A long walk

Heathrow and its mysteries

When I checked in for the flight back to Mexico I was told that it would be a C-Gate departure and that I would have to allow sufficient time to get to the gate. Over an hour before the flight the gate number appeared on the screen and so I headed to C-12, discovering as I did so that I had two options to get there. One was the transit (5-10 minutes) and the other was walking (15-20 minutes). I opted for the second since I had plenty of time. I took the lift down to minus level 4, which was a bit spooky since there was no one else down there.

Had I found the only unpopulated peaceful place in the whole airport?

I started the trek walking along the highly-lit tunnel, because that’s what it was, and making the most of an occasional moving walkway. I used the time to think about my trip, about the people I had met, the wonderful time in Morocco, how the snow was magical in the trees in the Highlands of Scotland…

A couple walked past in the opposite direction, we nodded.

A beeping electric transport vehicle went past, invading my peace.

And then I got there. An automatic door opened to reveal the C-Gates and I felt quite pleased that I had done some exercise before the long flight. I found C-12, there were lots of other people there too, and everyone was settling down there quietly, preparing for the flight.

I noticed, however, that there was no plane visibly waiting for us but gave it no more than a passing thought.

I was deep into my book and then suddenly realised there was a bit of a kerfuffle going on. Everyone was standing up and looking confused. It turned out that there was a gate change and we had to go back to the A-Gates.

It also turned out that you cannot take the transit in the opposite direction. Why not? That is a total mystery.

So, guess what? We all ended up traipsing through the highly-lit tunnel that I had just come along so cheerfully half an hour earlier, a wave of people struggling with bags and suitcases. Now I know what that tunnel was for.

Inevitably there was anger before panic set in because, you know, the plane might leave without you… so everyone quite literally charged along the walkway, making the occasional loud comment…

What’s happening?

This bloody country, nothing works anymore!

Nobody tells us anything!

The country is going to the dogs!

This is shit!

Needless to say the return journey was a lot quicker than the ambling pace I had used on the outward trip. Everyone was stressed, huffing and puffing and anxious, but we got back well in time to the new gate. Then we were all put onto buses, which drove what seemed like miles to our plane, that was somewhere else completely.

It reminded me of the time our plane had to taxi to the furthest point away from the terminal at Tel Aviv airport. It was just after the massacre at Lod Airport in 1972 and security was at high alert. We had to get off the plane, surrounded by gun-toting Israeli soldiers, and identify our luggage before being bussed to the terminal. We never realised how serious it was. Fortunately.

I digress.

The captain of the flight back to Mexico kindly apologised for our complicated morning, in true British style, but it wasn’t his fault. Heathrow was to blame but I suppose he knew that no one else would apologise.

We left an hour late, of course. Who said flying is exciting and glamorous?

Those days are long gone.