Quiet Times, and Changings of Mind

This may be the quiet time of the Courier year, but the jobs themselves are quite normal ... there just aren't so many.  Yesterday was typical.  I was sent to Biggleswade to collect a small parcel for delivery in Newport (S. Wales).  I debated whether there was any merit in calling the office to say I'd got it (with the implied question, 'and is there anything else I can take in that direction?') and decided against making the call.  However, I did change my mind slightly and when I left, instead of turning right to head north towards the M1, with a view to going via Coventry, Warwick and Ross, I turned left to return to the office, thinking that a half-hour wait would not only be in order, but could determine which route I should take.

I was halfway back when the call came - collect another job from Stevenage, to go to cargo forwarders in Feltham.  Having collected three fairly large items there, off I went.  The journey to Feltham was quite straightforward and, having rejected the idea of running up the M40 to rejoin my originally planned route to Newport, I set off along the M4.  Now, the whole idea of going to South Wales via Ross on Wye is to avoid the toll to go westward over either of the Severn Bridges.  At the last count this was £11.80, so the saving is well worth making, since this recognised alternative is only about 15 miles further.

This thought was still hovering in my mind when I passed the signboard that told me Cardiff was another 118 miles, and I started doing a bit of mental arithmetic.  I decided that Newport was probably about 12 miles short of Cardiff, and hence, could see what my journey's end would show on the odometer, if I were to go on and over the Bridge.  Meanwhile I set SatNav to calculate an alternative route.  When it did - suggesting a way via Swindon, Gloucester and Ross - this came out at 13 miles further, so off I went at junction 15 and by a little after 3.30 I was at my destination in Newport.

Only ... it wasn't where I was expecting to be.  SatNav had led me to the postcode I'd asked for, which turned out to be the Royal Mail sorting office.  This does happen on occasions, usually when the address we're given is a PO Box No., so we know to avoid these.  This one wasn't, however.  That said Caerleon Road and here was I, more or less on the opposite side of the city.  Finding that the phone no. on the parcel led to a 'sorry we can't take your call' message, I took the only available option - I went into the sorting office.

I'm a bit apprehensive about seeking help from the Royal Mail, since the time some years ago when I received a cheeky reply that suggested - none too politely - that, if I were a courier worth my salt, then I should know where such-and-such a place was, without having to ask the 'professionals'.  On this occasion, however, I have nothing but praise for the ginger-haired postie on duty.  I presented him with my dilemma, and handed over my map to see if he could show me just where, on the long road bearing that name Caerleon, I needed to be.

Once my ear had penetrated his thick accent, I learned that I should make my way to the roundabout he indicated, and from there go past the cenotaph and under the railway bridge.  'As soon as you get under the bridge,' he said, 'you'll see an unmarked turning cutting back on the left - that's where you need to go.'  Not only were his instructions clear and concise, they proved invaluable for, even if I'd been directed to the right place in the first instance, I wouldn't have known about that turning, and could have been going to and fro several times before I'd have found the depot I sought.

So, my job done, I turned for the long journey home, and reflected that, in addition to enjoying a very helpful exchange, I'd also learned the 'correct' way to pronounce Caerleon: to a South Wales tongue, apparently, it's "C-'leen"