A recent tradition of mine in recent years has been to get as far away from London and all the New Year nonsense as I possibly can. This year I thought I would make it part of the quest rather than go sightseeing. I thought I would do a trip to the North, covering Greater Manchester and its environs on the first day, then head to York, ready to cover some more of Yorkshire on the following day, which was New Year's Eve itself. A roundabout route home would then be taken to try to scoop up another line or two.
So 'twas on Saturday 30 December I was heading to Manchester on a Pendolino, quite early in the morning and quite tired. I could have done with a more restful day at home to be honest, but I'm underway now. I've done little planning too, the majority of the routes today being at least an hourly frequency, so there should be little waiting around. At Piccadilly I buy a day ticket for the trains and trams - a bargain at £3.50 - and make my second journey of the day, on the remains of the infamous Woodhead line, by means of a three coach class 323 EMU.
The Woodhead was an early bit of mainline electrification linking Manchester and Sheffield. Using overhead wiring at a different voltage to that we use today, the line was refurbished in the early 1960s. The Woodhead tunnel under the Pennines was rebuilt to allow for the new height that wiring needed. Then...Beeching. The line was closed to passengers in 1966. So a programme of rationalisation, designed to save money, abandons infrastructre that was not just refrubsihed, but REBUILT, just five years earlier. The same stupid economics that saw the last steam locomotive coming off the line in 1960 and being finished with within 10 years. Can't help but smell conspiracy here. The line was kept open for freight until 1981, when the wires were taken down and the locomotive fleet sold to the Netherlands. Passengers ended up having to change at Huddersfield or use slower lines via Edale and Hazel Grove. None of these are true alternatives. Now the tunnels carry cables under the Pennines. Which makes it just that bit more expensive to open when periodically, someone suggests it to increase rail capacity in the North of England.
The wires were put back using the current voltage system in the early 1990s, but the line only goes to Glossop now, after reversing into Hadfield then out again, this being at the end of a stub of another line that was largely closed. Both these places were used as locations for the comedy, "The League of Gentlemen," and I spot the job centre where Pauline did her stuff before we return to Manchester. There are a couple of camp gents on the train mocking the Cheshire set pretensions that someone of their acquaintance is claiming. Aside from this I notice that you can still see the old style electricification masts in place. Modern masts tend to span one track only. These ones are much wider than the existing two tracks, suggesting that there were four tracks here once.
I get off at Guide Bridge, a junction of various lines. This is not a nice place. Outside there is a rather stark church and slightly down at heel shopping street. The station has been burnt out and is being refurbished. There is a Network Rail depot just beyond the station. Rows of broken and rusting tracks and sad remanents of better times in the form of old signalling cable brackets occupoy a huge amount of space behind the up platform. There is a sense of loss about this place that leaves me almost aching with nostalgia for a time and place I never knew. The fact that I am the only one person waiting for a connection makes me feel faintly uneasy.
Nevertheless it's not long before a two coach Pacer grates round the corner from Manchester. This conveys me past Romiley where another line from the city joins us, past an aqueduct which is part of a new park, then we spur off the line on to a short branch terminating in Rose Hill Marple. This appears to be a small Cheshire town. In an unusual move, I walk to the other station - plain old "Marple," which easily allows me to cover the next line without having to wait for a train back from Rose Hill. This is where the line that I branched off from earlier continues to. It then joins up with the Trans Pennine line from Manchester that heads through Edale to Sheffield. Aside from the stretch between Marple and Chinley, I've completed the rest of the line and will finish that section at on a later date.
So another Pacer takes me back to Manchester, this time via Reddish, a much busier route than the one via Guide Bridge, which cheers me slightly. The light is already fading on this most late of days as I embark on the next stage. At Piccadilly I go down into the Metrolink and take an Old Trafford-bound tram across the city to Victoria station. It is absolutely rammed with Man U fans off to the ground.
Then it's off up the Rochdale line on a two coach Sprinter to Hebden Bridge, my first foray into Yorkshire today. I've been here before, during the Settle-Carlisle trip. It was dark on that occasion, so it's nice to be able to appreciate this well preserved station, carefully painted in old BR London Midland colours. A couple of years ago, Hebden Bridge was voted the best place to live in the UK. Sadly I don't have a chance to investigate properly, as the town is some distance away. I have to return back down the line. This time it's a two coach 158 and runs fast to Rochdale, which is handy. Then I climb on a three coach Pacer which takes me round the Oldham loop back to Manchester Victoria. This is due to be converted to light rail and become part of the Metrolink, evidence of which can be seen in some new stations and electrical plant already appearing. I notice the latter is surrounded by feet of razor wire to keep the vandals out. I have a small doze on the return train. There's nothing to see as it's now dark, so I'm not missing anything. It's a strange feeling that it's the penultimate day of the year. It just feels like any other weekend.
It may be dark, but there's more to do yet. Next leg is Victoria to Stalybridge. This is another line due to be added to the Metro, though not converted, it being part of one of the trans-Pennine routes. It's crammed with shoppers leaving the city, and the train terminates at Stalybridge, where I make a wonderful discovery. On the down platform is a real ale pub, that's been in the station buildings for over a century. It's full of railway memrobilia, has several different beers on, and the epitome of the welcoming buxom Northern barmaid, straight out of a personal fantasy! I enjoy a couple of drinks before heading back on a class 185 to Piccadilly, taking in the other route back to the city. There I get on a 323 EMU to the Aiport.
I have a quick look around, then get on a Trans-Pennine 185 to York. Annoyingly I have to retrace my steps past Piccailly and Stalybridge. Not long after we're over the border into Yorkshire and make stops at Huddersfield, Dewsbury and Leeds before I reach my resting place for the night, York. I practically walk a circuit of the city to find my hotel. There's no food on there but luckily there is a Wetherspoons next door with plenty of room and still serving. Can't remember anything other than waking up to find I have a view of the gently flooded Ouse under overcast skies.
Today is the last day of the year and it's a Sunday. I have a heavy heart on both counts; I loathe the New Year hysteria and the trains are always so poor on Sundays. I know that despite my best efforts I will get little covered today. I am chiefly looking forward to the daft Cross Country trip that will end the day. So I head to the castle-like city station, and head down to Huddersfield on a 185, packed as ever, even on this day.
Huddersfield is another grand station, four tracks running through the centre and several bay platforms under a magnificent arched overall roof. Each end of the station building houses a real ale bar - both in the CAMRA guide! - though today neither are open sadly. Never mind. My carriage is gently chugging on the far bay platform, a two coach Pacer to take me along the Penistone line to Sheffield. This is another fairly scenic line, and is regarded as the replacement for the Woodhead Line, even though it requires something of a detour. I spy a narrow guage railway at a stop called Shelley that will merit further investigation at some future time. The train sadly fills up with some of the more obnoxious youths on offer, most of them getting off at Meadowhall, the new giant shopping centre.
Another trip to Sheffield without seeing the city! I begin my return to York. I take it slowly because I've got ages until my train down south. It's a four coach Voyager to Doncaster, then an HST to York. The Voyager was actually going from Doncaster to Wakefield and Leeds before going to York, an astonishly long way round - presumably it doesn't always take this route! At Doncaster I overhear, with a mixture of amusement and despair, a teenage boy telling his girlfriend that he is going to drink an entire bottle of "Tabu" tonight. I want to ask him WHY?
I have ages until my train at York, so I head to the National Railway Museum, via the new direct link from the platforms. After the obligatory feeling of awe and smallness standing next to the Deltic, I have a look round the basement store and then spend 20 minute trying to work out how the signalling display works. It replicates a section of the panel at York, but due to the museum being on the west side of the line, the direction of the panel indicators runs in the opposite direction to the trains, which is much more confusing than it sounds!
