When Ryanair’s On Time, You Know You’re in Trouble

10/22/2025

The Storm That Wouldn’t Quit

Storm Amy in Morecambe Bay, storm clouds, rain, and low tide

Storm Amy (what was left of Hurricane Humberto) was ready to play

Influencers never seem to show both sides of the traveling coin. Let me be the first to share that if you ever decide to book a flight and travel to some faraway land, there’s always the potential for disruption. Take this past weekend as an example for this seasoned traveler ― Storm Amy, formerly Hurricane Hermbato, decided to slap the British Isles with a taste of unsightly and less-than-travel-friendly weather.

Thankfully, I wasn’t heading to some big city that depended on the perfect filming environment. For that matter, I simply wanted to get to my Irish seaside retreat of Morecambe to watch the tidal change and feel the cooler English air. Even with my travel ambitions known, it was still a chore to navigate.

Before I even left Morocco, the trains were already disrupted for my return on Monday. Rumor has it that, in addition to Amy’s wrath, it was already decided that this would be the maintenance weekend for the Northern Railway, which means headaches to begin with, and for those smaller venues, outright cancellations. Familiar with the routes and NW England, the potential disruptions meant little to me, except for how I would adapt and modify the path to reach this holiday hamlet.

Now, before you go nuts and ask why I would choose NW England, the Lancaster area of all spots to visit, restrain yourself because this is the real U.K. We aren’t in London, where it’s more of a glorified United Nations of visitors with exorbitant prices and a lack of English charm that does little to nullify the hole in your wallet.

No, in Lancashire, it’s comfortable, honest, and authentic. There’s history everywhere you go. You can see it on your walks, with every building, corner, and even the trees. The entire area sings of days gone by, and the people you meet are the salt of the Earth and beyond pleasant.

Knowing this, I was prepared for the potential disruptions, whether it was the flight in or the messy Saturday when Amy would be at full force. Thankfully, the Ryanair flight was, surprise, surprise, on time. According to the pilots, they were the only flight to depart Manchester on time that day and, in this case, arrived back in England with a few minutes to spare.

Frankly, I should have taken this as a sign of what was to come. If Ryanair is on time, it means the rest of the trip is going to be an adventure. That’s just how the traveling fairy manages these experiences. With a sound sleep at the Ibis, with no noise whatsoever, I slept like a champ, renewed and ready for the coming day.

Everything seemed to be in order. The train for Lancaster was scheduled for 10:27, and there we were waiting on platform 3A, although I admit I was looking for 9 ¾. By the time I did a walk-around, looking for Harry and the rest of the clan, what do you know but on the screen, the train had disappeared completely, replaced by a different, later, 11:00 route.

That’s a bit awkward, and there was no notice. I checked my Trainline app and saw the route had been canceled. No worries, right? We would simply take the next train in and continue on our merry way.

If only it were that bloody easy. The masses of people whose trains had been canceled decided to join the trip, and before we knew it, the 11:00 became the all-comers ride into Manchester Piccadilly. Many of us were trying to head north, but alas, so were the next wave of passengers rushing to get on the train.

Not even one step in, and every seat was taken, the carriage was standing room only, and bags blocked the aisle. I felt blessed to have a seat and secretly smiled, knowing Lancaster was only a few stops away. Wouldn’t you know it, the Piccadilly stop was fifteen minutes long because they continued to fight to get on the train, and figure out where to put their baggage in the process. The number of times we were all asked to back away from the doors was comical, especially since no conductors were inside to manage the chaos.

Still, I sat comfortably, believing everything would be all right. The train pulled away from Piccadilly, and the screen updated, canceling the entire route past Preston. Not only were they canceling the trip, but those sorry schmucks who just wanted a ride to Manchester Oxbow were now forced to stay on the train to Bolton because we were overpacked with passengers.

I agreed to skip the next stop en route to Bolton, as it is usually a madhouse, and I didn’t like the idea of stopping again to see how people would disembark and potentially allowing one or two the opportunity to join in the fun. Others lamented the ongoing changes, ignoring the fact that the rain continued to fall, the wind battered the area, and anyone familiar with Scotland’s geography would know that the second part of the route was probably underwater.

A couple behind us were trying to figure out how to get to Blackpool. They started in Liverpool, were redirected to Manchester, and now any train to Blackpool via this direction has been canceled due to Amy’s visit. Why they hadn’t considered the bus back at Liverpool Lime Street Station remains a mystery to me, but maybe they didn’t know any better. Sheesh, I would have grabbed a train to Southport and figured it out from there.

One family was trying to get to Scotland with five bags in tow and was busy using the train app to screen potential routes once we arrived in Preston. That’s when it hit me that all of us, sorry travelers, were going to Preston and would be fighting the proverbial good fight to get on the next train northbound.

Finding Calm in Morecambe

Tea Time in Morecambe at the Broadwater Guest House

A well deserved tea after a long journey to Morecambe

I, for one, was not too excited about this opportunity. There would be more waiting, more pushing, and for what reason? Knowing that the next train was an hour out, or the potential of a way out, I did what was easiest. Uber was my path of least resistance, and the best $45 spent the entire trip.

Not only did I get a roadside view of the countryside, but there were no other people to contend with, no stupid noises to hear, and the thirty-minute drive was relaxing. I even got to see the iconic Pennine Tower. I wish it were before 1989, when that futuristic tower and restaurant were still open. Still, it was a glorious sight to see on the M6, just as we were preparing for the final miles into historic and bucolic Lancaster.

Lancaster was ready for our arrival, with a light shower serving as a proper greeting, only to shift to a full-on downpour. Note to self: packing a poncho instead of an umbrella was a bad idea, especially after I poked several holes in my Moroccan gem of a product. Thankfully, Primark and Poundland were open for business, although again I shunned a new umbrella, figuring the worst had passed.

A quaint and delicious bread bowl venison stew at Zizzi warmed me right up, and before I knew it, I was back on the way to the train station for the final trip to Morecambe. True to form, that train was canceled with the next one, forty minutes out. I didn’t feel like waiting any longer, so I used the reliable Uber app to secure a ride to my final destination.

Did the rain let up over the remainder of the day? Not so much, but it didn’t matter. By the time I was greeted by the wonderful host of Broadwater Guest House, I knew I had come to the right place to settle my nerves and get the reprieve I desperately needed.

Thanks to Amy, my room was upgraded due to cancellations, and I was offered an Irish Sea view and the most comfortable chair to write from. My twin brother Stephen, who passed twenty years ago, must have been working his magic. The room number was 7, his lucky number, and the seagull that kept flying over towards the window was none other than Steve, a local friend who loved his daily breakfast morsels.

Before I knew it, I had a fleece wrapped around my legs, the howling wind and rain pounding on the glass, while I enjoyed a pot of tea and a Danish to boot. There would be no further adventures for me on this trip; instead, I would have the time and space to recharge and renew along a coastline that many tourists will never see or learn to appreciate.

While the trip involved adjustments and going with the flow, it was all time well spent and a story I can add to the books. Influencers can take their posed shots and compile their top ten lists, but at the end of the day, they are missing out on sharing stories that truly matter — the grit and the authentic experiences that define who you really are.