An epic journey on the X18

Part one, in which we reach Morpeth

The X18 bus from Amble has 46 stops and reaches the Haymarket Bus Station in Newcastle after 1 hour 40 minutes (on a good day).

It’s an epic ride, centred around a hero of admirable stature (the driver) who accomplishes a deed of superhuman strength and valour. Its setting is vast - crossing coastal, rural and urban lands - and spans geographical and anthropological space, eventually attaining the borders of the known world. Its protagonists experience endurance, stoicism, the nature of freedom, history of battles, bacchanalian revels, choruses, memory, and nostalgia. They will have been changed by the end of the journey.

Photo by bazzadarambler

Here it is on its way to Amble, looking dark, foreboding and maybe even a bit sexy. There’s a bloke at the bus stop with an app that tells him exactly where any bus is at any time and he already knows it’s going to be two minutes late, which is as nothing in X18 time. I ask if his app tells him the name and shoe size of the driver. He smirks and shakes his head but it does tell him the age of the bus and this one’s eight years old. Perhaps our chat has made him slightly light hearted because he says to the driver when he gets on: “Aye, I see they’ve given you an old bus today then!” The driver looks nonplussed and the app bloke doesn’t know what to say next so gets on and sits downstairs. I go upstairs, in case he wants to take me through the workings of his app. 

Upstairs is best anyway because you can see everything, everywhere, all at once. From Amble to Acklington it’s mostly muddy fields with a white scattering of gulls, although it does go through Togston where my mate Arthur (the Legend) lives. There’s a blackboard outside Togston club (aka ‘The Toggie’) that announces coming attractions. 

From Google maps

This is an old photo so the opportunity has passed us by but I definitely would have fancied seeing the tribute band T-Rox and hearing their version of Ride A White Swan, which sings, like a funky Greek chorus, of our epic undertaking:

Ride it on out like a bird in the sky ways
Ride it on out like you were a bird
Fly it all out like an eagle in a sunbeam
Ride it on out like you were a bird

With Marc Bolan’s lyrics still in our heads, the next stop is Acklington Prison where this journey has, on occasions, the power to free the imprisoned. This is one such morning because, waiting at the stop, are three prisoners who have just been released. One of them (alpha male) is in white t-shirt and jeans carrying a holdall slung over his shoulder James Dean style. Lacking a quiff, he’s sporting a closely shaved head. The second bloke has the look of a dodgy accountant: quilted carcoat, shiny black trousers and brown shoes. He squints like a man who’s spent too long staring at a calculator. The third lad is in what looks like a prison issued navy blue tracksuit and brand new trainers. He’s got the kind of nondescript look that would get him picked out in a police line-up. He seems like he had found his niche as a gofer in the prison and doesn’t yet know what to do with the outside world.

Not that they’re far out yet - they’ve only reached the top deck of the X18 and they’re still looking a bit caged as they head straight to the back and grab a double seat each so they can experiment with feeling free. Alpha does all the talking - I’m hoping for insights into the tyranny of the prison system, his deprived childhood, and a list of his misdemeanours but he’s mostly explaining to Dodgy Accountant how to find the train station once we get to Newcastle. Blue Tracksuit says nothing but often casts a furtively hopeful glance out the window. 

After Acklington we go through Broomhill where Mam and Dad lived when they were first married. Mam was only 19 and I wonder, as we pass their old cottage, how life must have been for her up here, a long way from Walker and her parents. Dad was 29 and worked at the colliery as chief electrician during the war years. At this time, the prison was an RAF sector airfield and this must have been a very different place back then. On 3 February 1940 three Hawker Hurricane fighters from 43 Squadron at Acklington intercepted and shot down a Luftwaffe bomber at Whitby. It was the first German aircraft to fall on English soil in World War II.

Leaving this wartime history behind, we go south to Red Row and on through the villages of Widdrington Station, Ulgham, Longhirst, Pegswood (where Eil’s Dad lived for a while) and then the county town of Morpeth. Until now, the ex-prisoners have been fairly quiet, mainly talking amongst themselves but as we approach Morpeth, Alpha suddenly starts shouting about how he’s got to have a piss…he’s bursting…he can’t last, he’s desperate! Us fellow passengers don’t know how to respond to this anarchic urgency and it’s all starting to get subliminally fraught as his agitation increases. Were I his post-release therapist, I would have something interesting and helpful to say but I’m not, and I haven’t, so concentrate on keeping my head down and avoiding eye contact.

He says he’s going to tell the driver he needs to get off for a piss at Morpeth, when the bus stops and waits there. He thunders downstairs, followed closely by DA and BT. I don’t know what transpires but it would seem he’s successful in his endeavours because within a few minutes, he bounds back upstairs looking relieved, pleased with himself and life. Somehow (where? when? how?) DA has got hold of four cans of lager, with which they toast the deliciousness of freedom. In epic tales, food and alcohol are often represented in ritualised ways, in order to give succour and strength to the heroes before they face trials and tribulations ahead. This X18 epic is no different.

Despite the efforts of the ex-prisoners to change the tone, there’s no doubt the air in Morpeth is more rarefied than the old pit villages and post-industrial landscape we’ve come through. Blokes in Morpeth take good care of themselves - they’ve had a good haircut, their ties match their shirts, their brogues are buffed and they look pleased with themselves. Women are similarly well coiffed and clothed with expertly applied make-up, designer scarves and calfskin handbags that cost a bob or two. They and the ex-prisoners don’t make easy bus-fellows so there’s a lot of intensive phone gazing and eye avoidance as we head down the A1 towards Newcastle. By this stage we’re already an hour in and we’ve done all our rural perambulations so it’s a relatively straight line to Newcastle.

Next week, we will eventually reach Newcastle, renew acquaintance with our ex-prisoners, visit ultima thule and meet the Boy from the Green Cabaret.