now had a bad leg and wanted to swap with someone on the other side of the coach, so that she could stretch out in the gangway, probably tripping up anyone who dared to venture to the tea making facilities at the back of the coach.

 

We gave some nicknames to others on the tour – Mr Oblivious who spends most of the time reading a novel or standing at his overhead locker.  His head is either buried so far in either, or he has tunnel vision, the result is the same – blocking or tripping up other passengers.

 

Mr Sleepy woke to make coffee.  Twenty minutes later he is still at the coaches refreshment bar.  Had he gone back to sleep?  No he couldn’t find the coffee, mainly because Shearings use pre-packed cups.

 

 

Farewell Ajaccio

 

En route to Sardinia, after the Corsican evening, probably a few sore heads after the vino and enjoyment of running down the Albion Hotel.  This morning was the only time we had hot water to wash in.  The owner, Madame Pooch, probably took a leaf out of the old steam trains trick of keeping the heating off until the last part of the journey to save fuel.  After saying farewell to Ajaccio we are swaying our way around the roundabouts which lead out of town.  It’s a coughing, sneezing and sniffing morning this morning and Mr Oblivious is blowing up his wife’s neck pillow.  Two people have cake walked up to the bar at the back of the bus, elbowing everyone on their way.

 

The first to pass us was the youngest on the coach, travelling with her mother or great aunt.  There is no ring on her finger so either they are enjoying a holiday together, or she is being chaperoned as we were about to take the ferry to the hot-blooded Italian island of Sardinia. 

 

The second to pass was a lady who remarked how she was getting jostled about much more at the back than the front.  Well I assume she was referring to the bus and not last nights Corsican evening.

 

 

 

Coach Tour - Corsica

Feeder Coach