9.54am

Realisation. Fear rises inside of me like whitewater surging up a tidal blowhole. The train across the way wasn’t moving at all – mine was. THE TRAIN I AM ON HAS LEFT THE STATION.

Panic, my head full of white noise static. A gigantic, super-size-with-fries fuck-up. My head swivels like a pidgeon as I scan the carriage. Impassive Austrians stare back. For no reason at all I take Yulia’s ski bag off the shelf, then put it back again, man-logic telling me that any action is better than no action. What am I doing? And what am I going to do?

I sprint into the corridor, glancing at the emergency stop lever. Should I pull it? Is this an emergency? Of course it’s a fucking emergency. For a second I am distracted by the view out of the window, a smooth, snow-covered plateau spread like a lake lapping at the roots of those beautiful Austrian mountains, hazy-clear in the morning sunshine. Beautiful.

Fuck. What? The lever. Yes, the lever. From somewhere in my childhood I remember a feeling that the lever is only to be pulled should you be being physically torn limb from limb by a moving train, and anyway, we’re now rocketing through some snowy void and stopping in the middle of it would be worse than not stopping at all. I leave the lever, and phone my wife instead.

“Should I pull it? Is this an emergency? Of course it’s a fucking emergency.”

“Hi. Where are you” she asks, a perfectly reasonable question, “and why are there only five bags here?”

“I’m on the train” I reply.

“But our train isn’t in yet?” I hear her pitch rise a little.

“Not our train. A train.”

“A train?”

“A train.”

“A moving train?”

“A moving train.”

“You… I can’t… are you… serious? I can’t speak to you right now… I… just get to the airport.” She hangs up. I consider the combined weight of the five bags and the five-year-old she is now responsible for.

“How will they get home? How do I get home? The white noise intensifies.”

I sit down / collapse into an empty seat and open my browser. What should I search for first I wonder, still fighting the white noise inside my skull; buses… more trains? I vaguely recall a guy in a gondola a couple of days ago telling me he had taken a taxi from Salzburg to Schladming for a paltry €400 as to him time was more important than money.

€400 is a stiff idiot-tax for sure but my girls are alone… and they have my passport. And if they do somehow make the flight without me, it’s my van in the long-stay and the keys are in my pocket. How will they get home? How do I get home? The white noise intensifies. From somewhere inside my head a wee voice suggests a question for me to google, but I don’t like it. The question: ‘What’s wrong with me?’

10.10am Stainach-Irdning

It’s like a desert, a white desert, with icicles instead of tumbleweed. A platform, no staff, a few huddled passengers, and that wind. How can there be no staff? The info board says next the train to Schladming leaves in fifteen minutes. So, back to Schladming, a resort town, and that means plenty of buses as it’s transfer day… maybe I can blag a seat on a bus? I’ve done that before.

It’s still an hour and a half from there to Salzburg though, which leaves me a window of maybe thirty minutes in Schladming to find a rep/a bus/a clue/some transport and even I know that’s impossible. Despair clutches at the hem of my jacket. I slap its wrinkled hand away.

10.15am Taxi Rank

There’s one taxi number written on a sign and I can’t get a ringtone. I stumble through every prefix I can think of but it only yields the same result.

A man wanders up, gets out his phone and dials the number but has no coverage so he ambles back to the platform. I follow him, croaking ‘Sprechen Sie Englisch?’ on the way. He does. I explain my situation. He makes a face much like that of the guard on the train. “Follow me” he says, and I do, a lost puppy clutching someone else’s skis and boots.

“It’s like a desert, a white desert, with icicles instead of tumbleweed.”

We go into a tiny tabac I had not seen in my blind panic. My new friend chats with the Frau. There’s that face again. It’s followed by a smile though (but a little too mothering if I’m totally honest). She makes a phone call, talks a while, then shakes her head. She makes another call, takes down a number, hangs up, calls the new number. They talk a while and she hangs up.

After what seems like an eternity she seems to notice me as if for the first time. “Oh, Milo will be here in five minutes” she says, “maybe you’d like to wait outside?” I could kiss her, but settle for buying a coke instead.

10.25am Taxi Rank

Milo pulls up. He’s got that face on but I don’t care. “Kieron? Salzburg?” he asks.

I could cry. I love Austria. I’d pay Milo €1000 at this point.

“Aye, I mean, yes.”

“Ok. €100. We go to cashpoint, we make pick up at Pichlarn Schloss, then Salzburg.”

Did I mention I love Austria? “100%” I say and melt into the front seat. You could set fire to that car, I’m not getting out.

“They say adventure doesn’t start until something goes wrong.”

12.55pm Salzburg Airport – Departures

My wife and daughter are there, sharing a sandwich. Yulia is making a very different face to the ones I’ve been seeing all day, but she gives me a hug anyway.

“Why did you get the wrong train daddy?” asks Penny. I’ve no good answer. They say adventure doesn’t start until something goes wrong.

“Can I have a bite of your sandwich?” I ask.

Lunchtime, Northern Ireland – Two Days Later

On a whim I phone ÖBB, the Austrian train company. Penalty for pulling the emergency stop handle? €90.

To read the rest of Mpora’s ‘Olympic’ Issue head here.

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