| You won’t be surprised that I’ve many stories to tell about buses breaking down.
I could regale you with tales of bump-starting a fully laden 70-seat double-decker on a hill in the middle of Southampton, or the time we (and 40 passengers) had to help a friend by pushing his coach off the forecourt at Marylebone station. Or I could recount the hours I spent in the middle of the A303, cooling down our Bristol SU after it just squirted gallons of boiling water over itself and my father, who happened to have the driver’s window open on a hill…
But tonight’s story floats to the top. Not only does it involve two buses breaking down, neither of which was my own, but much of the drama takes place away from dry land. There: I’ve got you.
At 2024 this evening, I was mildly disappointed when a bus arrived at the stop outside Torpoint bus depot to take me home to Plymouth. It meant an evening’s adventure had reached its final stage, and I would soon be crossing the River Tamar back home. (At this point you need to know that the 81 bus route - one of the world's finest - crosses the river that separates Devon and Cornwall by literally driving aboard the Torpoint chain ferry.)
Lucky, then, that the passengers were immediately ushered off, and told the bus wasn’t fit to continue its journey. Instead, the driver was despatched to retrieve a replacement bus (same type) from the depot itself, and we all climbed aboard the saviour bus with much contented tittering.
 We drove onto the ferry, parked amidst the cars and foot passengers, and the driver switched off his engine to enjoy the seven minute journey. Once safely delivered to the Plymouth side, the driver turned his key to start… and the lights dimmed. There was no other response, except from the (irritating) lady who’d already been complaining to the assembled company about the price of her fare. A few more attempts, and it was clear: the saviour bus had broken down, too.
As the driver made his mercy call back to base, you could sense there was much jeering from his pals.
“Yes, yes – same bus as last week. Yes – same problem. Same place – yes, ON the ferry …”
 One by one, the passengers twigged the ferry itself would be making no compromise to its strict timetable, and would soon depart on the journey back to Torpoint, bus an’ all. They jumped off, prepared to walk into Plymouth, the irritating woman shouting – presumably to the Captain, or God - “DO NOT MOVE – I AM WALKING OFF; I REPEAT, I AM WALKING OFF THE FERRY.” I wish there’d been a plank.
That’s all very well, but when you’re a man in no particular hurry, with no aim other than to enjoy the adventure of a favourite bus route, it would be rude not to stay and see the resolution.
So… back and forth we sailed between counties, every other time with the bus facing the ‘wrong’ way, until finally a First engineer’s van turned up on the Devon shore to boost start the bus.
“We don’t f*cking need this, this time of night” the mechanic told the driver.
“You’re telling us”, said the driver, nodding to his solitary passenger, who was secretly delighting in the whole episode.
 I was sad to lose that driver. He returned to Torpoint on another replacement bus which had accompanied the van. Instead, a Plymouth driver took me (and me alone) onward, saloon lights off “just in case”.
“We’ll go the pretty way” he said, cutting off the twists of the normal 81 route. It was like getting a big taxi home.
As I stepped off the bus at Bretonside bus station, he earnestly excused the evening in the most heartfelt apology I’ve ever received from First.
“Sorry about the f*ck ups”, he said – “we did change the batteries on this thing last week – must be something else”.
“Don’t worry”, I reassured him – “I’ve had much worse”. |
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