I’ve never travelled on a sleeper train before, so I had no idea what to expect the other week when I rocked up at Paddington station to take the overnight down to Redruth in Cornwall the other week.
Stations at night, especially those so full of hustle and bustle during the day, are odd vacuous places at night. Paddington had literally half a dozen people milling around so that and it felt more like 3am than 11pm...
Because of the anti-social hour of departure, you’re allowed to board your train up to two hours beforehand – although I typically left it fairly last minute. On the platform edge were three official looking people with large clipboards. ‘Ah your with me’ one young woman told me after I’d given her my name. ‘Not literally I assume’ I commented in my best Roger Moore voice. Not even a wry smile back. Not a glimmer. This might be a long night.
I was shown to my sleeping berth, a miracle of minimalisation. In the space no bigger than that typically occupied by a double bed they designers and engineers have somehow managed to factor in two single bunk beds, somewhere for you to hand your clothes, a sink and two work surfaces. Impressive, most impressive.
They have also covered the space by the bed and the door in a variety of 60s space age knobs and dials which allow you to change the temperature, the lighting and even the brightness of your night light should you desire to use it. I didn’t, but it was a good device to have handy as the whole cabin was completely dark once the main lights were off. No light permeated a single chink in the curtain or the door. As a Londoner I’m used to constant light pollution, so getting used to the dark was odd. I waited for my night vision to kick in after I’d turned the lights off and after two hours gave up, it really was just completely dark.
The only things missing were a seatbelt to hold you in to your bed and company. Oh and maybe a kettle.
The bed was the smallest bed I think I’ve ever slept in, even smaller than the “celibacy beds” they gave us at college which were so small it was impossible for horny students to bunk up with someone and enjoy a good nights sleep thereafter. Every time we went round a corner I thought I was going to get thrown across the floor. I didn’t, but I was thankful that I wasn’t 4” taller or wider, else it might have been a close call on more than a few occasions.
One of the odd things about the space is that you can share the berth if you like – using the bunk beds, or you can simply pay an extra tenner to have it to yourself. I paid the extra tenner miserable party pooper that I am. Mind you, that said, the space was small enough without sharing it with a random stranger – which knowing my luck would probably be a pasty eating Cornishman who insisted staying up all night to talk to me about cod quotas. Not quite what I was looking for on that occasion.
Even if you manage to avoid the pasty man (or woman) you’d still have to factor in that the height of the cabin was so small that in the event of the top bunk being pulled out of the nasty blue upholstered wall (same material as the seats on those old SW Trains,) then the ‘upstairs’ bunk would almost hit your face if you were trying to sleep on the bottom bed. Waking up screaming because you think you’re being buried alive is probably not a good idea – certainly not the way you want to bond pasty eating roomie anyway.
So once I got used to the dark, the lack of space to roll around in, the sound of the train running along the tracks – complete with occasional sharp corner, it was fine. I’d do it again, but it wasn’t quite the romantic experience I thought it would be. Mind you, the “Cornish Riviera” is not quite the Orient Express, so I’ll keep an open mind in the interim…
Leave a comment