I used to think those soppy love stories only happened in cheesy rom-coms or dog-eared novels, the kind of thing you’d find in a charity shop next to the local Wetherspoons for 50p. All that talk of destiny and heart-fluttering moments? Pure fiction, I reckoned, dreamt up by overly sentimental writers. But then I witnessed one unfold right before my eyes, a proper real-life tale that could’ve been ripped from a script. It all kicked off on a drizzly Friday evening in late spring.
I’d just clocked off from my job at a marketing firm in Bristol and was headed to the train station, Temple Meads, to catch a train to my mum’s place in Penzance. I hadn’t seen her in ages, and with a rare week of annual leave finally in my pocket, I was buzzing to get going. I’d splashed out on a First Class ticket with Great Western Railway, so I was looking forward to a comfy ride.
No one saw me off at the platform—bit of a lone wolf, me—so I lugged my duffel bag onto the train and settled into my carriage. I’ve always preferred trains over planes; flying gives me the jitters, if I’m honest. The carriage was quiet, just me and a cracking view of the platform through the window. I stashed my bag on the overhead rack and plonked myself by the glass, watching the world go by. Outside, two blokes, both pushing sixty, were having a proper heartfelt goodbye, all pats on the back and low murmurs. Next to them sat the most gorgeous Labrador I’d ever seen, with soulful eyes that could melt your heart.
I got distracted for a moment, fiddling with my phone, but when I glanced back, the platform was empty. A few minutes later, the carriage door slid open, and in walked one of the men from the platform, the one with the dog. He looked knackered, like life had thrown him a few too many punches. Turns out, we were sharing the carriage. The train lurched forward, and it was just us two—no one else joined. I couldn’t help but break the ice.
— That’s a cracking dog your mate’s got, innit? I said, nodding towards the window where I’d last seen the Labrador.
— She’s mine, actually, he replied, his voice soft but heavy. Her name’s Bella.
— Oh, nice! Where’s she at now, then?
— She’s in the pet carriage, he said, his eyes mirroring the same sadness I’d seen in Bella’s. Rules are rules, you know. She’s got to ride in the special compartment.
He didn’t seem keen to chat, so I left him to his thoughts, staring out at the rolling Quantock Hills. But I couldn’t shake the image of that dog’s eyes or the way her owner’s shoulders slumped, his worn wedding ring glinting faintly as he stared out at the countryside rolling past.
The train rattled on through the West Country, the grey skies outside giving way to patches of golden evening light. At the next big station—Taunton, with a good twenty-minute stop by the platform’s Costa Coffee kiosk—I watched my fellow passenger, who I’d later learn was called George, hop off to walk Bella. That Labrador was a proper gem, trotting alongside him with a wagging tail but those same sad eyes. They paced the platform, George chatting softly to her, and I couldn’t help but feel a pang. It was clear they were inseparable, yet here she was, stuck in some grim pet carriage. When George returned, his face was a mix of relief and worry, like he hated leaving her behind.