According to The Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy the answer to the ultimate question of life, the universe, and everything is simply 42. Succinct and certain. And purposely bewildering, since life is so damn massive how can anyone ever encapsulate its meaning? Nevertheless, there are moments of pure obscurity and chance that capture the spirit of my definition of existence: making memories.
And so it came to pass, as far back as Wednesday 26th June 2024 when the EFL League 2 fixtures were released.
The season before, my must attend match as a staunch Notts County supporter was Bradford City away – a former Premier League ground with the incumbent team tipped as one of the title favourites. Since we had just returned from non-league oblivion this match would epitomise our phoenix like resurrection and whatever it took I would be there! But this event didn’t go totally to plan, with the original match called off an hour or so before kick-off and the rearranged match played on a brass monkey of a night in March. But that’s a different story, and one with a happy ending, since we won 3-0. This time around it was to be Carlisle United away.
The Blues had been relegated and would, no doubt, be one of the dominant sides of the league, and as I’d never been to Brunton Park that was to be the ordained fixture. Even the realisation that it would be played on a Tuesday evening in October didn’t put me off, despite the 600-mile round trip from my base in Berkshire – the city being a stone’s throw from the border with Scotland.
My suspicions that the EFL fixture planning unit had organised the league two schedule whilst simultaneously enjoying a boozy Christmas staff night out was complete when I realised that our fixture at Barrow – likewise a beast of a journey – was also scheduled for a Tuesday night in the same month.
Booking my return rail fare and overnight stay was effortless and as I supped a cup of steaming tea at Reading railway station I was buoyed by our decent start to the season; the only hiccup so far a 1-0 home defeat to current table toppers Gillingham.
Then the beginnings of a partial remake of the John Cleese film “Clockwise” began to take shape. Owing to a passenger being taken ill further down the line, my Manchester Piccadilly bound train was delayed. Given that I only had a 15-minute platform hop at Stafford for my connection to Cumbria the hope that I’d be in the Cathedral city by 3pm for a spot of sight-seeing began to evaporate. But worry not, other train options would be aplenty and I’d built in sufficient wriggle room.
Posting on Facebook I was still feeling chilled:
I feel like an intrepid explorer. Negotiating an epic trip up t’North with bare essentials and regular depressing news whispered through the howling winds and dashing rain. “This is your Train Manager speaking. I once again apologise for a further delay. We are being held at a red light outside Coventry.” Couple this with intermittent Wi-Fi, tea at £3.50 a cup, and the most horrific of potential upsets: will I make the Edinburgh bound train from Stafford or will I need to call International Rescue?
Sure enough I missed the Stafford change but after a quick glance at the online timetable my next available option was the Blackpool Northbound train, changing at Preston and arriving in the promised land by 5pm. Still enough time to dump my rucksack at the hotel, head for the nearest Wetherspoons, and still get to the ground in ample time for the 7:45pm kick-off.
Pulling out of Crewe the hint that there could be trouble ahead was amplified when the train manager announced that a damaged track at Penrith had yet to be repaired and “significant delays” were expected for journeys North of the border via Carlisle. That sinking feeling – always simmering under the surface whenever I embark upon any long distance public transport foray in broken Britain – surfaced, and I shared my emotional disruption on my go to therapy platform: Facebook.
A broken line at Penrith. No trains to Carlisle! Better get my thumb out.
Travel update: especially for Lewis Hester who has expressed a keen interest in my welfare (sarcasm alert). No trains to Carlisle, so I’ve remortgaged and jumped into an UBER. Graham Johnston we may never get that drink! A 5-0 win will be worth all the aggravation. COYP!
Edging ever closer – through the Lake District. Last time I came here was when I had hair.
Does anyone know how to set up a crowd funding page? I need to pay this fucking UBER fare from Preston to Carlisle somehow.
The last statement hid the fact that I had shelled out £111.99 to the utterly charming Rizwan who didn’t have much of a footballing heritage, but nevertheless made polite conversation with this apparently mentally unstable passenger who was enduring all this aggro for 90-minutes of fourth tier English League football hundreds of miles away from home.
But I was on a mission! For many non-football fans their emphasis is – very often – on the result of the game, typified by statements such as “All that way – hope it’s not a 0-0 draw!” If you fall into that category let me educate you – the match is not the central character of the storyline. The anticipation, excitement, anxiety, and heightened endorphins are the chief protagonists, wrapped up with meeting like-minded nutters at the match and singing your heart out to create the most scintillating of page turners in these episodes of memory making. The match action and statistics inevitably fade but the raw passion of getting there through the often metaphorical arctic winds and rain will remain embedded in the psyche forever. Similarly, the emotion experienced watching it on Sky plus – yes the live match was accessible on TV that night – would simply evaporate in days. Emotion etched into the soul creates a lasting testament to the ultimate answer to life, the universe, and everything.
For the record we won 2-0 with a barnstorming first-half and a backs to the wall defensive campaign for the majority of the second. And I did make Wetherspoons, where I got chatting to some home fans who introduced me to a young lad who had travelled a tad further than me: Melbourne, Australia. And people wonder why it’s called the beautiful game. Topping the day off, I got to my bed at a shade before midnight after deciding to walk the 30-minute hike through a deserted and eerily lit Carlisle.
Let me not forget the fun too – epitomised by my friend and fellow Notts fan, Karen, who chose the easier option of the supporters’ club coach and summed up my trek as a “shit Challenge Anneka!”
Being rudely awakened at silly o’clock I took to social media once again:
My stay at Fawlty Towers is a truly deafening experience. Every time a door closes it sounds like a mortar round going off. Now the fucking fire alarm is sounding. The view from my room is disappointing too. No Sydney Opera House or The Hanging Gardens of Babylon, and certainly, no sign of herds of wildebeest sweeping majestically across the plain. I’m off to breakfast. Hopefully, I’ll avoid the dead guest and rat.
Carlisle by day is a truly beautiful place and I wondered if I should have stayed a little longer as I walked through this wonderfully historic northern gem, although all being well, I shouldn’t be there next season unless, of course, Carlisle United get promoted too!
Winding through the stunning Lake District and southwards, the journey home was a breeze.
In the sage words of actor Shai LaBeouf:
Don’t let your dreams be dreams
Yesterday you said tomorrow
So just do it
Next stop … Barrow.
COYP!
©️ Ian Kirke 2024 & all images.
@ianjkirke