I recently gave up driving and have developed a special
relationship with coaches. I only have to put one foot in a coach and something
unusual Happens, with a capital H. (This is how the old Jazz singers used to
advertise their love for Katie - for Katie had class with a capital K.)
Before recounting my coach history I think I
should mention my earliest memory of a horse-drawn coach known locally as a
charabong. It was in Norfolk and you have to have been very old to have seen
it. It was a beautiful long vehicle with separate doors for every seat on both
sides. There's magnificence for you! Somehow this incident sparked off what I
feel must be some kind of magnetism existing between me and coaches.
The first was in Poland. The coach stopped in a
country lane, apparently miles from anywhere. The door opened and a young man
dashed in and attacked the driver. The young man was quite slender but very
wiry, a sort of featherweight. The driver was rotund and bulky, a sort of light
heavy. The couple engaged and rolled through the doorway into a ditch. We, the
passengers, stood up in alarm but also anxious to see the outcome. I will never
forget the look of bewilderment on one passenger's face - he was an Army
officer who thought he ought to intervene, but King's Regs, or the Polish
equivalent, were silent on the subject. Superior weight pinned the attacker
down, and the driver resumed his seat. But the young man was not to be beaten
that easily. Up he came and the tussle was resumed inside the coach. This time
the driver managed to push him out, close the door and drive off. Looking back,
I saw the young man actually pursuing the coach, game to the last. I couldn't
help feeling a woman was involved. Perhaps a sister.
There's nowhere like Eastern Europe for coach
fracas. The next was in Albania. The country was one renowned for its
vendettas. It's the sort of situation my coach was not likely to ignore. We
came to a village where the greater part of the population was gathered on top
of a large grassy mound.
Each one held an agricultural instrument. At first
the whole scene might have been interpreted as part of a fertility rite, which
would explain the presence of spades and mattocks, knives and hammers. But we
soon learnt otherwise. We were barely through the village when we encountered
the enemy, also armed (but more dangerously - one man even had a gun) and
blocking the road. We stopped. Then followed a long period of negotiation
between the enemy and our guide. Later we were told that they first demanded
the use of our coach - as a tank, I suppose - but in the end they gave way and
let us through. I imagine they were told, pretty forcibly, what might happen to
them if they insisted on damaging the tourist trade.
For the next coach drama we move to Northern
Ireland. We had left Belfast and were on the way to Clones in the Republic,
when the driver suddenly spurted into a 70mph acceleration. The road lay
straight ahead, and I realised the driver wanted to get out of it as soon as
possible. And then I got it. This was Armagh. And we were in Murder Mile. Ahead
of us, travelling in the same direction, was a tractor, which our driver
decided he would overtake. But then, coming towards us in the distance, was a
truck which we decided temporarily to avoid. Then our driver changed his mind -
I imagine he felt it better not to go slow on Murder Mile - so he decided to
squeeze through - but it was not a very successful squeeze. At first it looked
like a head-on, but in the end all three vehicles came to a halt in a kind of
embrace, three in a row, a cheek-to- cheek sort of situation. The three drivers
got together and seemed to settle the situation quite amicably. Meanwhile the
interior of our coach had been thrown into confusion as shopping, fruit and
vegetables and schoolgirls rolled off the seats and over the floor. An apple
and banana bounced off my head. These I recovered and gave to the lady behind
me.
My final coach adventure was of a different kind
but could not have occurred without my co-operation. To put it briefly, I
wanted to go to Colchester but the coach took me to Dover. I won't go into the
details of this misadventure, beyond saying that I had the right ticket and my
luggage was properly labelled. I claimed compensation and, after a determined
struggle, won. I don't travel much these days and rarely see a-coach. If
necessary, however, it will use a computer and our fuel will be solar. I will
not be able to guarantee an event-free journey. We might get a puncture.