A Greyhound and a one-way train

More unnecessarily complicated travel arrangements

What is the Australiana experience without a Greyhound bus journey? I’d asked a few Aussies the same question and had been met with a spectrum of responses. Never heard of it, one said. The bus, I said, the nationwide bus service? Nope, not a clue.

I was surprised. Could you drop into an English conversation and mention National Express, only to be met with confused frowns? It seems unlikely; anyone under the age of 35 has found a reason to be seduced by a £4.99 ticket.

Then again, I’ve begun to learn I’m more into transport than most people. Reddit forums, Facebook groups, Rome2Rio. Any discussions that help find different ways of making the same journey, I like breaking the algorithm of recommend services, and connecting all the options that aren’t immediately obvious. My best work yet was last year: an overland journey from Sköder, Albania, to Stoke Row, England. It took over three days and it was only for the last 40km of M4 tarmac that I needed the help of a friend.

So when the opportunity presented itself - a trip to Yamba, 600km away from Sydney - I thought, how could I apply the usual framework? That is, lots of time in transit, unnecessarily overcomplicated, and cheap. Also, with company, for in Meg I have found another connoisseur of slow travel, a FlixBus loyalist, with cravings for the window seat, and hours of nothingness, interrupted only by timed stops for collective urination.

The outbound journey absorbed an entire night. How efficient is it, to board the Greyhound bus at 6pm, sit behind twelve rows of British backpackers heading up the coast, and wake up at the destination just ten minutes before Yum Yum Cafe fires up the La Marzocco coffee machines? That’s the sort of question that is begging to be asked by someone. And in order to ask it, we paid $70 each, sleeping upright for several hours, faces pressed against the glass window, the Australian night condensing on our cheeks.

Then to make up for the absence of scenery getting there, we decided to change service for the return leg. An entire day, almost 11 hours, on a regional train. Countryside flashing by, the fields enveloped by Autumnal light. A long scene, light on entertainment: unwrapping the sandwiches from tin foil protection, soaking coffee bags into hot water from the buffet carriage, reading a novel set in 1986 Berlin, distracted by the conversations in earshot.

This return journey came at a good moment. I hadn’t written here for almost two months and I was becoming very aware of it; creativity asphyxiated by the routine of living in a city, where I find it harder for things to speak to me, even if I put the hours in trying. Twenty three hours of travel unlocked something, so I’d call my first Greyhound (and regional train) experience a success.