. . . has been a thread running through this life . . . mostly buses, minibuses . . . and playbuses, which are not transport as normally known, more mobile facility . . .
Speaking at the du-it (Durham Integrated Transport) conference some years ago, I said I was not really interested in transport per se; du-it was about social justice. Yet somehow I had found a niche amongst the transport experts: Penny Marshall from Government Office North East and the Department for Transport, Professor John Nelson from the Transport Operations Research Group at Newcastle University (subsequently at Aberdeen University), Brian Masson, once a manager at National Express, now an independent consultant, collaborating with John on EU research projects; sometime advisor on integrated transport to the Scottish government and the US Transportation Authority . . . Cameron and me, social entrepreneurs with big ideas . . . Penny, John and Brian good friends with common interests and values . . .
. . . then there were the folks who loved transport too much . . . went to bus rallies in their spare time . . . somehow found themselves in charge at transport departments of local authorities . . . they had a grudging respect for my experience driving routemaster buses in London (not realising that was only a cover for my mission to infiltrate a key industry, ready for the coming revolution - I took my self more seriously in those days). . . they never understood the du-it concept, which was not over attached to buses, but started from trying to understand who needed to go where, for what, then seeing who was providing what for whom and how . . . examining public budgets, looking for duplication (triplication often), identifying the gaps . . . John and Brian's research suggested 30% savings on the overall public spend, with a much improved service . . . Brian presented the idea to the County Treasurer in Durham, we shared it with senior executives at the councils, health authority, bus companies . . . elected representatives at all levels, including the local Members of Parliament, all of whom supported (some even vaguely understood it) . . .
. . . power, however, was held not anywhere accountable, but in the stodgy middle of it all . . . not a forward looking power, but a reactionary one, trying to keep things as they were, with the power brokers able to stop change for a while, through their nefarious networks of opaque obstruction . . and not understanding that in a world where change is a constant and each new form moves remorselessly to entropy . . . standing still is to move backwards . . .
. . . the trigger for revisiting the subject is not to dwell on any perceived injustice, though the transport system in County Durham is still in need of transformation, but the observation here in Spain that the bus system is working well . . . after a month of walking, this is my third day of bus travel, fourth bus . . . well laid out bus stations along the way (the ones observed and not on the English leg of the trip - Winchester ready for demolition, Southampton, Salisbury, Bournemouth gone, Plymouth going, Poole and Exeter hanging on) . . . modern buses, clear systems, friendly and skilful drivers, and punctual so far . . . at Baza after a 5 minute comfort break, the driver counts us, not happy with the result, asks, looks around a bit, leaves . . . punctuality and potentially absent passengers incompatible . . .
. . . none of this is about the broader picture of integration, which may appear later, as I settle down for a while . . . not that I wish to play the role of transport expert again particularly, I was typecast in that role long enough . . .
. . . and in this morning's role of bus passenger/writer, I had fun finding the way from the centre of Granada to the bus station on the edge of the city, seeing the holiday activity, snowboarders off to the Sierra Nevada, Spaniards going home to family, tourists looking for buses to Madrid, Barcelona, Benidorm (why?), Valencia . . . buying my ticket to Albox, standing back whilst the other passengers hurried for the seats they wanted (maybe reserved, mine was not), played the game of hanging onto both seats even though they only paid for one (this game is played on trains too) . . . my game is to wander down the aisle, trying to catch a gaze, see if anyone wants my company . . . they don't, but there is a double towards the back . . . sit down, reverse roles for latecomers, look at them with inviting eyes . . . a middle aged woman sits next to me, though there are other options, albeit blocked by bags and coats, or the sole occupant sitting in the aisle seat, eyes averted . . . she is Spanish, speaks no English, I tell her I speak no Spanish, but in clear Spanish . . . anyway, she chooses not to help me improve in the time we have together . . . the driver re-inforces the seat belt information with an announcement . . . clunk-click all round; my new friend fastens her belt, helpfully hands me mine . . . I smile, whisper "no hablo Espanol" conspiratorially, she understands . . . health and safety gone mad and even Spaniards comply . . . not me, I'm playing rebellious Englishman, writing about transport between taking in the view . . . and, dear reader, if you ever wondered where all that olive oil comes from . . .
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