Sauna Nostalgia and the Pandemic.

And so, we're at the tail end of the Coronavirus pandemic. As I look back over nearly two years, how could I ever forget the need to queue up outside a grocery superstore? Back then, beginning around Easter of 2020 and into the summer months following, how could I ever believe that the time had come that I had to queue up to get into a shop and a large one at that? Indeed, had we entered the apocalyptic age of human history and the whole world is about to blow?

Superstore queue during a lockdown. Stock photo.

Added to that, our local Leisure Centre had shut down, all the so-called "non-essential" shops were closed, along with all the pubs, bars, restaurants, coffee houses...not to mention offices of all kinds empty of their City employees and their bosses...

The town centre was deserted, the streets were quiet, there was little traffic. Even London's busiest streets, such as Regent Street, Oxford Street, Piccadilly Circus, and Hyde Park Corner were all deserted, empty of traffic. It was as if the planet had rid itself of all people - every single individual alive had suddenly vanished - very much like in our home video documentary, Life After People, where the world population was zero, and featuring how the natural elements of sun, wind and rain continued in their destructive work unhindered by any human restorative activity. 

Within a few days after all people have vanished and the population is down to zero, every electric bulb and bar lighting blinks off, along with all neon street adverts, every fan stops rotating, every refrigerator shuts down, all industrial water pumps and power generators cease functioning - every form of power-driven machinery, both domestic and industrial, small and large, shuts down and draws to an eternal standstill - creating a deep, haunting, global silence.

In a course of time, every skyscraper in an advanced state of dereliction collapses into a huge cloud of dust, very much like how the World Trade Center collapsed into a massive cloud of smoke and dust after the 9/11 New York attack in 2001. London's Tower Bridge falls into the River Thames, the Elizabeth Tower housing Big Ben, already a few degrees off vertical at present, falls headlong onto Parliament Square, all the Underground tube and cut-and-cover lines and their stations become flooded, and unless also flooded by the river, all the streets would turn into wild garden strips, with an occasional shell of a car consumed by rust remain to be seen and ignored by any passing wild beast.

And wild beasts would wander through deserted streets overgrown with greenery, even trees, with derelict buildings on each side, collapsing into rubble piling on what used to be sidewalks. The domesticated characteristic of dogs that escaped from their man-made confinements, would breed out over the generations and wander around the streets as wolverine packs, always in search of escaped cattle that had grazed through the streets into town.

Hundreds of thousand years after people, anyone landing on our planet from an alien world would never guess that mankind once inhabited our planet, as all human constructions would have disappeared entirely - with thick forests with all its abundant wildlife inhabiting the tropical, the subtropical and the temperate climate zones of our planet, with the two Polar icecaps restored to their original size, and the oceans teeming with marine life, including species once threatened with extinction now thriving.

Perhaps, the sight of some stones piled in some odd manner might be an indication of long-past intelligent design, but such a theory remains debatable among these aliens - in much the same way we humans debate whether the undersea "Bimini Road" in the Atlantic Ocean is a natural formation or an ancient construction. That is until they wander across Egypt and notice three pyramids buried in the sand, with just their pinnacles showing. But the catch-all surety of intelligent design is the gigantic head of the Sphinx, not far from the Pyramids, also sticking out of the desert sand.

And so, I ponder as I stood in the queue whilst waiting to enter Sainsbury's superstore. The first lockdown caused by the Coronavirus had brought the world to a standstill - all by a minute virus! I guess my thoughts also go back to a TV drama series where almost the entire world population was wiped out by a virus, but unlike Life After People, a remnant of humanity had immune systems which resisted and fought the virus, enabling them to repopulate the Earth after the demise of its former civilisation - rather like Noah's family after the Deluge.

I find it amazing how a minute virus can halt civilisation in a dramatic manner no politician could ever achieve! Before then, I recall the freedom we so much took for granted. The sauna was one example.

