THE JOY OF BUSES

Joe Hyam on the unexpected delights and

mishaps of a journey through the Weald by public transport

Tunbridge Wells FOR the first time in nearly 40 years we were without a car. We had sold our old Renault just before Christmas, partly for reasons of economy but chiefly because we no longer needed it. Our house in Tun- bridge Wells is within easy walking dis- tance of trains and buses. What we would save on road tax, insurance, a resident's parking permit, the AA and petrol would more than cover everyday transport costs, including the occasional taxi.

Buses, in particular, appealed to us. They were for the dispossessed, whose ranks we had voluntarily joined. Except in big cities, car owners have no time for them. Why stand at bus stops and put up with meandering routes through scattered villages and frequent stops to admit pas- sengers? But now that we were carless, we saw that there might be benefits in slow, erratic travel. Buses might prove an enlightening experience.

As it turned out, we were right, but not quite in the way we had expected.

Armed with our newly acquired, half- price bus passes for the over-sixties, Heidi and I set off for the bus stop. We were bound for Sevenoaks, about 12 miles away. The first problem was that the bus, Arri- va's number 402, ultimate destination Bromley, did not arrive. We got to the stop There've been unexpected complications involving your husband's at about 10.50 a.m. It was due at 11.02 and by 11.20 there had been no sign of it. The only other passenger, apparently a habitual user of that route, went home.

Should we do likewise? No, we had set Out to experience bus travel and experi- ence it we would, with all its vicissitudes. The café by the bus stop lacked a steaming tea urn, but there was enough of the rough and ready to remind us of the waiting- room in Brief Encounter. The shot of nos- talgia helped to pass the time.

A cup of tea and slice of fruitcake later, we returned to the bus stop and bumped into our neighbour, Michael, who turned out to be waiting for the same bus. For him, too, bus travel was novel. 'I haven't been on a bus for ten years,' he said.

The 12.02 arrived on time. We paid the driver on entering and observed that the previous bus had not turned up. 'Yes, it did,' the driver said. As newcomers to the system, we were unwilling to challenge authority. Yet we could not help observing that we had not budged from the stop between 10.50 and 11.20. Perhaps we blinked. 'It did come,' he said. 'I saw the driver coming in the opposite direction, and I waved at him.' QED.

Elated that we were at last on a bus, we followed Michael upstairs in order to take full advantage of the view across the Weald of Kent. All went well until the roundabout two miles from Sevenoaks, where you join the bypass or keep on up the hill to the town. It was here that the bus came to an unscheduled halt. Its gears screamed fruitlessly and fell silent. We went downstairs. The door was open and the driver was not in his seat. The other passengers — two elderly ladies and a large man in a scruffy anorak — seemed tied to theirs. 'You can't get out,' said the man, who was clearly obeying the rule about not leaving a bus unless it is stand- ing at a stop, ignored only by passengers on London's few remaining Routemasters. 'You can say what you like about this place . . at least they keep it clean.'

We got out to find the driver hanging around behind the bus, staring bleakly at the uncovered engine. 'The gearbox's gone,' he said.

Despite his responsibilities as a country bus driver, he proved, like us, to be one of the few people left in the country without a mobile phone. 'I'll have to walk back to the café.' Without another word he set off down the road towards a wayside café about half a mile back.

Left to our own devices, there seemed only one thing to do. We may not have been on a local bus for years, but it seemed twice as long since we had raised our thumbs to hitch a lift. Helped by our obvious plight, we were soon successful and found ourselves a few minutes later in the middle of Sevenoaks. Our benefactor had made a diversion from his intended route, demonstrating that there are kind- ness and generosity still about. He took Michael on to the station where he would try for a train to Bromley, and then returned to his route on the M25.

On our way home we learnt that the bus which we had intended to take was the very one which had broken down earlier in the day. It apparently remained where we had left it, at the edge of the roundabout.

Eventually we caught a bus, which took us by a circuitous route through depressed-looking suburbs and industrial estates to Tonbridge, where we had to change for Tunbridge Wells. Before long we were on our third bus of the day and bound for home. But something had changed. This time the top deck of the bus was full of giant schoolchildren who had turned it into a cross between a battle- ground and a disco. Only the boy behind us remained in his seat. He was selling drugs on his mobile phone.

That evening I rang our neighbour to find out how he had fared on his way home. He had been only an hour late for his appointment. He had caught the sched- uled five o'clock bus back from Bromley. It had struck the branch of a tree during a diversion down a narrow lane (part of its regular route), and then had to back away from a confrontation with a Land-Rover. Eventually, as the bus approached Tun- bridge Wells, it had turned without warn- ing into the bus garage at the edge of the town. There was no word from the driver, so Michael went downstairs. 'Aren't you going any further?' he asked. 'No,' said the driver, 'the engine's packed up.'

Our visit to Sevenoaks had taken the best part of a day instead of the usual car-jour- ney time of 20 minutes there and 20 min- utes back, with half an hour in the middle to do our shopping. It was not what we had expected. But it was the unexpected that we had hoped for. Laurence Sterne was right: 'I pity the man who can travel from Dan to Beersheba and cry, 'tis all barren.'