SOMETHING about train travel makes people drop their inhibitions. Passengers become crazy romantics.

I was once handed a note from a retired Ribble Valley art enthusiast asking to take my portrait.

Often, people also seem to laugh more. For example, a suggestion that Burneside could be next year’s European Capital of Culture made one man laugh so hard I thought he’d given himself a hernia.

Maybe these changes in behaviour are a response to the countryside flying past – that sense of freedom you get when travelling.

Or maybe they are the result of extra thinking time, which you can enjoy when you don’t have to spend an entire journey worrying about your car’s fuel warning light.

Perhaps it is the result of a collective sense of heading somewhere. Even if it’s just to Crewe.

While waiting for an evening train at Oxenholme station, I watched a 20-something go up to a man with a Hairy Dan beard, and proceed to spill out his troubles like a fountain.

“I just don’t know what to do,” he said.

Hairy Dan looked at this skinny youth with concern. His facial hair gave the whole scene a sense of a meaningful encounter in the American West.

The twenty-something continued: “There was this girl I met in Kendal and I thought she liked me. I took her home. She said she would call me and she didn’t. Now I’ve not heard from her for a week They mess you around.”

Hairy Dan gave a sympathetic nod. “It is hard.”

“I mean, have you got a partner?”

“Yeah.”

“And are you happy?”

“Well, yeah, I suppose.”

“Well, where can I find one like you?”

Hairy Dan replied: “You’ve got to be true to yourself.”

The twenty-something looked miserable. “That doesn’t seem to work at all.”

“You’ve really got to. You really have to. There is no other way.”

They stood there for a minute, thinking, with hands in pockets. Then the twenty-something said “alright, thanks,” turned and walked away.