On the train to Devon,

From London, Paddington Station. It rides North, along the coast, by the sea, so close that waves splatter, droplets glisten on the window. It sparkles with blue, green, and ochre as transparent sun shines through. Sky, surf, sand, and a sliver of meadow.

London behind, three hours of stillness while the landscapes glide, not rush, past. Always take the train. Always take the slow train. And a book. And a cheese sandwich.

A Marks & Spencer’s cheese sandwich. The Ploughman’s lunch. Good bless cheese. And M&S. There is something comforting about the consistency of that sandwich. Soft, not soggy, but never dry either. Cheddar perfectly balanced to mayo. Onions used sparingly. Chutney, glorious, ever since she was little.

An M&S stop at the start of each journey, wherever to. A ritual begun with her parents on a trip to Edinburgh. Or was it Paris. One summer, they took the train, many trains, all the way to Nice. More often, they rode to Cornwall on clear weekends. They picked bluebells in the forests, and had picnics by the sea.

A cheese sandwich and cold lemonade for the ride, and a seat by the window. A summer dress if to Bristol, and if in summer. Otherwise, a warm knit – most of those she owned were cream – and a tweed coat with elbow patches. Comforting and consistent too; she has always had that coat. A scarf, big, soft, never woolen. Today, emerald green.

Today too, a book on Turner had felt like appropriate company; the master of British landscapes as the train rolled through them, to Devon, where there will be cream tea with fresh scones, strawberry jam, clotted cream. But now the book sits by her, unopened. There will be time, later, to read.

Now, she wipes breadcrumbs and some of the blushing pink lipstick from her lips. She looks out and lets the bright, sweet lemony liquid swirl around her mouth and linger on her tongue. Another bite, another sip follows. She has time, forehead cooling against the glass. Seagulls. Jonathan Livingston. A book she once read and left dog-eared on another train.

Her free hand on the plush burgundy tingles with the tremors of the wheels. She imagines blades of grass and puffing clouds of white steam. There will be no bathing today. Too cold. The wind grinds the waves to the shore. Corduroy swell lines, crisp white peaks. But in the cabin, it is warm.

There will be other things to do. Ride a blue bicycle through a field of wildflowers. Lilac, white, baby pink. Nibble on fish and chips, hot and crisp, salt and vinegary, in cones of yesterday’s newspapers. Gloriously messy. Get lost on little streets and in little shops, huddle against the wind. Wander, in languorous awareness of doing so aimlessly.

The train carries her – she lets it – past villages peopled with lives she passes, but does not touch. Does not even graze. She sinks into the seat other backs and time have softened for her. She closes her eyes, in midday, on a Friday, on a train to Devon. Nothing to do, or be, or carry. Not since the train left the station, not until arrival. The wild, vastness of that feeling.

Joy, not happiness. Train rides and sandwiches. There is nothing in Devon, just as there is nothing in London, or Edinburgh, or Paris. The sun is stunningly bright, the blue almost electric at the line on the horizon where sky meets sea. The line that is always there, that no one ever reaches. That perhaps – the movement lulling her to sleep –, no one is really meant to reach.

For you, M.