For some reason, our journey to Plymouth took on the qualities of an epic journey to the wild west for the three of us - and it felt a very long way away, as if to an alien land (even stranger than south London, see 18 January). So we all prepared for the major trek in different ways, to make sure we would be bright eyed and bushy-tailed for a 10am start on Union Street - just off the main drag (called 'Armada Way') between the station and the Hoe. Maybe it was unconscious thoughts of Sir Francis Drake and his rather more impressive journey to Plymouth that so elevated it in our minds.
Without giving away trade secrets (or our names), one of our number exhibited excessive safety behaviour; one made good for an altercation with a railwayman about a missed train (and excess fare) in Cambridge last week, and the other was frankly exhibiting reckless behaviour worthy of a formal risk assessment.
The safety behaviour was allowing many hours 'hanging around' time to be there almost a day before it was strictly necessary, and booking to stay in an unnecessarily dull and corporate hotel. However, it did mean that it was daylight for that spectacular part of the journey west of Exeter, between Dawlish Warren and Teignmouth - where the train seems to be flying along the beach, almost lapped by the waves amidst the dog-walkers, and periodically diving into holes in the bright red cliffs - for miles and miles. In fact the train arrived at Plymouth with so much time to spare that it required a brisk walk round the Hoe and the Barbican areas to stave off boredom. But the sight of bare-chested young men 'hanging out' on the Hoe, and the release of several dozen purple balloons at dusk, by young folk with mohican hair arrangements, soon prevented any likelihood of that. A good curry nearby, amidst all the monumental architecture of England's glorious naval heritage, also helped stave off torpor.
Possibly the most sensible preparation was by the one of our number who arrived in the evening and had arranged a place to stay in a friendly B&B. But this was in contrast to last week, where extraordinarily lucky train connections and arrival without missing much were later counterbalanced by the team's excessive need to talk - resulting in a missed advance-price-ticket train with a mean penalty. But at least things were better in Plymouth! It does mean that none of us has now escaped the new-found ferocity of the railways' Revenue Protection Officers. Once upon a time it would have looked quite unnecessarily transferring resources back from one bit of the national infrastructure (the NHS) to another (the railway) - but we now live in mean and lean times.
The final member of the team decided that it was the perfect opportunity to make use of the excellent facility provided by the Paddington to Penzance sleeper train - leave London after a day's work and an evening at home, then have a good rest and sleep to the gently rocking rhythm of an inter-city train. What was not taken into the initial calculation was that the seats were not as conducive to shut-eye as the cabins, and that not everybody on such trains quite understands the word 'sleeper'. An exorbitantly tall man with a German accent talked a great deal, then decided to lie under the table to go to sleep. It was rather mystifying, and quite possibly sinister, to become half-aware that he had disappeared somewhere west of Taunton - how could his considerable frame have slipped under the seat? Or should Miss Marple be called? The other consideration of hazard was that a train scheduled to arrive in Penzance at 0759 actually arrives in Plymouth at 0513: and there is not a great deal of entertainment to be had at Plymouth station at 0513, nor in the town nearby. In the dark. And in the pouring rain. And just who might one meet then?
Nevertheless, we successfully met about half an hour before the appointed time, and found a cafe near The Zone to gather ourselves. It did have black tablecloths and a quite unique ambience - but the staff there were very friendly as well as interestingly attired, and we felt all the more energised by the Bohemian vibes.
The local youth are quite cool and casual about attending The Zone, we were told, because it's where everybody goes to get the free condoms. Even though we were all at least double the age of their clients, we were warmly welcomed - didn't feel our age at all - and were led through the warren of municpal corridors and staircases to the Icebreak offices where we started the work of the day. Thankfully, caffeine was offered rather than condoms, and it was much appreciated.
The photos chosen reflect some of the conversations - but also capture some words which were felt to summarise something important about the place.
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