Heysham?

Heysham you ask? Where the hell’s that? Don’t worry, you’re not alone.

Pierre’s party was on the 19^th. I had two days to get there from Manchester but it would be cool to be there a day in advance to chill out beforehand. So I said see ya to Vic (I’d be back afterwards) and jumped on a bus to Preston.

You see, I’d asked a bus conductor how to get to Heysham. He didn’t know where it was but after I explained it was up North, he advised me to go to the shuttle company that did between city routes – even dropped me off outside. So I cruise in and ask for a shuttle to Heysham. “Where”? the guy asks. “Heysham, it’s the ferry port to the Isle of Man”. “Isle of Man? Where’s that?” No kidding! The guy was a drop kick. Whole company were a few crayons short of rainbow. Thankfully this postie guy next to me in the que told me to follow him. He took me to another local place, waited in cue with me and then got me a brochure explaining how to get to a place called Preston. From there you just catch a bus to Heysham. He does the trip a few times each year to visit family. Sweeeeet!

But when I googled Preston and even called the company to check that there were indeed buses to Heysham from there, noone had a clue. None existed on the website and the guy on the phone, once again, didn’t even know Heysham! Who the heck lived in this city? A lone hermit?

So putting some faith in the guy and figuring if it worked I would save seven pound (5 pound for the bus, 7 pound for the train to Heysham), I gave it a go. Caught my bus to Preston and then went looking for my connector. First info place said to try the other. She didn’t have a clue (reacurring theme here in England it seems. Transport companies know nothing), but again I lucked in with a guy in cue. He found me the brochure, took me to my bus, told the driver where to drop me off and then after wiping my arse for me, I departed for Heysham.

Got off at the last stop, thanked the driver (everyone always does here) and set off by foot to the ferry terminal 1km away. Only 1km? Felt like I had joined the French foreign legion. I had my little brollie out in front of me cause it was spitting only it was windy too. Like cyclone Bola windy. The umbrella had wrapped itself around me like some love sick wife and helped me walk into at least three traffic poles cause I couldn’t see anything. With my hair vying for a spot on Opera and with a few expletives escaping from between my lips, I battled on and eventually found myself in the safety of the terminal. Looking a little the worse for wear, I boarded the ferry and flopped into a seat.