I recall 1976, not long after having flown the nest when I was talking to a work colleague who spoke much about the sauna and its benefits. Being an avid fan of Queen's Park Rangers FC, Tony was one of several working-class men who frequented the facility, all of them older than me and therefore, rather intimidating for a skinny sauna neophyte who, once again, had to accept their culture of coarse language and crude toilet jokes. Therefore, for my accountant friend and graduate to refer to all sauna bathers as "sissies" - or as he often refers to as "woofters" - would have put his own safety in serious jeopardy in their presence! 

However, my accountant friend might also have a point. During those early days, the customer changed out of his day clothes in a large single room, lined with individual lockers. The changing room was shared by all. Then, the facility had two sauna cabins, one right next to each other, a steam room housed in a plastic cabin, and a very cold plunge pool. At its reception, manned by elderly Fred who was respected by everyone, lemon tea was purchased and consumed at the large resting room, itself furnished with reclining beds, adjoining the main sauna suite through a door. The larger sauna was used by "straights" - heterosexual working-class men, and it was the one I always sat in. But the other was frequented by gay men, attracted to the facility by an advert posted on their magazine by a staff member. Some of these gay men, after talking with several of them, turned out to be better educated and holding down professional careers. Amazing it was when two different cultures dwelt side by side, yet, as I soon found, each kept themselves apart from the other and there was no trouble.

A Sauna cabin. Stock photo.

But above all that, each bather in both groups knew each other well, thus creating a club atmosphere, and I was accepted into their "club", so to speak. This sense of "being part of the family" was certainly felt among the straight working classes, more so than in the gay group. In addition, I would have felt an oddity had I worn shorts or swimwear at the sauna. All the men there were starkers, like a nudist beach camp. However, I quickly got used to it and within days, being nude in company with others was never an issue.

Also, the men's session and the women's session alternated each evening. Monday, Wednesday, Friday, and Saturday were assigned for the men, while Tuesdays, Thursdays, and I think, Sundays, were assigned for the women. It's these single-sex sessions, patterned after the ancient Roman culture, that had allowed nudity to flourish. Not any more.

Those were the days I look upon with fondness, a hot room smelling of pine and eucalyptus, a fragrant oil poured with the water onto the hot coals, located at the corner by the door. Anyone can ladle the mixture onto the coals, and as often as needed. There always was that sense of adult freedom that seemed to fade over time, with the fading accelerated by the recent pandemic.

How the facility had changed over the years! The whole spa suite is now refurbished with individual changing cubicles, two luxury bubble baths and both of them are rich in aesthetics. The steam room is of much better quality, and one of the sauna cabins is now replaced by a saunarium, a cooler room with higher moisture content in the air. But gone is the cold plunge pool. Instead, a cold shower had taken its place, which, to my mind, doesn't hold a candle to the old plunge pool. Gone too, is the old resting room. Instead, the wall that separated it from the sauna facility was demolished, leaving a smaller space within the facility with fewer reclining beds.

But the big difference is the lack of the "club atmosphere" created by the old regulars. Instead, its patrons tend to be strangers who keep themselves to themselves, although before the onset of Coronavirus, there were a few regulars who kept a remnant of a club atmosphere, even that was wiped out by the pandemic. No longer hosting single-gender sessions, swimwear is now compulsory for all bathers, with even a wall notice reminding us of it.

Then came the pandemic. And with it, the national lockdown. This included the closing down of the entire Leisure Centre. The sauna facility remained out of use for around 18 months. It was also when we all had to queue to get into a superstore such as Sainsbury's. I remember the first time we all had to queue. At first, it looked very long and daunting. But each person or couple stood more than two metres apart, the newly-initiated social distancing which made the queue appear longer than it really was.

But it took up to an hour between joining the queue and actually passing through the doors, with a marshall monitoring each person entering, to ensure that the people inside the store didn't exceed the maximum number. Over time, the queue got shorter, and with the shop encouraging its customers to shop alone rather than as a couple, the waiting time became considerably quicker.

