Chapter III

Iaso Station

Iaso arrives after a long, leisurely drawl through peaceful, undulating countryside dotted with farm buildings roaming animals and small hamlets. A wide river runs through marsh land to the North of the train tracks. Huge windmills soar majestically off a distant hillside. Painted to look wooden, a trompe l’oeil homage to the aspirations of the area, though they look slightly grotesque due to their size. Some young people take snaps with their watches whilst smiling adults look on. 

The station also reflects Iaso’s agrarian aspirations  with festoons of foliage trailing from the living roof sheltering the platform and huge wooden planters containing herbs and miniature fruit trees positioned at each end making the station feel cocooned in greenery. 

Two Iason dwellers board the train, distinctive in their grey woollen jackets and skirts topped with fetching felt hats with wide brims.  The weather is chilly but not freezing in these parts at this time of year but even these days, temperatures are likely to plummet in a month or so and we know from geographic and tourist information that the Iasons will take to wearing thick, long woollen great coats and big knitted hats like large turbans, said to be waterproof since they’re made from unwashed wool.

The Iasons’ tricycles with their huge front baskets are parked side by side on the platform and they carry wares onto the train upon large basket weave trays hanging from jute braids around their necks. Passengers stand in turn to survey what’s on offer; small glass bottles of juice, slabs of wholesome looking cake, and delicious smelling pastries still warm from the oven. Each Iason vendor uses a stick to balance the large tray on whilst they dish out what each passenger requests and bump wrist phones with them to complete the electronic transaction. 

I have seen this many times and still it makes me smile. I take some orange coloured juice which the Iason vendor tells me in a low, quiet voice without making eye contact is peach flavoured and a warm pasty which they say has potato, carrots and spices in. I smile, bump my wrist phone to theirs and they both make delicately tinkling approval sounds. I notice a beautiful, intricate red stitching on the hem of the vendor’s sleeve and further up, a leaf shaped hole with a pale white muslin-like backing, secured with the same delicate stitching in red thread. Looking up into the Iason’s face, I smile and remember the word for this type of thing; sashiko ? As I murmer it, I receive the glimmer of a smile in return. 

*

Nobody minds the delay in such a lovely place whose healing spirit enters the carriage and has the effect of making passengers sit more comfortably in their seats. Some turn sideways and put their feet up on the seat having removed their boots. Conversations  strike up between people about the food, the delicious juice, the unusual platform, the cleverness and quietness of the Iasons. A hum of contentment pervades the air.

Some passengers, like me, have travelled on this train before and share past experiences. I sit quietly, remembering the year I spent here in my teens learning about growing vegetables and making compost. Outside, on the platform, we see other passengers from carriages further up the train wandering about looking at the plants and smiling at the Iasons as they re-stock their basket trays before moving on to the other carriages.  

I take note of the various people who are distinguished by their travelling clothes. We are a motley crew.