3 minute read
BARTLEBY
Bon voyage!
Recently I did something that I hadn’t done in more than two years. No, I didn’t get the boiler serviced (though really should, come to think of it). Nor did I complete The Times crossword (a once-a-decade achievement). Having not left terra firma since January 2020 I took the bus with Ms B to the airport, boarded a plane and flew away. Coincidentally our destination, Toulouse, was where we went last time we travelled aeronautically. Two to Toulouse, times two...
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In fact, there was a lot of déjà vu involved in our journey. Having been quoted an arm and most of a leg for a taxi to Bristol International we decided to opt for the Airport Flyer, forgetting (again) that the reason people pay through the nose for a cab is so they don’t have to drag their suitcase miles to the bus stop. On arrival en France, we experienced a familiar, seemingly endless, walk to the car hire place, where, as previously, the operative insisted we should buy extra insurance. This time, though, he also recommended we upgrade to a larger car because it would use less fuel. Good to see that the French have lost none of their appetite for inventing strange philosophies and ripping off les Anglais.
Having made it clear that I wasn’t very impressed with all this I seized the keys to our Fiat 500 and strode off, only to drive slowly past the hire car office twice as we circled le parking looking for the exit. If you are easily confused I very much recommend not hiring a car at Toulouse Airport. Getting out of the car park is only the first in a series of challenges you have to overcome en route to the open road and whatever adventures lie ahead.
All this is in striking contrast to what happens when you arrive back in Bristol. I’m not a frequent flyer but have landed at a few airports here and there, and as the plane descends you generally get a sense that you’re arriving Somewhere – most airports have suburbs or industrial areas or something similar nearby. Coming home the other day we flew over fields, then up a steep valley covered in trees. ‘Isn’t that Goblin Combe?’ Ms B mused as we brushed the treetops, but while we were still figuring this out the wheels hit the runway and, with a bit of wing-waggling caused by the strong headwinds, we came to a halt.
You can imagine a family from Toulouse, whose airport is hidden in the depths of a concrete jungle, walking down the steps from the aircraft to the distant sound of mooing and the mingled aromas of various kinds of dung. Despite the ever-expanding carparks Bristol International remains more airfield than airport, and the rustic quality of the arrival experience is hardly diminished by the subsequent journey into town.
Travellers boarding the Airport Flyer are welcomed by the recorded voice of a woman speaking slowly in a warm, West Country accent. Sit on the top deck and you see fields, the occasional horse, hills rising on either side. An unexpected sight even for regular travellers on the A38 is the expanse of water to left and right as you approach the city – reservoirs that we normally drive by without seeing at all. Artificial they may be, but these lakes add to the general impression that you are in a world quite different to the everyday humdrum of highways and big box stores.
As the bus goes along the same friendly voice announces stops along the way, because another surprising feature of this airport bus is that it doubles as a rural service. First stop is the Airport Tavern, just in case anyone is thirsty. And here’s the Fox and Goose… And while we’re about it, why not pop into the Winford Arms? And so we wend our way to Bristol… ■
THE BRISTOL
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