By the Summer of 2020, the pandemic began to wane, and I thought that life will return to a resemblance of normality. But with new variants of the virus, first, the Kent variant followed by the Delta variant, by Autumn of that year, our Government made mask-wearing compulsory. And here is the twist. As soon as mask-wearing became mandatory, cases of new infections began to rise again. But at least there was one issue in its favour - the doing away with shopping queues altogether, thus, the normalisation of daily shopping trips. 

Whether there's any connection between mandatory mask-wearing and the rise of the third wave, in particular, I can't be sure, but there are many who argue in favour of the facecloth. But the scientists who had worked hard to develop the vaccine deserve my praise! As I see it, the vaccines are a mercy from God. And as the rollout took off with vigour at the start of 2021, the effects of the pandemic began to wane, with far fewer hospitalisations and deaths after a positive test.

And the rate of hospitalisations and deaths remained at a roughly flat rate. By the Summer, I was able to swim again every week. But it's no longer the case of just walking in at any minute of the day and swimming as long as I desire, as it was pre-pandemic. Now I have to book in advance, and I'm allowed a maximum of one hour to swim. Although I dislike the restriction, yet I find it's enough for me. The sauna is different. Fortunately, I can make two sixty-minute bookings back-to-back, therefore giving me two hours of bathing time which again, I have found to be adequate enough.

And so, I sit alone in the sauna cabin with no one to start a proper conversation with. What a difference from what it was 45 years previously! At least I'm no longer buffeted with swear words, the teasing and the criticising of others, and toilet jokes. But that "family atmosphere" is forever gone.

And then another phenomenon which never occurred back in the old "club" days - the admission of the severely disabled. Only yesterday, some carers brought in two mentally disabled women. Both were in wheelchairs. But one of them, plump but quite facially pretty with long dark hair, kept roaring like a lion. The loud noise was quite daunting, yet I looked upon her with my heart longing to give her an embrace, a tight hug. If I had the love of Christ for her, that was it. I would have done anything to enhance her welfare. 

And just as I was, in all, beginning to settle into this new way of living and enjoying the facilities, news comes in of a new, more dangerous variant of the virus. Named Omicron, after a Greek letter for "o", the Government is at present trying to reassure us that there is no need to panic. At least not yet, as further research is needed to establish the power of Omicron, whether if it spreads quicker and if so, would it intensify illness of its human host? Is it resistant to the vaccines? Would hospitalisation rise again to the levels back in January? And would deaths follow suit? And so our Government, having learned their lessons from previous variants, quickly banned flights from the affected countries. Good on them!

Vaccines for Coronavirus was a wonder in themselves.

Another lockdown? No, please, no! If our beloved Leisure Centre with our sauna facilities (paid for by us members) was to close down again, who knows, it could be permanent. New homes built on the site after demolition? No thank you! After all, who wants such wonderful memories swept away forever by a virus? 

Behold, the Lord's hand is not shortened, that it cannot save; neither his ear heavy, that it cannot hear...

Isaiah 59:1 AV.

The real cure for this global pandemic is to fall on God's mercy and call upon his name. No one can go wrong there.

Nostalgia and a Near Fatality

Being a blogger can have its downs as well as ups. Usually written during a Saturday afternoon, each one gets published by ten o'clock in the evening, although from time to time it's posted around 9.00pm. Then, at about midnight, I bring it back on the laptop screen to proof-read it. It's then when grammatical errors tend to show up, or a sentence or even a paragraph may need to be re-arranged for better clarity. Also, as every blog author on this site is fully aware, the exact number of views is displayed on the dashboard. It is this number which will determine whether the latest post will be a hit or a miss, even over just two hours after posting.

Getting a low turnout after hours spent typing away can be very discouraging, and I have been tempted to pack it in altogether. But if the following week's post turns out to be a hit, then that's a great motivator to keep going. However, blogging on a Saturday afternoon has become something of an addiction - after all, if I were to stop completely, what can I do to replace such a mind-enhancing activity? After all, it's a contrast to the swimming, gym and other physical activity which occupies mid-week hours.

