Another flow, of course: the railway. And today I walked the route of the old Hornsea - Hull railway line, fifteen miles in searing heat. A 12-stop route which used to take the trains about forty minutes, took me about six-and-a-half hours, with fewer stops. Something about the speeding ghosts of this route, perhaps, or the linear geography, but though it hurt and my frying head throbbed, I kept pressing on, through the crumbling station platforms at Ellerby, Skirlaugh, Swine, on to where the Transpennine Trail severs the housing estates on the Eastern edge of Hull.
By this stage in the journey, head red with sun and exertion, eyes red with pain, legs slowing and shambling, somewhere by Summergangs I encountered a man mirroring my movements, staggering towards me carrying on his shoulders half a bicycle (no wheels, broken chain), and in his hands various misshapen carrier bags. He delighted in telling me, at great length and high volume, that he’d just found six hundred quid on the path. Lucky man. And that if I'd been there a few minutes earlier I'd have found it instead.
This was the fullest - if freakiest - conversation of the day, which thankfully shattered my uncharitable theory that the nearer the city I'd get, the less civil people would be. Certainly there were consistently more cheery greetings from dog-walkers and cyclists at the Hornsea end of the trail, more averted eyes in Hull. Perhaps the cheeriness factor is more related to leisure - it was the hurrying shoppers who tended to ignore me, Hull end, it was the Hornsea weekenders who said things to me like "Say 'ello to t'Beatles when you get there"). And my man with the tall story about having six hundred quid in his pocket, and half a bike on his shoulders - he was most definitely, like me, a man of dubious leisure.
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