The Slow Train to Halvern
Soren had found the train on an old regional map. Four hours through the interior, no reservations required, stops at places too small to name. He said it would be fine. It was better than fine.
Soren has a habit of finding transport that doesn't appear in any mainstream booking system. Ferries run by family operations. Bus routes that exist only on printed timetables pinned inside small post offices. The slow regional train to Halvern was his best find yet — and he presented it, as he always does, with the quiet confidence of someone who has never once been wrong about a train.
He had not been wrong about this one either.
The train left Errath at ten past nine and took its time about everything. It stopped at eleven stations, two of which appeared to have no platform — just a length of gravel and a man with a flag. At one stop, a woman boarded carrying a very large pot wrapped in a blanket. Nobody asked about it. Soren and I exchanged a look that meant: this is exactly right.
Halvern
Halvern is the kind of town that rewards arriving by train. The station is central and old and still has its original wooden signage. You step out and the town is already organised around you — the market square two minutes on foot, the harbour visible at the end of the main street, the good café immediately opposite the station exit.
We had not booked anywhere to stay. We found a room above a bookshop on the second street we tried. The owner asked how long we were staying. We said we weren't sure. She said that was fine and gave us a key attached to a very heavy wooden fob, presumably so guests would think twice before walking off with it.
We stayed three nights.
There is a particular pleasure in arriving somewhere with no plan and finding that the place has already made one for you.
On our last morning Soren found a second train — an even slower one, running west along the coast. I told him we had a bus booked. He showed me the timetable. I looked at it for a moment.
We missed the bus.