Also, I could add here that I address myself as a blogger rather than a writer. Even if the title, writer, has a nice ring to it. I would love to call myself a writer. But I believe that there is one rather big difference. A writer normally gets paid for his work, usually royalties from the selling of the author's books or in magazines in which his contribution appears. A blogger writes to his own pleasure, normally on the Internet, and if I believe I'm right, he does not get paid for it. With this, I can quote from citations without breaching of any copyright.

Then also is what to write about. Being stuck for a topic is rare but it can happen. But all it takes is a newspaper article, or some conversation at church, in the gym, or elsewhere, and that can be enough inspiration for a blog. Often, current affairs can inspire, especially the present political upheaval taking place at Parliament over Brexit. But often it's the daily routine of life at home that lends a good dosage of inspiration. It can be quite surprising how an article of this kind can be written on what appears simply as an insignificant issue at home, yet a long blog can be written where such a particular issue connects with my faith in God which can catch the reader's eye.

But deleting a whole blog? Well, with over 400 blogs on this page, only two were ever deleted entirely. The first one was from several years ago, not long after I started blogging altogether. But the second one deleted? This week's blog. Rather, the one written and published only last night.

Two reasons for this. First, the number of views recorded on the dashboard was unusually low. But second, and more important, it was too intrusive on my wife's state of health and the sequence of analysis for potential treatments she may have to endure. Personally, I thought such a blog would provide a good read with the attempt to edify the reader, especially a Christian reader. But when I spoke to my beloved about it, she cautioned me. It was after this when I had to have to re-think. I suppose I still have to learn to discern between submitting a good read from being too intrusive. Then again, my whole life, as well as yours, is one whole learning curve. Even then, the arc still remains incomplete when the time comes for us to step off this planet.

Therefore, what did I write about? The few who did read my blog last night before its deletion will, of course, already know. Titled, Cry, Cry To My Soul, Cry, (and I wonder if such a title itself was a turn-off) I detailed my beloved's suffering, visits to hospitals, including the dentist, and a rather detailed set of analysis in order to draw up a diagnosis, and how all this had affected my emotional state. It was a couple of hours later when I realised that such a blog was too intrusive into Alex's private life and therefore had to be deleted before too many read it.

But one issue I will happily share, for this involves nostalgia, a topic I love indulging in! Maybe because I have always been a working-class individual living in a district populated with primarily middle-class families and individuals who, after graduating, have taken up employment in one of many high-tech companies who has established themselves here. A case of an inferior complex on my part? Especially during my bachelor days before marrying at 47 years of age? Maybe so, maybe not. But if making my lifestyle more colourful was somehow mentally and emotionally therapeutic in this society of greater sophistication, so be it. 

Thus, earlier last week, a cycling trip to Frimley Park Hospital, some eight miles from home, to collect a bottle of medicine for my wife, brought back a sense of nostalgia. A 16-mile round trip on the bicycle on an unusually warm February day with wall-to-wall sunshine brought wonderful memories - and also a scary experience. As for pleasant memories, I always found cycling a pleasant experience, despite the tiredness of uphill climbing, aching muscles, riding into a headwind, and the bane of all cyclists - flats!

Stock image.

It was with a friend of mine when we rode End-to-End of Great Britain, that is southbound from John O' Groats on the northern tip of Scotland to Land's End on the near-tropical corner of Cornwall. Near -tropical? In Britain? Well, I did see (rather small) banana trees growing there, along with a species of palm, the kind which finds a home around the Mediterranean. The only other place where I saw banana trees under full cultivation was near Coffs Harbour, in the Australian State of New South Wales. 

As for the End-to-End ride, the seventy-odd miles between Bristol and Exeter almost done us in, and I was tempted to throw in the towel. Nothing more than boring fields for scenery, under a heavily overcast sky, and a strong headwind. It made hill-climbing so challenging, that it could be graded as torturous. When we arrived at a small Devon town of Honiton, we felt relieved, as we knew that Exeter was not far away. But after arriving at Land's End two days later, we celebrated with a bottle of Champagne (or equivalent). It was a great achievement! 

