A Summer Micro Odyssey

When: Wednesday, 06 August 2026 - Thursday, 07 August 2026

Where: A journey around the British Isles in just over 24 hours

In the long hot, well for some, summer of 2026 when the biggest grossing film was Christopher Nolan’s Odyssey it occurred to me that making a such a journey is something that we don’t do enough of. Obviously a ten year journey to get from there to here isn’t something most of us can do these days, so armed the internet, rail and bus apps I set about planning a micro Odessey.

My notion, could I visit all five countries of the British Isles in 24 hours using just trains, boats and buses. Well, frankly, no – but I could do it in just over 26 hours. So it was in mid August I found myself being dropped off at Alnmouth station ready to catch the 17:22 to Newcastle. The first leg involved three trains, changing at Newcastle and Newton-Le-Willows arriving at Holyhead at 11:42 in time to catch the 01:30 ferry to Dublin. The art of planning journey’s is getting the connection times right, 8 minutes at Newcastle is ridiculously tight but I made it and was sitting on, quite smugly on the next train when an announcement came over the tannoy “This train will now terminate at York”. That could be the end of this sojourn, so I went and sought out the guard. No panic, it was a planned change. Everybody simply decanted the train at York and filled the empty train waiting on the opposite platform and we hit the connection at Newton-Le-Willows right on time. While waiting for the onward connection for Holyhead, a strange thing happened, water started falling from the sky. It had been such a dry summer that passengers waiting on the platform left the shelters stood happily in the rain admiring the setting sun.

Changing trains at Newton-Le-Willows

The next leg, a TfW train to Holyhead rattles all way down the north Wales coast calling at all the stops where I spent many youthful summer holidays, Llandudno, Rhyll, Colwyn Bay and the like. Although I know that this is a beautiful coastal train journey, it was already dark, so a return trip to do it during daylight needs to be planned. Throughout this leg passengers were regularly getting on and off but by the time we reached Holyhead only four of us remained on the train and I was the only one heading to the ferry terminal at the end of the platform. With an hour before the ferry was due to board, I had time for a quick look around Holyhead, another place worth a second visit. A bus transfer for us thirty, or so, foot passengers twenty minutes before departure and not a passport check in sight and I was soon aboard the very aptly named Ulysses. First thing I did was head to the ship’s cafeteria for a well deserved cup of coffee. Finding a comfy seat to catch some brief sleep was not an issue, there were plenty. Unfortunately I had forgotten a long distance travel essential – my blow up pillow. Lesson learned. Just a few hours of interrupted sleep in an oversized chair.

Ulysses off loaded

When the sun started to come up, the ferry started to come back to life. Very little chance of sleep from then on. I found a seat with a view of the approaching land and waited for the ship’s docking. Yet again no passport checks and within 10 minutes of docking I was sat on the bus waiting to travel into Dublin city centre. A first bus heading for the fifth train. Dublin Connolly station is a fine Victorian Italianate station, the busiest in all of Ireland. On all other legs of this micro Odessey, I had booked the basic travel but for the leg between Dublin and Belfast I treated myself to first class seat. One because I knew that I would be tired from the overnight ferry but two, and more importantly I knew it would give me access to a full Irish breakfast at my seat. Most delicious and filling it was. Irish countryside is a lot like English countryside just with a softer light and a different accent. The train pulls into Belfast’s new Central Station right on time and it is a short walk into the centre to catch the 9:40 bus out to the Stenna Line ferry port out on the industrial edge of Belfast. The wait for the ferry to Cairnryan was much busier than I was anticipating, mostly I think due to the impending end of the Scottish school holidays. I was heading to the fifth country of my journey, so far everything had been on time, or within tolerance. From the deck of the ferry I watched as all the vehicles were loaded and the ship secured well on time …and then we sat there for a full 25 minutes after departure time before we cast off.

