ASHES TO ASHES

I sit in a Cross-Country train from Dunbar to Newcastle. That will be the pattern for the foreseeable future. Early rain has eased, and the sky is brightening. A single ticket costs as much as a return, so I already have reason to be angry, despite it being only two hours into my morning. It’s very mild outside, and, even in the rain, Dunbar looks interesting - a jumble of old cottages and higgledy-piggledy lanes set against a rollicking sea.
I took old Josh for a stroll this morning. His muzzle is whitening and he’s tight against the lead but he’s a game old boy. He loves sniffing things - lamp-posts, street signs, dustbins, foot-scrapers, anything at nose level.
The train is almost empty, which makes the journey much more relaxing; luxurious even. There are fine views of the sea between Dunbar and Berwick and of the bleak and sodden Northumbrian countryside beyond, until we reach the built-up urban sprawl of Tyneside.
A young Chinese man pads along the corridor. He is bespectacled and has a shaving-brush for hair. He is as inscrutable as a wash-leather.
A strange pall of cloud hangs like a dirigible over the sea. You could imagine the trawlermen and yachtsmen shinning up their mizzen masts and poking their heads into it.
I brought a tiny flask of coffee with me, so I’ve saved £2. The railway coffee tastes like earth and spit, so I’m not missing anything.
A few folk embark at Berwick, though not enough to disturb my equipoise. I am always fascinated by railway signs. Some are baffling, some use curious English and some seem to be statements of the bleedin’ obvious, such as the one at Berwick, which states ‘Trains run either way on each line.’
We pick up speed and flash past a pick-up truck standing at level-crossing gates. The farmers’ fields are saturated with rainwater. Mist sits low on the buildings in far-away villages, backlit by the sun pounding at the edges of the cumbersome clouds and breaking through at tiny corners. Alnmouth, nestling on a spit of land in a sandy estuary, looks as if it must have done a century ago, peaceful and slumbering. Apart from the modern-day clutter of telegraph poles, overhead catenaries, and mobile phone masts, this is a truly pastoral scene.
It really is a remarkably swift journey - it’s over in an hour or so. We fly past Morpeth and start to encounter the industrial untidiness of Newcastle-upon-Tyne.
Two giant windmills stand atop a bluff about a hundred yards east of the railway line. Only one is revolving, generating about enough electricity to power a moderately-sized torch. The other is motionless. They seem to be saying ’Look at us - we’re not very efficient and we cost a fortune, but the green lobby saw to it that we had to be built.’
Suddenly, we’re on the outskirts of Newcastle. I look out of the carriage window and see what is left of the WD and HO Wills factory, the art deco marvel now turned into private apartments. I played cricket there for 22 years before the factory was closed and I moved on to pastures new. I had wanted my ashes to be scattered on the cricket-field (though only when I was dead), but, as the cricket field is now a housing estate, being scattered in some stranger‘s back garden doesn‘t seem to have quite the same ring to it, so I‘ll have to find somewhere else.