And not to mention the trips to the coast from my apartment, a distance of around sixty miles, but longer rides to other destinations, followed by a comfortable bed at a hotel or hostel. Throughout the mid-1980s into the 1990s, I could consider being at the peak of fitness, when swimming, cycling and running were the three chief activities I partook in. Interestingly enough, my peak age of fitness correlates well with the age Jesus was when he died on the cross, implying that his sacrifice made was at its pinnacle time of his life.

As such, this bicycle ride to Frimley Park Hospital to collect a specific item has brought back such nostalgic memories. That is until I was overtaken by a huge juggernaut. Now as any rider would testify, being overtaken by motorised traffic is a constant, perfectly normal procedure whilst on the road. However, if the road you're riding on turns out to be a dual carriageway, with an extra lane specifically for overtaking vehicles, then you would expect that the overtaking vehicle to leave a wide enough berth between it and the cyclist.

But no, not this juggernaut driver. Instead, he veered to the left whilst actually overtaking, leaving me with hardly any room to pedal. I actually thought this was it. Indeed, I have read of quite a number of incidences when a cyclist was killed just by being clipped by an overtaking truck, or even by a bus. These incidences had taken place mainly within Central London as well as elsewhere in the UK. I think that these fatal lorry/bike contacts had prompted transport authorities to set aside bicycle lanes alongside main roads, something of an annoying stigma for many motor drivers.

However, in this case, I have wondered whether this truck driver actually failed to see that he was approaching a rider from behind. If that was the case, then I wonder how he had so successfully acquired his HGV licence after taking a provisional road test, which was reputed to be tough. It is through this kind of reasoning that I tend to lean on the theory that his clever manoeuvre was deliberate, a ploy to prove his macho superiority as a trucker over a cyclist by giving me a fright.

To me, that is incredulous! I wasn't even clad in the hated shining Lycra costume which poses a threat to many an ego at the steering wheel. Those days of wearing one had long gone! Instead, I was dressed in normal day clothes, and a pensioner to boot. Yes, a pensioner. How could I be a threat to anyone's ego?

I suppose that the apostle James was right when he wrote an exhortation not to be too confident for the future, for nobody knows what's around the corner (James 4:13-15). It was easy to say to my beloved,

"Sweetheart, I'm going to cycle all the way to Frimley to collect your medicine. I should be back after a couple of hours (to allow for a coffee at the hospital restaurant)."

Perhaps the usage of the word should be the most appropriate, rather than shall or will. Because James could have approached from behind, tap me on the shoulder and say,

"Don't kid yourself, pal. This very day you will be at home with your Lord and Saviour Jesus Christ. Then what will happen to your wife's medicine?"

And as I ride along, perhaps pretty fast along the highway, this trucker, in his attempt to give me a fright, slightly miscalculates and his heavy juggernaut clips my bike, sending me flying. Next, I find myself in Heaven with the Lord. How true James's word can really be?

However, I'm still here, having added this experience to all my past cycling experiences, and thanking God for the very breath of life. Over the years I have come to appreciate each day the Lord has allowed me to remain here, to love my wife dearly, to comfort and to care for her as my soulmate and as one in the flesh, for better or worse, for richer or poorer, in sickness and in health. In return, I can bask in her love for me, her submissiveness according to Biblical principles, and her support, especially in the time of need or in making a difficult decision.

I thank you, Lord Jesus, for giving me such a lovely wife who thinks the world of me. In you, Lord, I give credit.

Train Travel - So Changeable...

The idea behind this blog originated from posting on another website about experiences in train travel. Offer any child, a boy in particular, a choice of transport between the car, the train or the bus, to cross the country to visit the coast, or even to see Auntie or Granny, and I would not have to tell you which of the three the boy would choose.

