I’m writing this while I’m sitting in my bathrobe in my kitchen, waiting for the antibiotics to start their good work. Thanks to the aforementioned trip to an ice-cold Berlin I caught a mean cold, which meant I spent Christmas sniffing and coughing and feverish. Also, thanks to the snow-afflicted public transport all over Europe, was my flight back from Berlin to Dublin cancelled, and I had to spend Christmas with the few things that I had in my hand luggage. That did not include any presents. Hence, I was quite grumpy over the holidays and did not write anything here (or somewhere else, for that matter). But as stated before, I tried to write a Christmas story, and so here it is. Consider it as a belated present, the same kind that my family will get once I make it to the post office in January. Happy New Year!

I’m not a huge fan of Christmas. Most of the time it is just too cold and miserable, filled with frenzy late-minute-shoppers populating crowded malls and shopping districts. And, at least on my part, ending in some-kind of family-visiting-marathon over the holidays, after which I more than happily look forward to start working again. However, here’s my attempt at a Christmas story. It’s not Auggie Wren’s story, but a Christmas story nonetheless.

Two years ago, I was not looking forward to travel back home over Christmas. This had mostly to do with the fact that I was planning to break up with my long-distance girlfriend in Germany at the time. I will not bother you with the details why it had come to this, let me just say that it was something that needed to be done. I was also suffering from an extensive fear of flying, so I had reverted to travel by ferry and train from Dublin to Cologne. A journey of almost two days in normal conditions, but not with frost and snow all over as it was at the time. So I was looking at three miserably cold days of travel from the Western edge of Europe to its middle, ending it with an even more miserable breakup. I was thinking about staying in Ireland, celebrating only with a couple of Guinness in the pub.

But then I boarded the Ulysses, the world’s greatest car ferry, on the evening of the 22nd of December. An icy wind came howling down from the Wicklow Mountains, driving me under deck quickly, where I settled for a pint at the bar and a fidgety sleep on a bolted couch afterwards. The Ulysses travels from Dublin harbour to Holyhead in Wales, and even in bad seas the journey does not take longer than three hours. So I trotted weary-eyes and ruffled into the terminal in Holyhead at half twelve in the morning, just to find out that the train, which normally leaves the nearby station one hour after the ferry arrives, had been suspended. Rail works were going on, so a replacement bus was leaving the terminal in three hours time. Feeling even more down and travel-weary, I huddled down on one of the benches in the terminal building, pulling my parka around me and cursing the freezing temperatures, my fear of flying and life itself.

“Ach, they don’t care about the Irish. I’ve been travelling down to London for a long time, but this here beats any delay I had before.” The old lady right next to me suddenly said. We where six people in the terminal hall: the old lady in a crumpled brown coat and with a purple woollen hat next to me, a little mother with loads of luggage and the head of her son in her lap on the opposite bench, and a young, globetrotter- looking couple who had spread out their sleeping bags on the cold floor. I grunted a confirmation, and went back to being miserable. The lady then starting singing a Christmas song to herself, a fine hushed tune to which she even stomped her feet a little.

The bus finally arrived and carried us through the Welsh night, along sleeping villages and frozen fields that reflected the light of the stars and the headlights of the bus. We stopped at every single train station on the way, and there was no thinking of sleep as every time the driver opened the door a cold gust of wind shot through the bus. After a while we arrived at Llandudno Junction, where we were told to catch a train. I stumbled towards the platform, having abandoned any hope that I’d ever sleep again in my life. I stood shivering, and the old lady and the mother with child stopped right next to me. “Is this the train to London?” The mother asked. “No, we have to take this one and change in Crewe, where we can get a Virgin train down to London.” “So you have travelled this way before?”

We started talking while waiting for the train. Her name was Laura, and she and her 6-year old son Antonio were travelling from Cork to Turin, it turned out. By train. Mostly for the same reason as I: fear of flying, and to see how travelling by train feels like. They had left their home in Cork the day before, travelled to Dublin by train, boarded the ferry and were now planning to get the Eurostar in London, drive to Paris and take a TGV from there. And I had considered myself far travelled. Both were taking the journey for the first time, so I agreed to show them the way to St. Pancras in London. After the train arrived at our platform we – the carol-singing lady, Laura, Antonio and I- settled into a compartment, and I promised them to wake everyone upon arrival at Crewe, where we were to change our trains. Brilliant. Not only was I grumpy as hell, I now also was responsible for a small group of people. Soon the warm train was filled with snoring, while I kept myself awake by reading, taking catnaps and watching the hilly landscape of North Wales wake up in the first cold rays of the winter sun. After we passed Colwyn Bay with a grey and slushy sea to the one side and the brown walls of the hillside to the other, I fell asleep myself, but managed to wake up in time and usher everyone else out of the train as we reached Crewe.

“Normally, I get a cup of hot chocolate at this time of the morning!” Toni declared, rubbing his eyes. Everyone was shivering again at another platform. Crewe is especially prone to catch the wind – the long and narrow station acts like a funnel and catches every little whiff and transforms it into an icy breeze straight from the North Pole, and not the part where Santa Claus lives. I went to get a coffee for me and a hot chocolate for Toni, despite the tuttering of his mother. The Virgin Train that we caught after another ten minutes was not as packed as expected, and as London was the final stop I finally was able to get two hours of sleep. The Midlands are the most boring part of the journey down to London anyway.

When we stepped out of Euston Station at half eight in the morning the sun was shining, that strange clear winter sun that makes city-buildings seem more cleaner than they are, and you have the feeling you can see for miles instead of metres. We said goodbye to Louise, the carol-singing lady, and went down Euston Road, past the Shaw Theatre and the British Library into St. Pancras station, where Toni and Laura went directly into the check-in for the Eurostar, but not before wishing me “Bouno Natale!” and waving goodbye. I had two hours before I had to board my own Eurostar, so I shouldered my bag and went searching for breakfast. And realised that despite of seemingly endless and cold travel, I was thoroughly enjoying myself. And had not thought about Christmas at all.