Never travel with me

Had to make a very early start last Tuesday in order to get into London to catch a train to the Lake District, where I was due to have a lovely time at a spa with my sister, who I hadn't seen for 18 months. So... lots to look forward to, nothing to fear.

Yet...

No sleep, stomach pains, five trips to loo, feeling sick, cold, weak, shaky, exhausted, almost unable to pick up bag, I nearly didn't even set out. But I was glad I had dragged myself to Euston station because I found myself seated in the First Class dining section, thanks to a cheap ticket booked a week earlier, and plied with free food and drink all the way. Under the influence of a large free vodka and tomato juice, I found myself in Victoria's in Penrith buying patchwork hippy trousers (see left) and a tie-dyed kaftan and thinking it was 1967 again. (If only... )

On Wednesday evening, I made an unwise choice and scoffed three small spoonfuls of ratatouille with my chicken. Woe was me. Next morning at 5.23am the Food Foes put in a most inconvenient appearance, sending me rushing to the loo what seemed like a hundred times but was probably only six or seven. What had looked like tomato in the dim light of evening in a dark country inn must have been my old enemy, red pepper, primed for battle. By 11-ish, the stomach was calmer but the rear end felt as if it had done ten rounds with a Brillo pad.

Now I am back, I find myself wondering about these travel nerves. It was like a form of stage fright. I felt I was destined to face a huge audience and give a speech on a subject I knew nothing about, rather than simply get up early to catch a train, without even leaving the country.

Scores of skipping lambs, misty mountains and soft rain did a lot to calm my nerves. Poet A.J. Tessimond wrote in his poem, To London the Train Gallops, 'Perhaps I am the place and not the places me.' I used to think that was the case - that I carried a burden of nervous anticipation inside me wherever I went. But perhaps my external setting has more influence than I realised. Maybe I ought to be skipping happily across the fells with the lambs, wearing my hippy trousers and hugging trees. (Yes. I did. I followed my sister's lead and hugged the huge old oak that she makes arboreal love to every time she passes it. It will be hairy socks and open-toed sandals for me soon, at this rate.)

I found a Yogi Teas Stomach-Ease tea helped a lot with my post-ratatouille sufferings. Full of ginger and other stomach-settling goodies. Within an hour of drinking it I was back to normal, if patchwork trousers can be considered normal under any circumstances.