Divinity at Didcot Station

I like to think back now and then to points in my life where the particular circumstances have created dramatic opportunities of reflection for me. I’m sure you know what I mean. They’re moments when a combination of factors: the particular place, the time, the events at that moment in your life, all align to make you feel incredibly focused in on the moment. Ordinarily, these times might feel insignificant. But a strange energy makes them vibrate and capture you, not just then but in the days, months, and years afterwards as well.

One such moment for me was in my first year at university, around the time of Halloween. I was going to Bristol for the party of one of my closest friends. We had met doing drama summer camps in Newbury back in 2013. Him and I, along with our friend Dan, formed a chaotic and unstoppable trio. We did this same drama camp together for 4 consecutive summers. We all became close friends. They were both bubbly and enthusiastic, we all shared the same sense of humour. The summer camp was held at The Watermill Theatre in Newbury. It’s located just outside of Newbury, on the willowed-banks of the River Lambourn. True to its name, the theatre was built on the site of a historic watermill. The whole building was made of wood, and little farm animals - chickens, ducks, pigs - happily trotted on paths and grass around the theatre. There was a bar which opened out onto a back garden. Here, on summer nights, people would sit out before their shows and listen to the sound of the countryside. The gentle trickling of the river being passed into the mill, the birds making returning-flights to their oak-tree nests. On this garden, our trio would play football every lunch time. I forget how many footballs we lost in the river, but it was always a laugh to head back into the theatre and see the ball being churned among the water in the heart of the mill that was on display in the corridor. There was also the son of a very famous author who came on these summer camps. He was younger than us, extremely eccentric, and would sing Gilbert & Sullivan operas to us stood upon a tree stump which we called “Pride Rock”. We’d look on at him, nod among ourselves, and applaud.

Dan was also coming to the party tonight - we were bringing the band back together! I was taking the train from Oxford to Bristol. There’s no direct train, you have to change at lovely Didcot. Say what you want about the town and its aesthetics, it certainly is a good place to catch a train. Indeed even to spot a train, as there are often vintage steam engines which lurk on faraway, unused runways. My journey was in the evening, in early November, so it was already dark when I changed at Didcot and hopped onto my new platform. Every time I’ve done this trip, and this was the first, there has always been a 20 minute wait for the connecting train to Bristol. I walked up to the end of the platform, away from the bright central section where a small crowd of people were standing. Next to me was the information board with its metallic, orange glow. I sat down on a hard steel bench. Behind me was a black fence and further on a car park with more lamp posts than vehicles. Installed on the bench, I had placed my sports bag, full of clothes for the weekend ahead, just in front of my feet, perilously close to the dreaded yellow line. All of a sudden, I heard what seemed like a whistling sound, and I saw bright lights come out of the black distance beyond the station. I leaned forward from my bench and noticed the lights were rapidly coming closer. It suddenly hit me that it was a fast train about to pass by my platform. I lunged forward and grabbed my sports bag in the nick of time before the fast train whooshed past, pushing me back from where I sat with a great gust of air and force.

It became dark again in the distance and I looked at the tracks disappear under a great curtain of night. There was a slight wind and I smelled it noting how it was scented with earth: either the Cotswolds or the Thames Valley, depending on the prevailing wind - though that analysis is probably rubbish. As I stood there, now with 15 minutes left to wait, I became very present in my moment. Train stations are places of movement, in-between locations, I’d never really stopped and thought in one before. At the juncture in the lines to Bristol and The Midlands, I reflected back on my first four weeks of Oxford - a university I had dreamed of attending since the age of 12. It had certainly been fun, the people I had met were great so far. I definitely wouldn’t have expected such an experience. Of course it had been hard, and the friendship group I was initially part of was about to fracture spectacularly. Yet being here at this train station, I felt a great remove from all the noise - and it felt nice to just be experiencing myself and my thoughts. When my train arrived after the last 15 minutes, my upper chest felt prickly, awhir with sensation - such as I have felt after a deep meditation session, or when I’ve sat for awhile in a historic church.

But Didcot Railway station of all places for a moment of enlightenment? Divinity reveals itself in strange places now and then, it would seem.