Heathrow, Sunday morning, 6.15 am. Three plane loads of people arrive at once to queue for immigration. Me in the short EU queue and Jo in the very long other — we didn’t realise that she could come through with me. She found out and chased after me — too late — I was in that trance-like post-aircraft state and went through alone, leaving her to queue up behind a jumbo jet load of Nigerians for a very slow trip through customs. Much grumpiness, not an auspicious start. The plane-load from Lagos was very slow in passing through customs — maybe they were all being asked if they had inherited large sums of Nigerian money recently….
Next challenge! The £35 rental quote that Jo had found on the Internet turned into a £95 per day charge due to it being a Bank holiday — even though she’d checked the rates for this weekend! Forget that for a joke, we’ll put the bikes into the left-luggage facility and catch the train…
Heathrow’s left-luggage are happy to take anything, at £5 per day per item… except for bicycles in boxes, which are deemed bulky, and thus cost £10 per day, each. Huge suitcases, golf clubs, and other large boxes all somehow appear to be ordinary items, but not bikes. £100 to hold the bikes until Friday seems excessive. Next option… We rang up my uncle Joe and caused much surprise, chaos and lack of communications meant nobody was really sure when Jo and I would be in the UK, or if we’d call them. We arranged to catch the airport bus to Reading, and for Joe to meet us there.
What a production the bus turned into. First there’s a quarter of an hour wait for the inter-terminal shuttle, then a long, drawn out and winding trip from Terminal 4 around to 1, 2 and finally 3. The bus terminal at Terminal 3 is dinghy and noisy and grimy — standard for bus terminals the world over. I sit with the bags and bikes while Jo heads off to find tickets. Barely two minutes later a bus for Reading pulled up and a woman appeared from nowhere to sell tickets at the door. Meanwhile Jo has vanished into the enormous queues inside at the service counter and can’t be found — no Jo, no getting on the bus.
A quarter of an hour later Jo reappeared, dishevelled and very pissed off. She’d picked up a pamphlet on her way in that told her to buy tickets at the counter, then queued with the crowds until she got to the front, and was then told that tickets were only sold on the bus itself! Congratulations National Express, what a phenomenally disorganised mess.
Signs everywhere on every counter warn of harsh penalties for “rage" or aggression of any kind against employees — maybe if they weren’t so institutionally and individually incompetent, these signs wouldn’t be necessary!
Jo at Shiplake Lock
Finally we got to Reading, were met by uncle Joe and cousin Elizabeth, and made our way back to Henley on Thames(51.5333333,-0.9), Jo and Elizabeth in one car, Joe and I, the baggage and bikes in the other.
A cup of tea, a little lunch, and we spent the rest of the afternoon talking about family, and with a walk down to the Thames to sit by the lock. Maybe its the novelty of a working river, but I think we could both sit and watch boats going through the locks for hours….
Where?
Heathrow(51.4666667,-0.45), Reading 51.4333333 -1 Henley on Thames(51.5333333,-0.9)