The day is winding down fast as I get on board the Voyager that will take me to Bristol. I've wanted to do this route for ages though maybe a daytime trip would make rather more sense! We head through Doncaster, Sheffield, Derby and Tamworth and the about the same number of counties before we halt at Birmingham for 25 minutes. This gives me a chance to get something to eat at a grim grocer's, that part of Birmingham being less than comprehensive for facilities. We wish each other a happy new year and I continue my journey through Cheltenham, skipping Worcester on the avoiding line (how come it got missed off this route?) before the lights of Bristol loom in the distance. We make stops at Parkway and Temple Meads, where I have one last drink and wish the barman a happy new year before clambering on to the buffet-less HST home.
We're into Paddington at about 11.40pm and the journey home makes me vow that I will not do this again. I will be at home before the madness gets going. Everything is now doomed to annoy or alarm me. There is a POOL of blood at the end of a trail of it on the underground station, a surprisingly shocking scene. The Bakerloo line is full of w*****s smoking dope and being generally anti-social. The train is full of the scum of Bromley. I travel on London's suburban and central trains all the time and I don't think I've ever seen this volume of scum out at any time of the day. To top it all there is a white boy arguing with his girlfriend in a stupid fake Caribbean accent near the house when I get back. I give them a dirty look and hope they clear off soon. A partially sucessful trip. The Saturday ticked off several new routes but the Sunday was just a bit of a wash out. Happy New Year!
London-Manchester
Manchester-Hadfield-Guide Bridge
Guide Bridge-Rose Hill Marple
Marple-Reddish-Manchester
Manchester-Rochdale-Hebden Bridge
Hebden Bridge-Rochdale-Oldham-Manchester
Manchester-Stalybridge
Stalybridge-Manchester Aiport
Manchester Aiport-Stalybridge-Huddersfield-York
York-Leeds
Leeds-Huddersfield
Huddersfield-Sheffield
Sheffield-Doncaster-York
York-Doncaster-Sheffield-Derby-Birmingham-Cheltenham-Bristol
Bristol-London
Sunday 31 December 2006
Saturday 7 October 2006
West Midlands 5-7 October 2006
I think it was at around this time I decided to go all out to finish the quest rather than just pick routes off as part of sightseeing trips. I took a long weekend as it was my birthday, and as there was something in particular that I wanted to visit in Birmingham, this struck me as an ideal opportunity to clock up some mileage in the Midlands. The easiest way to cross off the remaining route between Worcester and Birmingham was to start my journey there. So on Thursday 5 October after work I got the HST from Paddington to Worcester Foregate Street. I do find the place a bit threatening at night but know of a decent pub to go to. Sadly it gets worse from here on in as there are yobs messing around in the corridor outside my room until 3am. I complain to the night staff and this nets me a refund of breakfast from the manager in the morning, but it can't make up for the loss of sleep.
So it's gratefully that I head back to Foregate Street the next morning. This is one of the oddest stations I've seen. It has two platforms and both lines are run as single tracks, so that trains can arrive in either direction on both sides. A two car 170 carries me and plenty of others to Birmingham New Street via Bromsgrove. At BNS I head to a National Trust building. This is the last of the city's back to back houses, in fact three of them in a terrace, that have been preserved and fitted out in the style of three different eras. It's one of the best museums I've seen, helped by the very good guide. The area around them is being re-invented with the usual bars and bowling alleys. The gloominess of the place is deepened by the rain which is bucketing down by now. Drenched, I get some lunch at M&S at New Street then head off on the next leg.
This is the stopping train to Stafford, going via Aston, Walsall, Rugeley, on to the Trent Valley Line and up to Stafford. I think it was a four coach Sprinter and it is a surprisingly long trip, but then we have left the conurbation and crossed into Staffordshire. It's a short wait for the train back to Wolverhampton, and this is a Desiro EMU, being the stopping electric train from Liverpool to Birmingham, and almost new at the time. It's an uneventful smooth run back.
At Wolverhampton it's a wee wait for the Walsall shuttle. This is a single coach Sprinter that calls only at Walsall. It's paid for by the local council, and is always being threatened with the chop. Hardly anyone is on it so it is going to be difficult to stave off death for ever. I'm sure it also travels under the wires too so it's wasting a diesel unit. At Walsall I notice that the BNS train back is fast, but it actually takes a different route back, spurring off to the right after Hamstead rather than going back through Aston. This is handy as fast is always better, and it does follow another new line I suppose, though without stations.
The evening rush hour is starting now, and the two coach 170 to Nuneaton that is next is standing room only. Still it's not a long journey. I can hardly see anything out of the window and am grateful to bail out. It's another busy one coach Sprinter down to Coventry. I like Coventry station. It's a particular 50s/60s design that integrates all the station buildings into one glass-panelled structure, footbridge, buffet, the lot. Chichester and Banbury are similar and they remind me of the swimming pool and town hall in Lewisham. It's annoying that trains don't run directly from Nuneaton to Leamington rather than stopping at Coventry - surely another disincentive for people who might otherwise travel by train. Especially as the train from Coventry to Leamington is a Voyager Cross Country train, which is unbelievably overcrowded.
Not looking forward to Leamington as despite being a Spa town it is also known as a chav town. They're not wrong and I keep away from the platform and go into the very pleasant buffet for a coffee. A few trains pass before my 171 to Stratford Upon Avon arrives. In Shakespeare's home town I have time to go to a couple of real ale pubs before going back for the Birmingham line via Henley in Arden. Irritatingly the train is late, which meant I could have relaxed a bit more in the pub, but it's not such a big deal as this is the last leg of the day.
As the train nears the city people going out for the evening start to get in. Taking over the train seems to be a new trend for teens and 20-somethings. It never seems to occur to these groups that taking a couple of bays of seats even if there are just four of you, then playing loud music and cracking open cans (then leaving them) as a pre-cursor for your night out is anti-social. The old notion of the quiet public space seems to be dead now. This doesn't leave me in the best mood when I have to find my hotel in Broad Street. I have no map and there are a fair few undesirables and drunken youths already about. Eventually I find it. The room is HUGE, way too big for a double. Then just to make sure I don't get another good night's sleep, the fire alarm goes off at midnight. Being 8 floors up, I'm not keen to dawdle and reach the car park without a coat. I freeze while we wait for the all clear, nearly an hour later. At least I'm not in pyjamas like some of the others. It's a non-smoking hotel so a smoker is suspected. I suspect the gaggle of gigglers nearby, the only guests who are taking this opportunity for a cigarette break, and am not in the mood for laughter myself.
I keep my clothes close by in case it goes off again, but next thing I know it's morning. The alarm actually goes off while I'm dressing but stops quickly. I grab breakfast on the way to Birmingham New Street then get the 323 EMU to Lichfield Trent Valley. I hop off just to have a look at the main Trent Valley Line that runs at a right angle and at a lower level to the line I've just travelled on, then travel back one stop to Lichfield Town. I take a tour of the beautiful cathedral with its distinctive triple spires, then get the return train to Birmingham. The line actually heads right through the city and south west to Longfield and Redditch, the latter being my planned destination. However to my annoyance there are engineering works all day between King's Norton and Redditch. I won't get this branch done this time and I resign myself to having to head back another day just to do this. Since I have a specific train to catch home I head to the limit of the service today - King's Norton - just because I have nothing else planned. Never before has this felt so pointless! I covered so much yesterday that today just feels like a damp squib and I look forward to going home. But there's a bit to be done yet.
