21 hours ago
5
It is 2.54pm and the interstate train from Melbourne to Sydney screeches to a halt. Sheep on the line. It is enough to jolt you forward and you fear for any British & Irish Lions fans who have not quite got out of their system the celebrations of the night before. We are five-and-a-half hours into a 12-hour journey, the road less travelled on this odyssey around Australia, navigating the rocky landscape around Cootamundra Creek and disaster is narrowly avoided.
The first thing to address is why. Why turn down a 90-minute flight in favour of a train journey eight times as long. Backtrack to the day before and the afternoon before the Lions’ second Test victory at the MCG. A colleague in the press pack has received some bad news and is seeking the soothing effects of perpetual motion, watching the world go by and some company while doing so. Sold on the promise of avoiding the airport and all associated ordeals, a journey through the Australian countryside and the guarantee of wild kangaroos, tickets are bought: A$99. Cheap. Too cheap?
Twelve hours in cattle class didn’t much appeal but maybe here was an opportunity to get a little closer to the essence of a Lions tour. Away from the airport transfers, check-in queues, luggage carousels and Ubers. Maybe that is the essence of a Lions tour. If so a 12-hour break would be welcome. The train could be a sea of red, perhaps just a puddle, but it was a pretty safe bet there would be no members of the 2013 squad punting an insurance brand on board.
It was an inauspicious start. Departure was supposed to be at 8:30am, 10-and-a-half hours after full time in the second Test, but the train was late arriving from Sydney. An hour late. It left a crowded platform frustrated and Melbourne mornings in winter are a little too fresh. The arrival of Spirit of Bendigo, a spectacular steam train, provides a welcome distraction. Once it leaves and the spotters follow, the platform is significantly less crowded, and the smattering of Lions supporters surface. There is a white blazer adorned with a bright red dragon, though this particular fan does not appear to have much fire left in his belly. A few couples, the odd group of threes who either left it late to book flights or are watching the pennies but it is left to a group of four young Welsh lads to bring the energy. It is unclear how long they will last.
Nearly time to board and there is a confidence-boosting familiar face along the platform in Stephen Larkham. If this train is good enough for a World Cup-winning Wallaby it’s good enough for me – and as we get on board it’s impossible not to wonder what difference Larkham in his prime might have made the night before.
Into our seats. We’re in different carriages but an obliging chap headed for Wagga Wagga is happy to swap. The officious conductor less so. As we were for the first couple of hours then. I’m aware I’m not being good company but there is sleep to be caught up on and 545 miles ahead of us. It is striking how flat the landscape is as we leave the state of Victoria for New South Wales, ticking off the townships, each with its picture postcard colonial train station. The Rock is an eagerly anticipated stop – only one door of the train will open so small is the platform – while the lunch menu offering includes bush pumpkin curry. Perhaps best avoided.
Spotting kangaroo No 1, just a few metres from the train tracks, brings more of a rush than expected. He’s a big ol’ fella, standing his ground, unnervingly still, a scarecrow with a tail spoiling for a fight. This train is 43 years old, the line in operation since 1883, but his family has been here a damn sight longer than that.
Time for some work and to try to explain precisely why Finn Russell has, at the age of 32, found the smoothest groove of his career for Guardian readers. He was talking of a “calmness” after the match on Saturday – perhaps he took the train to Melbourne? – and that just about sums it up better than I could. You sense it has been a while since Russell has felt uncomfortable in his own skin and certainly it fits like a glove at the moment.
Saturday night was the first time we have spoken to Russell in Australia, odd for someone so at ease at doing so. Star players are increasingly inaccessible but Russell is such a throwback that his absence has jarred. Inaccessibility is at odds with the essence of a tour and for all the understandable back-slapping since Saturday night, in time the Lions hierarchy may come to realise that their win-at-all-costs mentality has not quite hit the right notes in Australia. Speaking of lesser-spotted creatures, meanwhile, five or so kangaroos suddenly come into view, bounding through a cluster of trees. Now we’re touring.
A stop in Albury – bang on the state border – makes for a crew change and the perfect opportunity to swap seats again. An announcement goes out that the buffet carriage will be reopening shortly and promise that alcohol will be available. “I know we’ve got some rugby blokes on board,” says the crew member who doesn’t sound delighted by the prospect.
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Laptop shut – signal is nonexistent by this stage anyway – and aimless staring out the window is interrupted by the magnificent looking Bethungra hotel. It is a sprawling 16-room pub that was apparently given away for just A$100 a few years ago – a demonstration of just how far off the beaten track we are now.
Curiosity kicks in and we go looking for Larkham, what would he have made of the Wallabies’ gallant defeat? Was he as incensed by Jac Morgan’s clearout on Carlo Tizzano as so many of his countrymen? Alas he is nowhere to be seen; we have already reached Brumbies country in Canberra, a sure-fire sign that time is flying. The four Welsh lads are out for the count, sprawled across the train carriage. This is a journey of recovery rather than revelry.
After a couple more kangaroos, the last hour goes by in a blur of nicotine withdrawal, under the cover of darkness and a slow crawl into Sydney. It is a short hop though to the Rocks and a rooftop overlooking the harbour to catch up with more colleagues. Bridge on one side, opera house the other.
While there is the odd regret that Sydney does not host a decider, there is a sense of approaching the home straight and the second wind that comes with it. A determination to make the most of what’s left. If these past 12 hours have taught me anything it is that while pinpointing the essence of a modern Lions tour is complicated, you will not go far wrong with companionship.
