There is an airline that I frequently use. The tailfin on the aircraft is identifiable by a gold harp on a dark blue background. Its chief executive is a sparky individual who has made his fortune by sticking two fingers up to all his passengers. This makes an entertaining business success story.
On my trips to Ireland I sometimes use a small regional airport on its west coast. It has the suffix 'international' after its name as it has three weekly flights to and from Luton.
Last Friday afternoon I was driving my hire car to the airport along an undulating country road. The road crests a small rise about 2 kilometres from the airfield from which you can see the runway and a level crossing straight ahead. As I approached the level crossing the lights flashed and the barriers came down. Having left in good time to make the flight I was not that concerned. However after waiting five minutes with no train on the line I started feeling a little apprehensive. Some cars stopped behind me and on the other side of the crossing, the minutes went by but the barriers stayed down. I started saying some uncomplimentary things about the Irish.
The best part of ten minutes had passed and I was still stuck on the wrong side of the crossing. Someone got out of a white van behind me and said he thought the barriers were 'stock'. He thought he could call the 'Iarnrod Eireann ' engineering depot at Galway but that they may not be able to fix the problem until Monday. I could see the inbound aircraft coming out of the clouds and descending on to the runway two kilometres away. I knew there was a 25 minute turnround time but we were still stuck on the wrong side of the tracks. I had never before been prevented from spending Shabbat with my family or friends by a level crossing.
I noticed another man on the other side of the crossing using his mobile. Then he waved his arm at us. Two or three minutes later a train went by and the barriers went up. I was now late. Once at the airfield I dropped the car off in the returns car park and ran 300 yards to the terminal. At my age and with a slightly dodgy kneecap that is easier said than done. I got through the makeshift security there and managed to join the back of the passenger queue on the apron, by this time totally out of breath, shoulders heaving. Clambering up the steps I found a seat, heard the hydraulic clonk of the parking brake being released, full throttle being applied and off we went. It was the first time that I had actually looked forward to getting to Luton airport.