Back at BNS I get lunch then walk to Moor Street, through the packed throng of the shoppers. Moor Street was a terminus for services from the South East Midlands until 1987, when the through lines to Snow Hill and beyond were re-laid. More recently the terminus has been renovated in 30s Great Western Railway style and some trains are planned to terminate some trains there once more, freeing up capacity at BNS. I get on a two coach Sprinter going to Worcester via Kidderminster, though I am getting off at Stourbridge Junction. There I get on to the single coach Sprinter to Stourbridge Town and back again. I swear the journey is over before the train has revved up once, such is the short length of the branch. A vehicle called a Parry People Mover has actually been tested on the branch recently, a lightweight tram-like beast that runs on a flywheel system and uses much less energy. I was hoping to get a go on this but it wasn't running today. However more recently as part of the new franchise (West Midlands), it was announced that some of these had indeed been commissioned for the branch, so I will get my wish. Imagination of this sort is vital to keep our branch lines alive.
And that's it really, I've done all I can today. But I still have lots of time to kill. So instead of heading back into the city I get off at Smethwick Galton Bridge, an interchange between the high level local line and low level main line. It's very smart but seems to be next to a motorway, like much of the Midlands, and is quite isolated and uncomfortable. The first train through on the main line is the slow train to Wolverhampton, so I get on this. My ticket, a West Midlands Rover, is actually valid all the way out to Gobowen, Crewe and Stoke. But the trains are not frequent enough for me to get out to any of these and back again unfortunately. It would have been good to do the Stafford to Stoke line, but this has been permanently replaced by a bus. You can only travel this line on a fast train to Manchester. That will have to be another day. The day feels like a downer as I head back to BNS to get a Pendolino home.
Lines covered:
Thursday 5 October 2007
Paddington-Worcester Foregate Street
Friday 6 October 2007
Worcester Foregate Street - Birmingham New Street
Birmingham New Street-Rugeley Trent Valley-Stafford
Stafford-Wolverhampton
Wolverhampton-Walsall
Walsall-Birmingham New Street (Aston avoiding line)
Birmingham New Street-Nuneaton
Nuneaton-Coventry
Coventry-Leamington Spa
Leamington Spa-Stratford-upon-Avon
Stratford-upon-Avon-Birmingham Snow Hill
Saturday 7 October 2007
Birmingham New Street-Lichfield Trent Valley
Lichfield Trent Valley-Lichfield Town
Lichfield Town-King's Norton
King's Norton-Birmingham New Street
Birmingham Moor Street-Stourbridge Junction
Stourbridge Junction-Stourbridge Town-Stourbridge Junction
Stourbridge Junction-Smethwick Galton Bridge
Smethwick Galton Bridge-Wolverhampton
Wolverhampton-Birmingham New Street-London Euston
So it's gratefully that I head back to Foregate Street the next morning. This is one of the oddest stations I've seen. It has two platforms and both lines are run as single tracks, so that trains can arrive in either direction on both sides. A two car 170 carries me and plenty of others to Birmingham New Street via Bromsgrove. At BNS I head to a National Trust building. This is the last of the city's back to back houses, in fact three of them in a terrace, that have been preserved and fitted out in the style of three different eras. It's one of the best museums I've seen, helped by the very good guide. The area around them is being re-invented with the usual bars and bowling alleys. The gloominess of the place is deepened by the rain which is bucketing down by now. Drenched, I get some lunch at M&S at New Street then head off on the next leg.
This is the stopping train to Stafford, going via Aston, Walsall, Rugeley, on to the Trent Valley Line and up to Stafford. I think it was a four coach Sprinter and it is a surprisingly long trip, but then we have left the conurbation and crossed into Staffordshire. It's a short wait for the train back to Wolverhampton, and this is a Desiro EMU, being the stopping electric train from Liverpool to Birmingham, and almost new at the time. It's an uneventful smooth run back.
At Wolverhampton it's a wee wait for the Walsall shuttle. This is a single coach Sprinter that calls only at Walsall. It's paid for by the local council, and is always being threatened with the chop. Hardly anyone is on it so it is going to be difficult to stave off death for ever. I'm sure it also travels under the wires too so it's wasting a diesel unit. At Walsall I notice that the BNS train back is fast, but it actually takes a different route back, spurring off to the right after Hamstead rather than going back through Aston. This is handy as fast is always better, and it does follow another new line I suppose, though without stations.
The evening rush hour is starting now, and the two coach 170 to Nuneaton that is next is standing room only. Still it's not a long journey. I can hardly see anything out of the window and am grateful to bail out. It's another busy one coach Sprinter down to Coventry. I like Coventry station. It's a particular 50s/60s design that integrates all the station buildings into one glass-panelled structure, footbridge, buffet, the lot. Chichester and Banbury are similar and they remind me of the swimming pool and town hall in Lewisham. It's annoying that trains don't run directly from Nuneaton to Leamington rather than stopping at Coventry - surely another disincentive for people who might otherwise travel by train. Especially as the train from Coventry to Leamington is a Voyager Cross Country train, which is unbelievably overcrowded.
Not looking forward to Leamington as despite being a Spa town it is also known as a chav town. They're not wrong and I keep away from the platform and go into the very pleasant buffet for a coffee. A few trains pass before my 171 to Stratford Upon Avon arrives. In Shakespeare's home town I have time to go to a couple of real ale pubs before going back for the Birmingham line via Henley in Arden. Irritatingly the train is late, which meant I could have relaxed a bit more in the pub, but it's not such a big deal as this is the last leg of the day.
As the train nears the city people going out for the evening start to get in. Taking over the train seems to be a new trend for teens and 20-somethings. It never seems to occur to these groups that taking a couple of bays of seats even if there are just four of you, then playing loud music and cracking open cans (then leaving them) as a pre-cursor for your night out is anti-social. The old notion of the quiet public space seems to be dead now. This doesn't leave me in the best mood when I have to find my hotel in Broad Street. I have no map and there are a fair few undesirables and drunken youths already about. Eventually I find it. The room is HUGE, way too big for a double. Then just to make sure I don't get another good night's sleep, the fire alarm goes off at midnight. Being 8 floors up, I'm not keen to dawdle and reach the car park without a coat. I freeze while we wait for the all clear, nearly an hour later. At least I'm not in pyjamas like some of the others. It's a non-smoking hotel so a smoker is suspected. I suspect the gaggle of gigglers nearby, the only guests who are taking this opportunity for a cigarette break, and am not in the mood for laughter myself.
I keep my clothes close by in case it goes off again, but next thing I know it's morning. The alarm actually goes off while I'm dressing but stops quickly. I grab breakfast on the way to Birmingham New Street then get the 323 EMU to Lichfield Trent Valley. I hop off just to have a look at the main Trent Valley Line that runs at a right angle and at a lower level to the line I've just travelled on, then travel back one stop to Lichfield Town. I take a tour of the beautiful cathedral with its distinctive triple spires, then get the return train to Birmingham. The line actually heads right through the city and south west to Longfield and Redditch, the latter being my planned destination. However to my annoyance there are engineering works all day between King's Norton and Redditch. I won't get this branch done this time and I resign myself to having to head back another day just to do this. Since I have a specific train to catch home I head to the limit of the service today - King's Norton - just because I have nothing else planned. Never before has this felt so pointless! I covered so much yesterday that today just feels like a damp squib and I look forward to going home. But there's a bit to be done yet.
Back at BNS I get lunch then walk to Moor Street, through the packed throng of the shoppers. Moor Street was a terminus for services from the South East Midlands until 1987, when the through lines to Snow Hill and beyond were re-laid. More recently the terminus has been renovated in 30s Great Western Railway style and some trains are planned to terminate some trains there once more, freeing up capacity at BNS. I get on a two coach Sprinter going to Worcester via Kidderminster, though I am getting off at Stourbridge Junction. There I get on to the single coach Sprinter to Stourbridge Town and back again. I swear the journey is over before the train has revved up once, such is the short length of the branch. A vehicle called a Parry People Mover has actually been tested on the branch recently, a lightweight tram-like beast that runs on a flywheel system and uses much less energy. I was hoping to get a go on this but it wasn't running today. However more recently as part of the new franchise (West Midlands), it was announced that some of these had indeed been commissioned for the branch, so I will get my wish. Imagination of this sort is vital to keep our branch lines alive.
