It had been eight years since I had ventured off this 9 x 5-mile rock. For many years I’ve been perfectly happy to travel vicariously via blogs and documentaries, happy that I don’t actually have to move from my armchair and go to whatever fascinating place is depicted.

An hour ago I gratefully fell into that same armchair after a four-day trip to Birmingham, England – the city I grew up in – to see my aged mother. I’ll be writing about Birmingham in a separate post but what follows are, in a nutshell, the reasons why I’m never leaving my armchair again.

So first of all, I’m a scaredy-cat flyer. I pulled out of a recent booked flight to Birmingham, I just didn’t go. Instead, seeing a four-day gap in my diary I grasped the nettle and booked ferry and train tickets. This is how it went.

• Ferry Jersey to Portsmouth. This is an overnight slow boat, arriving in Portsmouth about 7am. This was actually quite a good start. I’d booked a recliner in a lounge away from the great unwashed (though in truth there were few travellers that night of either the washed or unwashed variety). The sea was flat and, after a couple of beers at the bar, I settled down, read a book and caught a couple of hours sleep as we sedately proceeded across the English Channel through the night.
• Train Portsmouth to Birmingham. There is supposedly a train station at Portsmouth Harbour. This is where my troubles began. Wandering like a lost sheep and enquiring of three separate citizens that early morning, I eventually stumbled upon a station in the city centre a mile or so inland from the harbour. The saving grace was that my train called here en route from the mystery harbour station. Safely aboard and I was deposited at Winchester to change trains for the run up to Birmingham. A packed service but on time and I arrived in Brum.
• Birmingham city centre to Sheldon (Mum’s house). Back in my day there were black cabs lined up in their dozens outside New Street Station. These days it has all changed and things called Ubers dominate. I tracked one down near to my hotel and poked my head in. The driver was from Pakistan and after much debate and misunderstanding I finally got my ride – £25 and tip, payable in advance.
• Birmingham International to Poole. The return journey. Birmingham International Station is the one after New Street Station and it was already packed on arrival. Standing room only. Two passengers with pre-booked bikes took an age to fit them into the ludicrously designed bike rack and we set off six minutes late like sheep going to the slaughterhouse. Long story short, I stood all the way to Basingstoke with many others. People, buggies, more bikes squeezed on though (thank the Lord) some got off as well. There is so much wrong with the way Cross Country Trains run their business it’s untrue. So many easily controlled issues causing mayhem. It’s only the innate politeness and goodwill of the people on that train, and the hopelessly under resourced staff, which make it work after a fashion. The second leg, Basingstoke to Poole, was perfect by comparison.
• Poole to Jersey. Uh-oh. A message to say that departure time from Poole Harbour had been changed due to ‘adverse weather conditions’. Sure enough, it was blowing a gale as a more-or-less full boat pootled out of the bay into the Channel. The captain had said there would be some ‘movement’ – he wasn’t kidding. For two hours we were tossed around like a cork, highly uncomfortable, it must have been close to the boat’s operating limits. At least everyone had seats, mine a reserved recliner in a slightly more comfortable though full lounge. I heard that cars had been damaged down on the car deck. The Condor staff were heroes, working to keep everyone safe and as comfortable as possible. The storm abated somewhat after a couple of dreadful hours and became just ordinary rough. Finally into the sheltered waters of St Helier Harbour and home.

So keep up the travel blogging and making of documentaries, no more will I roam. I’m just not made for it.