Hello? Yes, I’m on the train!

You might remember those words as the punchline to a popular sketch on Dom Joly’s Trigger Happy TV. They usually followed the Nokia ringtone which was at that time ubiquitous; you hardly ever hear it now, and when you do, someone usually recites Joly’s catchphrase at top volume, to much hilarity. 

On the way out of Cornwall, I was accompanied by my father-in-law. We hadn’t been on the train five minutes when he started patting his pockets and announced that he’d forgotten his mobile phone. 

I was anxious at the prospect of leaving a nearly 90-year-old at Plymouth station without means of contact, awaiting a similarly nonagenarian pal who has sent last-minute health-related apologies in the past, especially when said friend had not arrived by the time I boarded my train. 

Fortunately FIL’s day panned out as planned, notwithstanding unexpected disruption on board. 

A bunch of lairy lads had boarded at Redruth, coked up on testosterone, sugar and goodness knows what else; they were enjoying themselves immensely, screaming another much-loved TV catchphrase - “BOGEYS!” courtesy of Dick and Dom In Da House. 

When they climbed into the overhead luggage compartments, a fellow passenger rose quickly to his feet and confronted them with unassailable confidence and zero nonsense, threatening to have them turfed off the train if they didn’t settle down like good kiddies. 

Who was this hero of the aisles? Police? Security? SAS? 

The reality was more prosaic: he was a driver waiting to bring the train back into Cornwall. I like to imagine my train-driver grandad behaving with the same kind of don’t-mess-with-me authority. 

Come Liskeard, the teens had been rounded up and ejected onto the platform; we gave them a jolly wave upon departure, laughing as they flipped us an entire flock of birds. I would happily have tolerated them a little longer to see them dumped at Menheniot, with several hours to wait for a service in either direction. 

I always plan to work on long train journeys, but am stymied by the woeful Wi-Fi (that’s my excuse). It turns out that to allow enough bandwith for everyone, users are restricted from doing many of the things they would like to, such as watching streaming services or sending large files. It takes an age just to download a simple email attachment, check social media or execute a Google search.

Perhaps I could read a book, I hear you cry, or – fancy the notion - a newspaper, like we used to do in the good old days. 

Maybe I should have packed one of those iSpy books, where you get 50 points for spotting a red kite through the muck-flecked window. Yes, they still publish them – we had an A to Z volume which offered 50 points for a fez under F. “Where on earth will we see one of those?” I wondered aloud as we walked through a trendy Bristol market, where one such item of headgear sat loud and proud on a bric-a-brac stall. 

I do have two magazines and a novel stashed in my backpack. I’ve read the Radio Times from cover to cover and have my weekend telly mapped out (I might even catch up with that BBC drama about the sleeper train hijacked by terrorists, which seemed an unwise viewing choice just before a long rail trip). 

A timely press release from Park Holidays repositioned poor phone signal and rubbish Wi-Fi as your ticket to an “unplugged destination”, where you can switch off and practise mindfulness within beautiful surroundings. 

It has based its research on the 52 locations of its parks around the country, including six in Cornwall – which has the (dubious?) honour of appearing in its entirety in the top 5, along with Dawlish Warren in neighbouring Devon (both are trounced by Winchelsea in East Sussex). 

Web searches for terms including ‘technology break’ are up +150 per cent year on year. Given how much time we spend as a family arguing about mobile phone usage – I’m sure we’re not alone in this – a tech-free “dumb” holiday might be just the ticket (although Park Holidays is quick to point out all its facilities offer super-fastbroadband - boo).

I’m writing this column on my return leg. So far, the tannoy service is shonky, the handbasin in the tiny bathroom has run out of water, and the at-seat refreshment service is a limited-offer trolley stuck in coach F. It makes me wistful for the buffet car, and it’s not great value for a ticket that cost over £200.  

But the staff couldn’t be more helpful (or apologetic), and in contrast with the obnoxious youths of my journey north, I am earwigging a conversation between two elderly ladies from Grimsby, ranging from the recent harvest moon to ingrowing toenails. 

It sure beats being stuck behind the wheel of a car for seven hours.