And that's it really, I've done all I can today. But I still have lots of time to kill. So instead of heading back into the city I get off at Smethwick Galton Bridge, an interchange between the high level local line and low level main line. It's very smart but seems to be next to a motorway, like much of the Midlands, and is quite isolated and uncomfortable. The first train through on the main line is the slow train to Wolverhampton, so I get on this. My ticket, a West Midlands Rover, is actually valid all the way out to Gobowen, Crewe and Stoke. But the trains are not frequent enough for me to get out to any of these and back again unfortunately. It would have been good to do the Stafford to Stoke line, but this has been permanently replaced by a bus. You can only travel this line on a fast train to Manchester. That will have to be another day. The day feels like a downer as I head back to BNS to get a Pendolino home.
Lines covered:
Thursday 5 October 2007
Paddington-Worcester Foregate Street
Friday 6 October 2007
Worcester Foregate Street - Birmingham New Street
Birmingham New Street-Rugeley Trent Valley-Stafford
Stafford-Wolverhampton
Wolverhampton-Walsall
Walsall-Birmingham New Street (Aston avoiding line)
Birmingham New Street-Nuneaton
Nuneaton-Coventry
Coventry-Leamington Spa
Leamington Spa-Stratford-upon-Avon
Stratford-upon-Avon-Birmingham Snow Hill
Saturday 7 October 2007
Birmingham New Street-Lichfield Trent Valley
Lichfield Trent Valley-Lichfield Town
Lichfield Town-King's Norton
King's Norton-Birmingham New Street
Birmingham Moor Street-Stourbridge Junction
Stourbridge Junction-Stourbridge Town-Stourbridge Junction
Stourbridge Junction-Smethwick Galton Bridge
Smethwick Galton Bridge-Wolverhampton
Wolverhampton-Birmingham New Street-London Euston
Sunday 30 July 2006
Wales 24-30 July 2006
The Prologue
Though I've had some fairly intense bashing days and weekends, this remains my longest rail-themed trip. The idea grew out of three things. The first was a desire to visit some of the narrow gauge railways of Wales that I'd heard such a lot about. The second was curiosity about the remote nature of the lines that served the holiday resorts of the West Wales Coast. Finally I'd noticed during my endless timetable checks that are the life of a basher, that the last trains out of London and the first to North Wales were remarkably close together. Having missed the once-common phenomena of the slow night train, the type that was a normal train rather than a sleeper, this seemed like a chance for me to enjoy such a journey. I must acknowledge the writer Ian Marchant as some of the inspiration for this trip. His book, "Parallel Lines," is both an incredibly well-researched history of railways and a railway travelogue that makes you want to visit the same sights that he sees during his journeys. I'd recommend it to anyone interested in railways.
What ensued then was a couple of weeks of furious timetable checking, hotel booking, and acquisition of decent walking clothes, bags, maps etc. One week before the off, a national railway signallers strike was announced. Disaster! It would allow me to reach the first stop (Aberystwyth) and return from the last (Bangor) but not allow any travels between the two, ie, the bulk of the trip. With a heavy heart I looked at the various options for cancelling and refunding hotels and tickets, news about contingency plans being thin on the ground. Finally, with just about the minimum time left, the strike was called off.
Monday
And so it came to pass that I hoisted my giant rucksack onto my back on the evening of Monday 24 July 26 and set off for New Beckenham station. A taste of what the forthcoming week would be like came as I struggled on the tube and tried to find an unobtrusive corner for the bag in the pub at Paddington. The final train of the day to Swansea came at last and I squeezed on gratefully. I'd just settled down in my seat and propped the bag opposite – I'd got a cheap first class fare to give me a bit more space – when the conductor told me the air conditioning had failed in this coach and I'd be better off moving. It was a sweltering night but I thought I'd stick with it anyway now I was comfortable. Then suddenly it was decided that this train was out of order and we would all have to move to another one two platforms away. It was another 125 so at least there was still room even though all the seat reservations were in the original train. This was to be a journey like no other that I'd done. There was a curious atmosphere aboard this very late train as it tunnelled its way through the hot night air. It lacked the usual burble of conversation and I-Pods. It seemed strangely calm, probably because most people now seemed to be dozing. I'd heard that the old night trains could be hellish, full of noise and long stops, but this seemed like a great way to travel to me. For a railway fan this was helped by the announcement that we would be doing two engineering diversions that night. I guess if I'd been returning to Swansea and I had work in the morning it wouldn't have been the best news, but the later we arrived, the better for me, as it shortened the wait I'd have at Swansea for the first train out. This wait was not something I particularly relished as it would be just before sunrise and I had no idea what the conditions there were like. Our first diversion was to split off the main line after Swindon, then through the now-drowsy centres of Bath and Bristol (Temple Meads), before passing through seemingly endless sodium-lit container train sidings, then heading up the cross country route and arriving at Bristol Parkway the wrong way round, facing London again. Me and the driver changed seats then we headed off towards the Severn Tunnel, something not as easy to discern as in the day light at this time of day. The second diversion was to use the Vale of Glamorgan line to reach Bridgend instead of the mainline. So I missed one new line but clocked up another I guess. This had been recently re-opened to passengers, and although I'd been as far as Barry (and hope never to go there again), the rest was new. I tried to spot the newly opened stations, but they flashed past in the darkness. I was aware only of a shadowy coastline. So sometime after 3am, but a bit later than timetabled, we pulled into Swansea. My next train was at 4.30am.
Tuesday
The sky was still dark, though there were tinges of blue appearing. Being quite far west, the sun was still chasing us - doubtless in London the sun would be poking over the horizon by now. The early morning chill was not too bad, but I was glad of my jacket and the flask of coffee that I'd brought just for this moment I found a spot on the opposite platform and settled down. Swansea was a reasonably busy place even at that time. As we left the train, the cleaners and caterers moved in - our train was going to form the first service back to London at 5am. Then early straggling passengers started to arrive for the first trains. Finally a single coach Sprinter came in, the destination board stating Fishguard. Great.The Rosslare boat train that used to be a 125 between London and Fishguard is now a single car bus on rails. And hoardes of people got off, mostly heading for the 125 I had arrived on. So now instead of coming off the ferry, exhausted, and being able to relax in a comfortable spacious decent train and sleep back to London, you have to struggle for a manky seat on almost the crappiest train in the UK, and clamber off at Swansea in the middle of the night, wait to be allowed on the London train and try to snatch some rest if you can. Even worse at this moment was the fact that this was to be my train to Shrewsbury - and a comfortable seat was badly needed at this time of day. The cleaners descended and cleared it of lager cans. By the time they had finished the birds were singing and light blue streaks were expanding across the sky. At around 4.20 am I gratefully scrambled aboard and hoped that there would be room for my bag all the way to Shrewsbury.
Needless to say despite my best efforts my attempts to resist sleep were fruitless. I’d really wanted to enjoy the journey and see the scenery, but was only vaguely aware of the pale blue dawn getting lighter and lighter, and the starkly beautiful countryside every time I opened my eyes. Looking back it seems incomprehensible that I was on that train for 4 hours. It seemed to pass in no time at all and I must have missed so much. I will have to do this line again some day - perhaps tied in with some walking. The service was reasonably busy, especially when we joined the Marches Line. I was awake to see the famous hills at Church Stretton and got my first view of Shrewsbury as it built up around us. It’s clearly worthy of exploration as I can see various castle-like structures of interest. Finally we pass the biggest old-style signalbox I’ve ever seen as we cross the line curving in from Birmingham, and then we’re there. It’s a weird feeling knowing that a day passed while I was on trains, and hope that it won’t catch up with me later.