 

As a child, I found train travel very exhilarating. This could be because my father was fanatical in owning and driving a car, as in those days - late 1950s into the sixties - owning a driving a car such as the Ford Popular was something emphasising a degree of success in life. I suppose the equivalent at present is owning and driving a Lamborghini, the top-of-the-range car no owner with a couple of brain cells would leave parked out on the street.

Ford Popular of the 1950s.

I recall my own pride for Dad to have such a car parked outside our front door, when there were plenty of other front doors looking out across a vacant space on the street. But after a while, the childhood novelty began to wear off, and as we made our way to the seaside during a typical Summer Sunday, constantly overtaken by other vehicles, we passed under and over railway lines, and occasionally see a train passing by. I suppose like other boys, there was something distinctly appealing about sitting in the train. Could this appeal be enhanced by the rhythmic clickety-click of the wheels rolling over the track joints? Who knows. I could I ever forget the two week primary school trip from London Paddington to the Welsh town of Llangollen by train, around 1962? The wooden interior panelling with a side corridor in every coach, made this journey such a memorable experience - particularly before the welding of the tracks coming into being in the 1970s, making the regular, non stop of the clickety-click such a rhythmic, music-like enhancement.

Although by mid-teens, even before leaving school, I began to make weekend leisure trips to Reading and to London on my own by train. Soon I found myself travelling to destinations further away, particularly to the coast, which was, I could say, the forerunner to backpacking. It was in 1973, while a lifeguard at the baths in Reading, that I began to take train journeys more seriously, which merged with international backpacking.

It is worth bringing back reminiscences here, as I am referring to a time when the Channel Tunnel did not exist, (it was opened by the Queen and French President Mitterrand in 1994, some twenty years later) - let alone the fast Eurostar trains passing under the sea, a journey my elder niece had taken several times already. But then, born in the early 1980s, she is one of a generation which, to my mind, missed out on the complicated awkwardness of international train travel which brings such dreamy memories! Instead, my niece's generation takes travel as a commodity - a weekend flight to Florence, Rome, or Venice does not hold a candle to the two-day train journey into Italy from London Victoria Station.

I recall the years 1973-1975, the peak time of my life for international train travel. I boarded the British Rail train at the International Departure platform, which was segregated from the rest of the terminus station by special barriers and hoarding. The train then rattled non-stop to Folkstone Harbour in Kent, a smaller port than its neighbouring harbour of Dover, as the former dealt with train passengers, while the latter specialised in car and heavy goods vehicle ferries. At Folkstone, it was a matter of crossing the platform onto the quay where a ferry awaited us to board for the two-hour crossing to Bolongue, another secondary French port to neighbouring Calais, which received and dispatched ferries to and from Dover.

On the ferry, I really felt that we were leaving the British shoreline. The boat was a proper steam ship as opposed to today's catamarans, with all the facilities for a proper cruise. I revelled as I stood near the stern as the ship set sail, and watched the English coastline slowly recede towards the horizon before turning in to one of the on-board restaurants for a cappuccino and a snack. There was something very nostalgic about the gentle swaying of the whole vessel as it glided over the waves, and leaving a trail of white foam at its wake. On one occasion, several seagulls would hover just behind the ship, but keeping up with it throughout the whole crossing, their cries adding to the atmosphere of being at sea and uplifting further the sense of adventure - an experience no airline flight or Eurostar train can match.

At Bolongue, the dark grey Ferrovia di Italia train was already waiting for the arriving ferry to empty its passengers on to it. Although as far from the Italian border as it could get, short of rolling on British soil, much of this train was bound for Rome, with a couple of coaches ending its journey at Paris du Nord terminus. Unlike the rattling British Rail train left behind at Folkstone, the ride on this one was a lot smoother, all the coaches had a side corridor, and the clickety-click had a different rhythm, giving a very foreign feel. It was pulled by a diesel locomotive until it arrived at Amiens, which was the northern terminus of the overhead cables, and there the train remained stationery for up to twenty minutes as they swapped locomotives. From Amiens, trackside gantries supplied power to the locomotive all the way to Rome.

