Well, that was about as complicated and stressful as anticipated.

Trains pretending to go from Brighton through to Bedford, but actually missing out (read: stopping short) the crucial middle bit of the journey, from Blackfriars (where I tried to get on - and let me assure you, a platform over the Thames is no place to be in a wind chill) to Moorgate.

I completed most of the circle line, finally joining the (stopping at every single station in the ‘burbs) train at Farringdon.

A few hours later, and I was eating homemade chocolate mousse and drinking a nice pinot grigio with my dad, sister and stepmother in front of Midsommer Bergerac.

Related tangent: why does anyone still live in those Midsommer villages? Honestly, with all the random stabbings, drownings, etc, it’s a wonder that
a) anyone would choose to continue living there and
b) there’s anyone left except Jim Bergerac and his smug wife.

Journey back was a piece of piss, though.