At Shrewsbury I find a faintly grubby café and have breakfast, tired but looking forward to the rest of the trip. I’m alarmed by the number of people waiting for the same train as I gather that the Cambrian Coast trains are usually 158s, ie, two or three coaches at most. As it turned out I needn’t have worried, it was a four-coach train that divided at Macyllenth, and at that point there are only a couple of stops to Aberystwyth. It was on this journey that I first appreciated that these are decent trains for longer journeys. They are as good as the nice new trains operating to the coast in the south and at points on the trip must have been doing 100mph. There are few stations on the route through Central Wales, though I’m guessing the place is not heavily populated. The countryside is pleasant enough though it’s a bit hot for me as I discover when we arrive at the terminus. Aberystwyth has a substantial station building, a testament to greater things in the past, and it’s nice to see that it’s been used for a restaurant rather than demolished and replaced with a portakabin like so many others. I head to the seafront guest house that I’m staying in tonight. It’s basic but clean and the owners are friendly. I just have time to change into clean clothes more suited to the warm weather and return to the station.
I upgrade to a first class ticket for the Vale of Rheidol Railway. It’s worth it as I don’t have to share the carriage with hundreds of screeching kids. I know that kids keep these places going but they ruin it for me and I’ve been looking forward to this. This railway was BR’s only narrow gauge railway and only post-1968 steam railway until privatisation came, and the signs of it being BR’s are everywhere. The No Smoking signs etc all date from BR and remind me of the trains I knew as a kid. The trip to Devil’s Bridge is fantastic. We travel along the side of a steep valley, granting a magnificent view of the countryside, snaking across high level crossings that are used only by farmers and winding around trackways that are hardly wider than the narrow track itself. I begin to appreciate the imperative for such railways. In such areas it just isn’t practical to get a standard gauge railway up the valley and narrow gauge is cheaper to run as well. It presented a way of getting goods (and later people) to and from remote communities. It’s a shame we haven’t used more imagination in railway construction, as use of narrow or light rail might well have been a way of preserving more of the rural network. They were particularly common in Wales for the slate mining industry and a fraction now survive. At Devil’s Bridge I look at the three layered bridge, the crossing having been rebuilt a few times, one above the other. It's weird to finally be standing in front of it. It's been nearly 30 years since I first saw a picture of it in a Ladybird book. As a family we were supposed to camp near here with a caravan-owning relative but it didn't come off and just my brother went. He sent us a postcard of the bridge and I longed to see it myself. And now here I am. After visiting the falls I have a drink and get back on the return train. I read about the clifftop railway in Aberystwyth itself and manage to get back in time to visit it. It’s not like the Hastings Cliff Lifts as it is rather higher. Hence it rises up the cliff then flattens out then rises once more, so tackling the incline in two stages. There are some lovely views of the bay from the top, and I walk along the coast for a bit wishing that I had time to linger. Some day I will just book a holiday for relaxing! After scrambling down the cliff I then have a proper look around the town. It’s a pleasant place, relatively chav-free, with plenty of interesting buildings – the university, an unusual church and some nice bridges over a sort of inland harbour to the south of the town. Despite being holiday time the town has a quiet but pleasant atmosphere. There are pleasing little pubs and chip shops, where I dine before returning to my guest house. I sleep well after feeling like had two days in one.
At Tywyn I am to travel on the Talyllyn Railway. This has an incredibly romantic story attached to it. Another slate railway, by the end of the second world war it was pretty much finished. Then one of the early conservationists, LTC Rolt visited and was forced to walk the track as no trains were running due to the derelict state of the infrastructure and the rolling stock. He pledged to do something. The railway was erroneously left in private hands at nationalisation and thus Rolt was able to get directly involved when the line's owner, Sir Hadyn Jones, died in the early 1950s. With an enthusiastic bunch of volunteers he managed to keep it going and ultimately turn it round so that 50 years on it is a successful tourist attraction. Rolt is an inspiring figure with his favour of the little man against the faceless state, the local against the global, and the distinctive against the anonymous. Ironically he was anti-nationalisation because it sought to give everything the same identity - something we now recognise as vital for the railway to run as a realistic concern in the car-crazy world. So I feel some weight of history as I board the little train - sadly I see neither of the original locomotives, which are still plying their trade up and down the line - and enjoy another splendid scenic trip through the lush countryside. The line ends at Nant Gwernol, where I wait for the return trip because there is little there. One stop back is Abergynolwyn where I have lunch, then finally back one more station to Dolgoch Falls, which is the main attraction along the route. I have a couple of hours to explore the paths that snake around the falls - sadly carrying the bloody pack all the way, which makes me feel as if I'm in the Army - before stopping for some tea. There are some lovely old road signs at the Falls, with stripey black and white posts, and I like to think that no-one has changed them rather than them being preserved for the sake of tourism. The first class upgrade on the return to Tywyn is worth doing again, 50p for space for the pack and some peace. I am already realising that I should have based myself in just in one or two places. Trying to do a weekend city trip multiplied by three and hauling a week's kit on my back just doesn't work!
The train to Fairbourne is late, but there's plenty of daylight. The route starts to get really pretty now as we hug the coast. The scouse bloke next to me suddenly jumps up and declares, "Porpoises!" but I can't really see them. At Fairbourne the line snakes along the coast in front of the foothills of Snowdonia and ruefully I realise this is another place I'd love to explore that's going to have to wait. It's quite a stroll to the Sea View Guesthouse but well worth it. The room is lovely, large with substantial windows giving a view of the coast round to the end of the peninsular. It's a balmy evening and I sit by the window for ages enjoying the breeze. There seems to be a small farm nearby as I can see horses, goats and sheep grazing a couple of gardens away. Eventually I decide to go and find some food. This is a difficult task! The landlord tells me the best way to the coast which is go further in the same direction, then head off down a narrow lane, cross under a beautiful railway bridge that just appears to grow out of the rock, then on to the beach. I walk along a concrete wall which I didn't know at the time was actually built as coastal defences during the war until I reach the Fairbourne and Barmouth Beach Railway - my destination for tomorrow - and head back inland. I pass several holiday camps and an unfriendly looking pub before finding a chip shop. I'm just in time as it is closing up as I order. Then I head back and enjoy the rare luxury of sleeping with the window open, watching the sky get darker and darker as pinpricks of light start appearing along the coast. I would really have liked to stay here. Being based at a mid-way point would have made more sense in retrospect.
Thursday
I have a peaceful night, though I'm aware of some heavy snoring (not my own!). It sounds as if it's in the room with me which is slightly unnerving but the atmosphere of the place is calm and welcoming, so I'm not alarmed by it. After breakfast I go down to the beach again and walk along to the Fairbourne Beach Light Railway. In terms of scale and scope this is along the lines of the Romney Hythe and Dymchurch Railway, and its main purpose is to get me to the Barmouth Ferry at the spit into the Mawddach estuary known as "the Bar". It's an enjoyable little bob over to Barmouth Harbour in a tiny boat. I have a quick look around, pausing to go to the RNLI museum and shop. I shall never understand why the RNLI is not government -funded, and buy a few bits and make a donation. Morbid though it it seems, I've often thought I'd like to leave them something in my will! Barmouth is okay, by no means the nicest seaside town I've been to but certainly not the worst. The main reason I'm there is to walk back across the wooden railway viaduct across the estuary. Unusually there is a footpath parallel to the railway track, and for a modest sum, you can walk the length of it back to Fairbourne. The views of the river and Snowdonia are fantastic. At the other end there is a station, Morfa Mawddach, where I cross the track, and note that the platform clearly served another track once that curved off to the left, and later I discover that this went to Wrexham, having joined various other branches en route, all sadly now gone. I get back to the guest house where I've been able to leave my pack in the front room. The landlord has told me they'll be shopping but will leave the door open - lovely to know such places still exist! He's back anyway, and we chat about the walk I've just completed. He's a bit of a railway fan too, and gets quite heated about the Beeching when I mention the rusting bit of branch line that I've just found. Vowing to return some day I heave my pack off to the station and grab some lunch from the shop before heading off to Harlech.