With electrification, the train travelled faster as it made its way into Paris Gare du Nord terminus, where we waited for a considerable period of time while the train was fitted with a shuttle engine at the other end, and at last, our train crept slowly along what looked like a disused line, passing through ghost stations skirting the French capital, as well as enjoying splendid views across the city, dominated by the brilliant white stonework of the Basilica di Sacre Coeur, until we finally arrived at Paris Gare de Lyon terminus, where the train stood motionless for a better part of an hour.

The frustrating wait was made more bearable by easy conversation between us as passengers, a vivid contrast to the emotionless, tight-lipped silence which always characterised English trains. When a group of Italians boarded and filled our compartment, the ongoing chatter turned our coach into something resembling a party, and that was late into the night as well. It was this kind of experience which made this sort of travel so memorial, the long waiting compensated by a sense that I was really in a foreign country, something totally absent when flying some 35,000 feet above ground.

The long wait at Gare de Lyon was rewarded by the fastest leg of the entire journey - the Paris-Dijon route, the stretch of line which became the setting for the first ever TGV service some eight years later; the world's fastest train before the Japanese caught up with their Bullet trains. It was past nightfall by the time our train pulled out of Gare de Lyon, and the fast speed in the dark was so exhilerating. But it was later in the night, after we pulled out of Chambery Station that the winding line through the Alps slowed the train down considerably, as we all tried unsuccessfully to get some sleep.

We arrived at Modane just before daybreak, and this station served a town at the mouth of the Mont Cenis tunnel, a border pass under the Alps several miles long. At Modane the train remained motionless for again, a better part of an hour, as passport and ticket checks were carried out on board. When the train at last started to move, it shunted into this long tunnel under thousands of tons of solid rock to emerge at the other end in Italy at dawn, and the train pulled in at Bardonecchia station, the first in Italy and with a characteristic so different to the French stations we stopped at.

It is this style of station which reminded me at the time of international travel - the Mont Cenis Pass providing access to two different nations, each with its own Sovereignty, its own Government, its own flag, its own language and its own currency. Before the introduction of the Euro, the French currency was the Franc, the Italian, the Lira, a monetary unit so small, that all prices were in thousands of lire. It was hard to believe that the Lira was divided into a hundred cents, which by 1973 became non-existent.

Eventually the train pulled into Torino Porta Nuova (New Gate) terminus, but unlike with the two in Paris, the call was very short, and in comparatively next to no time the train pulled out in the opposite direction. As before I was facing backwards, now I was facing forwards, and after a long stop at Geneva, the line hugged the Ligurian coast all the way to Rome. One of the most beautiful stops was Rapallo, a resort where the mountains plunged into the sea, and I saw beach lifeguards patrolling the stretch of beach so far below the tracks. Then between the port of La Spezia and the beach resort of Viareggio, there was the magnificent coastline of the Cinque Terre, five small villages straddling precariously on the mountainous cliffs, with only one of these villages, Monterosso, boasting a station where our train shot through at speed before plunging into a tunnel.

The train pulled into Roma Termini, a station of magnificent design with polished granite flooring, by late afternoon, completing a journey of more than 24 hours from London Victoria. When I consider the distance travelled in that time, about a thousand miles (1,620 km.) which is roughly the same as from New York City to St. Louis in Missouri - then compare this with the long haul flight taken in 1997 from London Heathrow to Singapore which was done in half the time, despite the distance being six times longer - I have wondered whether a lot of magic had gone out of modern travel. These days, the aeroplane is unavoidable, any international train travel now involves the Eurostar passing non-stop under the sea and one can arrive in Paris within a couple of hours from London St. Pancras, and the cross-Channel ferry, which had put the nostalgia into travel, is omitted altogether.

As our way of travel had changed dramatically over the decades, I can be sure that Jesus Christ is the same yesterday, today and forever. He will never change. Living in him will be as always, challenging in this life as it has always been, yet his love endures forever. His love is eternal, it will never change.