Looking at the options, my quickest route to Wales was to catch a train from Portsmouth to Waterloo, hop on the Underground over to Euston and then catch the fast Virgin train all the way to Bangor, a journey which was supposed to take six hours door to door. What could possibly go wrong? Even at the very last minute, right before handing the cash over for my ticket, I made one last call to Phil so he could confirm the forecast. Of course he was going to say ‘Yes it is going to be sick’ comfortably sat at home less than twenty minutes from the break! Lo and behold, one minute outside Portsmouth station my train ground to a halt, no word of a lie. A door failure had us stuck on the tracks for thirty minutes. I was handed on a plate the perfect opportunity to turn back.
Surely this was a message, an omen from up above to beat a hasty retreat? But then lady luck changed. The train guard apparently rebooted its systems, the doors were now working and we were on our way, with the announcement that we would be headed to Waterloo with no stops at all. Suddenly things were on the up. After successfully navigating all my gear through the Underground and then a mad dash for a train headed to Wales at Euston, I finally rolled into Bangor at 10.30pm. Phil was in a positive mood when he picked me up at the station, having had just sailed for two hours on a 4.2 at Broad Beach and reckoned the swell was just starting to kick in. There was no doubting it was windy in Wales