The town of Harlech is up on a hill next to the castle, and my hotel is on the opposite hill. It's not very nice. It's a huge place, and I would guess that a family have bought it cheaply and hope to refurbish it some day. All the fittings are dated and scuffed. The carpet and bedding is pocked with burns. The TV is awkwardly plonked on a stained cloth on a chest of drawers - I'm guessing that TVs were not standard in hotels the last time it was fitted out. When I switch the shower on water comes out of the ceiling behind me. The smell of sour milk in the lounge makes me want to heave - and that is going some! I think longingly of the place I've left behind but comfort myself with the thought that it's a short stay. I head back down the hill then up a long staircase to the castle, which was built by the English against Welsh insurrection in 1283. It's a magnificent monument with great views of the surrounding countryside. There is a good view of the station with a curious level crossing that crosses two roads. I look up the long straight track heading north and think about the rest of my trip, trying to put the hotel room out of my mind. After the visit I go to a neighbouring hotel for a meal and wish I was staying there instead. I almost contemplate swapping as it wouldn't cost much, but then think of heaving everything up the hill again. By the time I've been through the sand dunes to the beach and walked along the public footpath to the hotel, climbed up the path and had a couple of drinks, it's nearly 11pm anyway. I do sleep well so I don't have much longer to go.
Friday
I head to Portmadog next. I'm going to the village of Portmerion first, an entire folly of a village which is most famous for being the location of 60s TV series, "The Prisoner". Minnifford is the nearest station, but I've already decided to go from Porthamdog so I can walk across the Cob. This is the artificial embankment created in the estuary of the River Glaslyn, to produce the harbour that eventually gave the town its name and its existence as the original port on the route from London to Dublin. This exhausts me because of the pack, and it's not that nice a walk either, because inevitably the embankment just just become another fast moving road which does not allow easy crossing for pedestrians at the other end. I am extremely grateful to reach Portmerion, where I eat a lot of ice cream and drink a lot of water! It's an interesting place, much smaller than it looks on TV. The best bit is the beach, where there is a boat shaped house that appears to grow out of the water and the quayside and the lighthouse-like lookout post. The hotel which features in the TV series extensively and is rather exclusive looking, and off limits to mere day trippers!
I head back to Minnifford, which is a junction with the famous Ffestiniog Railway, which I'm travelling on tomorrow, where I wait and watch the narrow guage trains until the real one comes to take me on. I go to Criccieth next, just to see the castle. I sit and have a cup of tea whilst waiting for the train and wonder at the plethora of pretty places along this coastline, looking forward to the end of the line, Pwllheli. Am I in for a shock! Pwllheli is a roughish town, scary looking pubs, big estate, etc etc. I'm staying above a pub which is not bad, but is not a holiday place, it's definitely more for overseas workers and the like. I do have a wander on the beach but my heart is not in it. Before the local yobs start clustering on the street outside I head back and for the first time, watch the TV all evening, not eating anything, and wanting to go to the bar below but just not comfortable there.
Saturday
I'm grateful to get away and decide to use my pass on a bus back to Porthmadog, the first train not being until nearly 10am. It's full of chavs who get off at the big holiday camp. The image of the row of baseball caps and tracksuits hanging up when they all get changed into kitchen staff overalls etc is quite an endearing one. Usually changing rooms are for changing into tracksuits! At Porthmadog I head to the Ffestiniog Railway. This time I don't have to cross the Cob. I upgrade to first, again partly for somwhere to put the pack and because there is a huge party of London scouts getting on! It's another fantastic trip through the mountains. The most interesting part is where a valley was flooded for a resevoir in the 1950s, cutting the line in half. The preservation society managed to operate the line until it had raised enough to build a loop to carry the line over and above itself and away from the valley. You can still see the old trackbed as you veer away from it.
By the time I reach Blaneau Ffestiniog, I've hit my first rainy day of the trip. It renders the pyramid-like lead waste heaps around the town even greyer than they really are. It's fascinating how slag heaps can be so spectacular! The rain holds off just long enough for me to reach the Llechwedd Slate Caverns. It's up a hill and along a dangerous road, not really suitable for pedestrians, like so much else these days, and it puts one family off entirely. I make it by climbing over some fences and doing some mild trespassing, as I am determined to get there. The museum has the obligatory fake Victorian shops, which I ignore, concentrating on the caverns themselves, which are amazing. The tough lives that men faced down here are almost beyond the modern imagination I suspect. There is something almost sacred in the atmosphere down here, especially in the flooded areas where the addition of underwater lights grant the caverns an incredible air of calmness. Up top I call Directory Enquiries for local cab firms, as I do not want to heave the pack back down to the station, the roads now being incredibly slippery. The cab is worth every penny and I am grateful to scramble aboard the "proper" train that arrives parallel to the Ffestiniog for Llandudno.
After two dodgy nights I am not looking forward to tonight, assuming that it will be English Chav heaven as is much of the North Wales coast. It's an easy journey to Llandudno, a large number of people getting on at Betws -Y-Coed, where buses to Snowdon link from, but surprisingly few at Llandudno Junction. A fantastic view of the Conwy Estuary greets me before we terminate at Llandudno, where a pleasant sight is to be seen. It's another Aberystwyth! It's clean and graceful, generally free of tossers, and with fanstastic views of the Great Orme, a geological feature that looms over the west end of the town. I find my guest house, but they have no record of the booking! Disaster. But all is not lost. They have a double room that has just been redecorated, not quite ready, but awaiting its first guest tomorrow. Hence it's free tonight. The owners are so friendly and accomodating and I feel very upbeat about the day as I head into town.
First stop is the Great Orme Tramway. This is fantastic, being pulled by cable through the streets at incredible gradients, before raeching a half-way station where you change for a second tram to take you right to the top of the Great Orme. Needless to say the views of the town between the Great and Little Ormes is amazing, but it's the incongruity of seeing a tram amongst the scenery that's entertaining. I work my way back down to the town, taking in a tiny church clinging to the side of the Orme and a cable car system which is not working today due to the high winds. I get drenched and wish I'd brought my as yet, untroubled waterproof trousers. Back in town I have a very pleasant walk along the front, almost to the Little Orme, before heading back for the inevitable fish n chips and heading back to the B&B. I check the train times en route and marvel at a)the generally low level of annoying people there and b)the fact that the station is clearly about a quarter of its original size. I imagine the crowds arriving in their thousands in the 1950s before cars and the Expressway blighted the coast here. Ahh.
Sunday
I leave my pack while I head back to the Great Orme to explore the ancient copper mine that has been unearthed there. Apparently it has thrown the accepted view of where the Bronze Age fits into human history because it pre-dates the mines from the middle east. You can explore it yourself with an audio guide, as many times as you like, which is great fun. Much more is waiting to be uncovered and I look forward to a return visit in a couple of decades! After that I find the cable car station, and enjoy an airborne ride down to the town. It's faintly alarming when you reach the end as it swoops down with some speed before two blokes grab it and let you out. Their wry grins make it clear that they have seen the look on my face a few times now! Before I head off I spy a Camera Obscura, something I've always wanted to see. It works by reflecting light via mirrors on to a projection table. By altering the arrangment of mirrors you change the angle of the view. The whole thing is housed inside a hut, the mirrors being in a turret like roof. With the doors closed the picture of the world outside projected on to the table is breathtaking, almost like looking at, for want of a better phrase, a living photograph! I'm glad that my trip to the town ends on a high, because the trip goes downhill from now on!