The ferry ride back across the Irish Sea was incredibly busy and meant that getting something even as simple as a coffee was irritating, or maybe I was just tired. The ferry gained back 10 minutes of the delay and I knew that the departure of the bus from Cairnryan was tied to the arrival of the ferry but nevertheless I had onward connections to catch. When the ferry docked I was at the front of the queue to depart. Sat on the dedicated bus to Glasgow I realised that rushing shouldn’t have been a priorty as bus sat there until it was full. The journey up to Glasgow headed sedately up the coast passing close to the magnificent Aisla Craig, the home of all those curling stones. As closed on Buchanon Street Bus station I started to worry, we were definitely running late and I was checking how long it would take to get to Queen Street. 12 minutes Google said, I did it in 7. I just had time to grab an excellent coffee to go and find a seat on the train when I heard the whistle blow. Just made it. But I was now back on time and just one more train after this. I sat back and enjoyed my coffee in amongst the masses of central belt commuters. Slowly the rest of the passengers departed and by the time we reached Edinburgh the train was relatively empty. Waverley Station was its usual busy self, it was festival time after all. But an easy 20 minute connection led a to sense of elation, knowing it was the final train, and it was on time it all seemed easy, so easy.

Stepping of the last train at Alnmouth exactly on time 26 hours and 15 minutes after I started out was cause for a little celebratory jig. It was a tiring journey, I imagine Ulysses would have said the same. It was a worthwhile journey I imagine micro Ulysses would have said the same.

There is a full route map here

Drowning in Sea Lavender

When: Saturday, 06 August 2012

Where: A day in Burnham-on-Crouch

Sea Lavender is the common name for over a hundred species of small shrubby plants that grow profusely in saline rich soil like that of the salt marshes of the eastern Essex coast. If you head out from London on the train from Liverpool Street station you will become increasingly surrounded by it. Swapping the deep purple of urban Buddleia for the equally deep colouring of the wild Sea Lavender. And the smell. The smell is always of salt. As the station names change from east London regulars, Bethnal Green and the rejuvenated Stratford to the stalwarts of Essex; Brentford, Romford and Billericay London Buddleia is left behind as the coastal potential approaches. At Wickford you have to make a decision, to stay on the bigger commuter train and head to the rocking haven of Canvey Island or to change to the local rattler that trundles to along the river Crouch to Burnham before ducking inland to the real end of the line at Southminster. 

It was a quiet Saturday morning before nine when I bought a cup of black coffee from the sell everything stall on the platform at Wickford. Canvey Island would have to wait for another Saturday. As I sipped the rather excellent coffee in the broken early morning sunshine I remembered the days back in the early seventies going to Ian Dury gigs in the grimy, industrially dead Manchester and thinking that all those places he sang about would be so much more exotic than my suburban wastelands of Prestwich and Sedgely Park and Cheetham Hill. Towns I had passed through on the train I'd just left and my destination Burnham-on-Crouch nearly all feature somewhere in his songs. The true inventor of Essex man, Clever Trevor, Billericay Dickie and a little bit of posh from Burnham-on-Crouch. When the little local rattler backed into the side platform it was only me and the cough riddled replacement driver waiting to head out into the marshes. The names of the stations along the line out to the coast resonate with a history not common to a Manchester lad, Battlesbridge and South Woodham Ferrers and the awesomely named Hogwell Sidings. I'm sure these stations have memories so much longer than mine, the line has been around for more than one hundred years and today is merely one day in a long flowing rich history. Finishing my coffee and concentrating on the journey, on my right hand side the river widens and the landscape takes on the hue of the reluctant mist and brown cast of the occasional drifting smack. Burnham-on-Crouch station is close to gone, boarded up and covered in adverts for long forgotten services. Memories of station masters and porters are so far away but not yet written in any history books. 

