I’ll start us off.
Aged about 15, camping south of Tarragona, my mate had gone with us.
A railway line divided the actual camp from the main road.
We talked my parents into taking us on a Spanish train ride to Tortosa.
On the way back along the single track, our train came to a halt in a passing loop, obviously to allow a southbound train to pass us. Or so we thought.
Now in those days of the Generalissimo, 1967, Spanish trains were old: wooden slatted seats and all doors, to track, and at the tail end of the train, left open.
We were sitting on the floor at the tail end.
So when the train stopped, I naturally jumped down. 🙄
I then walked ten paces away before returning.
Then I repeated it, this time twenty paces.
Then thirty.
Then forty.
When I got to 110, I decided I’d pushed my luck far enough.
And sure as eggs are eggs, within a minute we’d set off again.
No train passed, and no horn to signal we were off.
I often wonder what I’d have done if the train had set off when I was over 100 paces away.
Not sat down for a week if my dad had had to fetch me back.
🙂
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