I get a bus to Bangor because the rail service on Sundays is so poor. Ideally I'd have gone to Holyhead, thus covering the whole North Wales line today, but there are, unbelievably, insufficient trains to reach there before the London train starts back. I look for a bus to Holyhead without sucess and can't help but think that my planning has been deficient here. Probably I was fed up by this point in the proceedngs! As Bangor is a cathedral and university city, I'm sure it will be a nice place, and I intend to head up to the Menai Straits to look at the bridges also. Wrong!!! The cathedral is tiny and closed. The town is run down and miserable. My maps are useless and I get hopelessly lost before calling a halt to it and heading for the station buffet, which is grubby but sells beer. Almost the final bombshell. There are delays caused by kids on the line at Chester (just RUN THEM OVER, they wouldn't do it again) and the London train (ie the one of just 3 that day) is cancelled. So I hung around in this pit of misery rather than going to Conway Castle or a better exploration of the Great Orme to drink crap beer, get lost and tired, then get crammed on to a 3 coach train with everyone off the Dublin ferry rather than a comfortable 8 coach first class seat. So enraged I slump into my seat and head for Crewe, not really able to enjoy what remains of the sea view over the Expressway, spitting blood at the notion of destroying it with a four lane road when there is a prefectly good two track railway all the way there, that is choosing to run hardly any trains today.
At Crewe I get a Pendolino back to Euston, where the final spoiler waits. The cab I have booked to take me home is 20 minutes late, the last thing I need just now. The driver doesn't even apologise, and expects me to be grateful that I am not one of the world's starving people when I say that I am tired and keen to be home. Though my last day has been a washout, I remember that I've enjoyed several packed days and completed some large chunks of the quest. A good result.
New lines this trip:
Barry to Bridgend
Bridgend to Swansea
Swansea to Shrewsbury
Shrewsbury to Aberystwyth
Dovey Junction to Pwllheli
Blaneau Ffestiniog to Llandudno
Bangor to Chester
Though I've had some fairly intense bashing days and weekends, this remains my longest rail-themed trip. The idea grew out of three things. The first was a desire to visit some of the narrow gauge railways of Wales that I'd heard such a lot about. The second was curiosity about the remote nature of the lines that served the holiday resorts of the West Wales Coast. Finally I'd noticed during my endless timetable checks that are the life of a basher, that the last trains out of London and the first to North Wales were remarkably close together. Having missed the once-common phenomena of the slow night train, the type that was a normal train rather than a sleeper, this seemed like a chance for me to enjoy such a journey. I must acknowledge the writer Ian Marchant as some of the inspiration for this trip. His book, "Parallel Lines," is both an incredibly well-researched history of railways and a railway travelogue that makes you want to visit the same sights that he sees during his journeys. I'd recommend it to anyone interested in railways.
What ensued then was a couple of weeks of furious timetable checking, hotel booking, and acquisition of decent walking clothes, bags, maps etc. One week before the off, a national railway signallers strike was announced. Disaster! It would allow me to reach the first stop (Aberystwyth) and return from the last (Bangor) but not allow any travels between the two, ie, the bulk of the trip. With a heavy heart I looked at the various options for cancelling and refunding hotels and tickets, news about contingency plans being thin on the ground. Finally, with just about the minimum time left, the strike was called off.
Monday
And so it came to pass that I hoisted my giant rucksack onto my back on the evening of Monday 24 July 26 and set off for New Beckenham station. A taste of what the forthcoming week would be like came as I struggled on the tube and tried to find an unobtrusive corner for the bag in the pub at Paddington. The final train of the day to Swansea came at last and I squeezed on gratefully. I'd just settled down in my seat and propped the bag opposite – I'd got a cheap first class fare to give me a bit more space – when the conductor told me the air conditioning had failed in this coach and I'd be better off moving. It was a sweltering night but I thought I'd stick with it anyway now I was comfortable. Then suddenly it was decided that this train was out of order and we would all have to move to another one two platforms away. It was another 125 so at least there was still room even though all the seat reservations were in the original train. This was to be a journey like no other that I'd done. There was a curious atmosphere aboard this very late train as it tunnelled its way through the hot night air. It lacked the usual burble of conversation and I-Pods. It seemed strangely calm, probably because most people now seemed to be dozing. I'd heard that the old night trains could be hellish, full of noise and long stops, but this seemed like a great way to travel to me. For a railway fan this was helped by the announcement that we would be doing two engineering diversions that night. I guess if I'd been returning to Swansea and I had work in the morning it wouldn't have been the best news, but the later we arrived, the better for me, as it shortened the wait I'd have at Swansea for the first train out. This wait was not something I particularly relished as it would be just before sunrise and I had no idea what the conditions there were like. Our first diversion was to split off the main line after Swindon, then through the now-drowsy centres of Bath and Bristol (Temple Meads), before passing through seemingly endless sodium-lit container train sidings, then heading up the cross country route and arriving at Bristol Parkway the wrong way round, facing London again. Me and the driver changed seats then we headed off towards the Severn Tunnel, something not as easy to discern as in the day light at this time of day. The second diversion was to use the Vale of Glamorgan line to reach Bridgend instead of the mainline. So I missed one new line but clocked up another I guess. This had been recently re-opened to passengers, and although I'd been as far as Barry (and hope never to go there again), the rest was new. I tried to spot the newly opened stations, but they flashed past in the darkness. I was aware only of a shadowy coastline. So sometime after 3am, but a bit later than timetabled, we pulled into Swansea. My next train was at 4.30am.
Tuesday
The sky was still dark, though there were tinges of blue appearing. Being quite far west, the sun was still chasing us - doubtless in London the sun would be poking over the horizon by now. The early morning chill was not too bad, but I was glad of my jacket and the flask of coffee that I'd brought just for this moment I found a spot on the opposite platform and settled down. Swansea was a reasonably busy place even at that time. As we left the train, the cleaners and caterers moved in - our train was going to form the first service back to London at 5am. Then early straggling passengers started to arrive for the first trains. Finally a single coach Sprinter came in, the destination board stating Fishguard. Great.The Rosslare boat train that used to be a 125 between London and Fishguard is now a single car bus on rails. And hoardes of people got off, mostly heading for the 125 I had arrived on. So now instead of coming off the ferry, exhausted, and being able to relax in a comfortable spacious decent train and sleep back to London, you have to struggle for a manky seat on almost the crappiest train in the UK, and clamber off at Swansea in the middle of the night, wait to be allowed on the London train and try to snatch some rest if you can. Even worse at this moment was the fact that this was to be my train to Shrewsbury - and a comfortable seat was badly needed at this time of day. The cleaners descended and cleared it of lager cans. By the time they had finished the birds were singing and light blue streaks were expanding across the sky. At around 4.20 am I gratefully scrambled aboard and hoped that there would be room for my bag all the way to Shrewsbury.
Needless to say despite my best efforts my attempts to resist sleep were fruitless. I’d really wanted to enjoy the journey and see the scenery, but was only vaguely aware of the pale blue dawn getting lighter and lighter, and the starkly beautiful countryside every time I opened my eyes. Looking back it seems incomprehensible that I was on that train for 4 hours. It seemed to pass in no time at all and I must have missed so much. I will have to do this line again some day - perhaps tied in with some walking. The service was reasonably busy, especially when we joined the Marches Line. I was awake to see the famous hills at Church Stretton and got my first view of Shrewsbury as it built up around us. It’s clearly worthy of exploration as I can see various castle-like structures of interest. Finally we pass the biggest old-style signalbox I’ve ever seen as we cross the line curving in from Birmingham, and then we’re there. It’s a weird feeling knowing that a day passed while I was on trains, and hope that it won’t catch up with me later.