A short walk from the station should bring you into the town itself but as is my contrary want I turned immediately right and headed towards the river line. There are hints of the marshes as you leave the road to cross the meadow cut pleasure fields towards the large riverside marina, a lily covered, dragonfly haunted lagoon sits aside the path to the water’s edge. Sitting at a well sited bench, watching the sun winning its battle with the clouds, listening to the shouts of the dragonflies, a piece by Vaughan Williams wanders through my head prompting a pastoral vision from the Edwardian run up to the great war (Why did anyone ever call it that?) that should really should be a scene from an EM Forster novel. The brief tranquillity is disturbed by a dog parade closely followed by their nattering owners. The dragonfly disappear. The moment has gone. I head on, quickly reaching the bank of the Crouch. To the right, upstream, there is the marina and boatyard stuffed with many, overtly expensive sailing yachts. To the left, downstream, is the frontage of Burnham littered with many more yachts and beyond that, I can just make out the real start of the marshes. On the opposite bank yet another pastoral image, in the not quite yet evaporated early morning mist a solitary farm building and what appears to be a broken tractor surrounded by gently moaning cows. There are some images that you just can't capture on film, some images that just fit inside your head and take up residency and the music to accompany it just appears from the orchestra already hidden in your memories. A brief drink of the scene and then on along the waterfront to Burnham.

Walking along the frontage through Burnham it is obvious that the river belongs to the various yacht clubs that proliferate. No entry. Private. Access for members only. Almost more signs than yachts. Because it's still early and there are still very few people around I consider walking down one of these private pontoons to get some water level shots of the boats but decide against it. Judging by the desperation evident in all the signs these people really need their private river. Burnham itself is what I would call English twee and boasts, yes boasts, several grade II listed buildings. All the keep out signs do nothing to endear the place to me. Then it was saved by a waterfront greasy spoon that served a solid full English complete with a Burnham banger. A café so like a rabbit warren it was impossible not to succumb to its charms and some of the sixth form girls serving up the breakfasts were clearly 'the little bit of posh' Ian Dury had sung about, earning a little holiday pin money. Fully sated, revived and near enough to the marshes to smell them I set off downriver again. Passing a couple more yacht clubs I soon reached the clear demarcation between town and marsh. Almost the last yacht club, the biggest along the river, housed in a fine purpose built thirties style art deco has by far the largest collection of signs.

Then the town suddenly stops. The signs stop. The marshes begin. The atmosphere changes. You are heading out on to the edge. You have the freedom to walk along the seaweed encrusted waterline. You can choose to walk ankle deep in the Sea Lavender. And what really changes? The sounds change, what initially appears to be a silent landscape like the Pennine moors or the Lakeland fells is full sounds. The river has its sound, the gentle lapping of the slow tide, the call of the siren. The marshes which extend to the horizon make a their own far from silent sonata. The slight breeze from the sea bound river blows the sporadic couch grass and just about, the Sea Lavender. In these parts it is a small hardy brush not unlike highland heather and in the gentle breeze it makes an insistent drone and when I stop to admire the solitude, when I bend my ear close it is not just a drone from the Sea Lavender but the cries from a myriad of creatures, ants, grubs, beetles, bees and flies that are the marshes colonisers. I cannot follow their conversations or even make out the words but I know there is meaning here. Perhaps they are discussing the lives of sailors long gone who've left the boats at temporary moorings only to find them drowning in Sea Lavender upon their return. Drowning in the mud of the marshes I spot the rotted hull of a boat, a memory cast in salt mud and kelp. And then a second, and now a third. The shore line and a good distance into the marsh is littered with the ghosts of little boats, probably smacks, lost to history, lost to the marsh. It dawned on me why the town suddenly stopped. I am in a graveyard. The remnants of the boats just as genuine as any headstone.

I sat by the rusted hulk of a metalled boat rotted just as those of wood, salt is no discriminator, and I looked for dragons. There were no dragons here. Dragons are uncomfortable around salt. I had found dragon flies, proto-dragons if you will, but they would never be real dragons. What I did find were lost, forgotten memories. I could hear them in the sounds all around. On the breeze. In the atmosphere. Written in the marsh.