Strain on the train

Driving on Irish roads these days can be such a maddeningly stressful experience that, whenever possible, it really is a good idea to leave the car at home and take a train instead.

Unfortunately, taking a train is not a realistic option for most people - unless you have a traindriving qualification and access to Irish Rail property. More often than not, you have to settle for being a passenger on a train, which, in terms of relaxation, can make sitting in a three-mile tailback in Kildare seem like a yogic flying session.

I was returning from Limerick as a paying guest of Iarnrod Eireann last weekend and, as you'd expect early on a Sunday, there was plenty of room and it was a perfectly pleasant journey. Until we got to Limerick Junction, that is; when of course we had to join the Cork train - which, of course, was as crowded as the last helicopter out of Saigon (only with a lot more luggage).

The people from Cork resented us getting on, and we sure as hell resented them. Nevertheless, through good platform positioning, I managed to secure one of the estimated three empty seats on board.

And I was settling in, reading a newspaper and attempting to gain control of the arm-rest from the guy in the window seat, when some of the stragglers who'd made bad platform decisions - or perhaps had been just unlucky - arrived in our carriage, having searched the train in vain for a place to sit.

People were standing in the aisles now, and I was wrestling with my conscience about giving up the seat to a feisty, talkative woman who was telling anyone who'd listen what she thought about the train company. My conscience was winning, but only on points, when suddenly the man by the window got up to give her his seat instead.

I should maybe point out that he was younger than me and didn't have an old football injury aggravated by a wet night in Limerick.

Anyway, somewhat embarrassed, I stood up to let him out and let her in; but as I say she was a feisty woman and she protested at length that she couldn't accept his offer. He insisted. So did she. I sat down, meanwhile, until finally she relented and I got up again to let her pass. Then she sat in my seat instead.

Now I was standing in the aisle, looking like a jilted bridegroom, albeit one holding a newspaper. But the woman showed no sign of noticing my plight. So at the risk of starting a conversation, I drew her attention to the fact that, I hated to be awkward or anything, but the seat she'd been offered wasn't, strictly speaking, the one she was occupying.

Apparently surprised, she nevertheless moved, but only as long as I'd keep an eye on her trolleybag which was standing in the aisle. I said I would and went back to reading the paper, while also trying to ensure that nobody tripped across the bag, which only every second person did; and half an hour passed uneventfully before the woman decided she was sufficiently rested and would return the seat to its owner, now sitting on the floor between carriages.

I stood up to let her out and to let him back in, but the situation turned into an even greater stand-off than before. "You'll go back to that seat now," the woman was telling him with mock sternness. "I will not!" "You will! That's an order!" I sat down again, while the situation was resolved, but the two were having such a good argument that the woman decided to stay where she was and joined him sitting on the floor.

I was still minding her wheelybag, however. And when, at last, the catering trolley arrived in our carriage, picked cleaner than a dead zebra left overnight in a safari park, and offering a choice of tea, coffee and a sandwich which for some suspicious reason the rest of the train hadn't touched, I had to move the bag. So, pending the return of one of the occupants, I lifted it onto the seat beside me.

Having missed breakfast in Limerick on the incredibly naive assumption that it would be possible to eat on the train, I should have been hungry by now. Especially as the prospect of lunch receded when we were held up for more than half an hour at Kildare, presumably in a gesture of sympathy to car drivers trying to get through the town.

Luckily, the journey was giving me a stomach ulcer, so I didn't feel like eating anyway, and I went back to reading the paper. Then a woman across the aisle, who I think had been having a nap, suddenly noticed the woman sitting on the floor and the bag beside me and arrived at what must have seemed a reasonable conclusion. "Would you not take your trolley-bag off the seat and let that woman sit down?" she asked.

If she thought she was feeling indignation, I was almost speechless with it. But I'm telling you this: next time I take the train, I'm not stopping for any passengers.

Frank McNally can be contacted at: fmcnally@irish-times.ie