SO you all know from last week’s column that I spent some time in Galway.
Unfortunately, because of work, I had to leave earlier than the rest of the family. So, train ticket in hand, I said my goodbyes.
In typical mammy fashion, I had been well fed beforehand, and been asked, “have you got everything?” at least 20 times. I was even offered the most enormous bag of wine gums you’ve ever seen, but I declined.
After all, the journey was only two hours and forty minutes. I wasn’t going to die of starvation in the meantime.
Oh, famous last words. We were about half-an-hour from Dublin’s Heuston Station when the train suddenly slowed to a stop in the middle of a field. Being of a simple and naive nature, I assumed it was a mere momentary sojourn and that we would be on our merry way again soon. A quick glance over my shoulder told me otherwise. The turn of events can best be summed up in four words: THE TRAIN CAUGHT FIRE.
Thick plumes of dark smoke engulfed the carriages, as all passengers from the rear of the train were quickly herded up towards the front. Security staff rushed past as we all gazed in disbelief. No-one would answer our questions, and there was no announcement as to what was going on. The doors were locked so there was nowhere to go. We all just had to sit there and stare, sardines in a burning tin can.
About 45 minutes into the whole ordeal, the driver finally came on the speaker system to apologise for the delay and to assure us that all passengers and luggage were on board. Whatever that meant. Frankly, it raised more questions than it answered. There was no mention of a fire, or any hazard of any kind. I was incensed at the complete lack of information.
The smoke eventually died down, but there was still no indication from anyone as to what was happening. We were now over an hour into our ordeal. Our collective belly rumbling must have been audible, as the trolley guy began passing through the carriages offering us what little food and drink was left on his cart. Unfortunately, there wasn’t enough to go around. I could see in his eyes he feared it was only a matter of time before we cannabalised him.
An hour-and-a-half had passed and there wasn’t an ounce of information forthcoming. I was furious. And ravenous. And then, quite unexpectedly, we began to move again after almost two stationary hours. There was a collective sigh of relief, but also a confused and annoyed air. The driver came over the speakers for the second time that evening. He apologised for the delay. Again. He assured us that at all times, passenger safety was forefront in his mind. Which, presumably, is exactly why he refused to disembark us from a burning train.
We finally arrived safe and somewhat sound at Heuston Station, almost two hours later than planned, and about four-anda-half hours from when we had set off. I was tired and hungry, and glad of the lift that was there waiting for me.
With the aid of my phone, I logged into Twitter and saw the following message from Irish Rail: “Due to a mechanical fault on the 18:05 Heuston Galway, services to Heuston currently terminating in Newbridge”. This was clearly code for “There is a great big bloody fire on the train, and you can’t go anywhere near it lest you burst into flames too”. I knew that, from then on, every time I saw the words “mechanical fault”, I would automatically think “fiery inferno”.
Climbing into bed that night, I reflected upon the evening’s events. “Had the train been hurtling down the track at supersonic speeds, the flames singeing our split-ends and drowning our screams, it would’ve made for a great column”, I thought. But there was one thought that rang louder and clearer than any other: “I should’ve brought those wine gums”.