At Shrewsbury I find a faintly grubby café and have breakfast, tired but looking forward to the rest of the trip. I’m alarmed by the number of people waiting for the same train as I gather that the Cambrian Coast trains are usually 158s, ie, two or three coaches at most. As it turned out I needn’t have worried, it was a four-coach train that divided at Macyllenth, and at that point there are only a couple of stops to Aberystwyth. It was on this journey that I first appreciated that these are decent trains for longer journeys. They are as good as the nice new trains operating to the coast in the south and at points on the trip must have been doing 100mph. There are few stations on the route through Central Wales, though I’m guessing the place is not heavily populated. The countryside is pleasant enough though it’s a bit hot for me as I discover when we arrive at the terminus. Aberystwyth has a substantial station building, a testament to greater things in the past, and it’s nice to see that it’s been used for a restaurant rather than demolished and replaced with a portakabin like so many others. I head to the seafront guest house that I’m staying in tonight. It’s basic but clean and the owners are friendly. I just have time to change into clean clothes more suited to the warm weather and return to the station.
I upgrade to a first class ticket for the Vale of Rheidol Railway. It’s worth it as I don’t have to share the carriage with hundreds of screeching kids. I know that kids keep these places going but they ruin it for me and I’ve been looking forward to this. This railway was BR’s only narrow gauge railway and only post-1968 steam railway until privatisation came, and the signs of it being BR’s are everywhere. The No Smoking signs etc all date from BR and remind me of the trains I knew as a kid. The trip to Devil’s Bridge is fantastic. We travel along the side of a steep valley, granting a magnificent view of the countryside, snaking across high level crossings that are used only by farmers and winding around trackways that are hardly wider than the narrow track itself. I begin to appreciate the imperative for such railways. In such areas it just isn’t practical to get a standard gauge railway up the valley and narrow gauge is cheaper to run as well. It presented a way of getting goods (and later people) to and from remote communities. It’s a shame we haven’t used more imagination in railway construction, as use of narrow or light rail might well have been a way of preserving more of the rural network. They were particularly common in Wales for the slate mining industry and a fraction now survive. At Devil’s Bridge I look at the three layered bridge, the crossing having been rebuilt a few times, one above the other. It's weird to finally be standing in front of it. It's been nearly 30 years since I first saw a picture of it in a Ladybird book. As a family we were supposed to camp near here with a caravan-owning relative but it didn't come off and just my brother went. He sent us a postcard of the bridge and I longed to see it myself. And now here I am. After visiting the falls I have a drink and get back on the return train. I read about the clifftop railway in Aberystwyth itself and manage to get back in time to visit it. It’s not like the Hastings Cliff Lifts as it is rather higher. Hence it rises up the cliff then flattens out then rises once more, so tackling the incline in two stages. There are some lovely views of the bay from the top, and I walk along the coast for a bit wishing that I had time to linger. Some day I will just book a holiday for relaxing! After scrambling down the cliff I then have a proper look around the town. It’s a pleasant place, relatively chav-free, with plenty of interesting buildings – the university, an unusual church and some nice bridges over a sort of inland harbour to the south of the town. Despite being holiday time the town has a quiet but pleasant atmosphere. There are pleasing little pubs and chip shops, where I dine before returning to my guest house. I sleep well after feeling like had two days in one.
Wednesday
After a pleasant breakfast I head down to the station. It's another two coach 158, which appear to be the mainstay on this line, though I gather in happier times with through trains from Euston, 125s were not unknown. Judging by the loadings on the train from Birmingham on Tuesday I am sure that a London service would pay for itself. Oh well. I have to travel back to where the line splits at Dovey Junction. This is one of the remotest stations in the UK. Strictly speaking the line separates at Machynlleth and continues as two single bi-directional lines next to each other until Dovey Junction where they head off in different directions. The station exists only as a changing point between the two branches. There is no settlement served by it and though there is a footpath it doesn't connect it to a place as such. Yet I gather there is a local football team named after it - this is the sort of fact I love to discover! Though it's a nice day I think I'd be better off going to Machylleth to have a look around. This is not the best decision. The pack is very heavy and there is nothing in particular to see. I'm grateful to get on the train to Tywyn.
At Tywyn I am to travel on the Talyllyn Railway. This has an incredibly romantic story attached to it. Another slate railway, by the end of the second world war it was pretty much finished. Then one of the early conservationists, LTC Rolt visited and was forced to walk the track as no trains were running due to the derelict state of the infrastructure and the rolling stock. He pledged to do something. The railway was erroneously left in private hands at nationalisation and thus Rolt was able to get directly involved when the line's owner, Sir Hadyn Jones, died in the early 1950s. With an enthusiastic bunch of volunteers he managed to keep it going and ultimately turn it round so that 50 years on it is a successful tourist attraction. Rolt is an inspiring figure with his favour of the little man against the faceless state, the local against the global, and the distinctive against the anonymous. Ironically he was anti-nationalisation because it sought to give everything the same identity - something we now recognise as vital for the railway to run as a realistic concern in the car-crazy world. So I feel some weight of history as I board the little train - sadly I see neither of the original locomotives, which are still plying their trade up and down the line - and enjoy another splendid scenic trip through the lush countryside. The line ends at Nant Gwernol, where I wait for the return trip because there is little there. One stop back is Abergynolwyn where I have lunch, then finally back one more station to Dolgoch Falls, which is the main attraction along the route. I have a couple of hours to explore the paths that snake around the falls - sadly carrying the bloody pack all the way, which makes me feel as if I'm in the Army - before stopping for some tea. There are some lovely old road signs at the Falls, with stripey black and white posts, and I like to think that no-one has changed them rather than them being preserved for the sake of tourism. The first class upgrade on the return to Tywyn is worth doing again, 50p for space for the pack and some peace. I am already realising that I should have based myself in just in one or two places. Trying to do a weekend city trip multiplied by three and hauling a week's kit on my back just doesn't work!
The train to Fairbourne is late, but there's plenty of daylight. The route starts to get really pretty now as we hug the coast. The scouse bloke next to me suddenly jumps up and declares, "Porpoises!" but I can't really see them. At Fairbourne the line snakes along the coast in front of the foothills of Snowdonia and ruefully I realise this is another place I'd love to explore that's going to have to wait. It's quite a stroll to the Sea View Guesthouse but well worth it. The room is lovely, large with substantial windows giving a view of the coast round to the end of the peninsular. It's a balmy evening and I sit by the window for ages enjoying the breeze. There seems to be a small farm nearby as I can see horses, goats and sheep grazing a couple of gardens away. Eventually I decide to go and find some food. This is a difficult task! The landlord tells me the best way to the coast which is go further in the same direction, then head off down a narrow lane, cross under a beautiful railway bridge that just appears to grow out of the rock, then on to the beach. I walk along a concrete wall which I didn't know at the time was actually built as coastal defences during the war until I reach the Fairbourne and Barmouth Beach Railway - my destination for tomorrow - and head back inland. I pass several holiday camps and an unfriendly looking pub before finding a chip shop. I'm just in time as it is closing up as I order. Then I head back and enjoy the rare luxury of sleeping with the window open, watching the sky get darker and darker as pinpricks of light start appearing along the coast. I would really have liked to stay here. Being based at a mid-way point would have made more sense in retrospect.
Thursday
I have a peaceful night, though I'm aware of some heavy snoring (not my own!). It sounds as if it's in the room with me which is slightly unnerving but the atmosphere of the place is calm and welcoming, so I'm not alarmed by it. After breakfast I go down to the beach again and walk along to the Fairbourne Beach Light Railway. In terms of scale and scope this is along the lines of the Romney Hythe and Dymchurch Railway, and its main purpose is to get me to the Barmouth Ferry at the spit into the Mawddach estuary known as "the Bar". It's an enjoyable little bob over to Barmouth Harbour in a tiny boat. I have a quick look around, pausing to go to the RNLI museum and shop. I shall never understand why the RNLI is not government -funded, and buy a few bits and make a donation. Morbid though it it seems, I've often thought I'd like to leave them something in my will! Barmouth is okay, by no means the nicest seaside town I've been to but certainly not the worst. The main reason I'm there is to walk back across the wooden railway viaduct across the estuary. Unusually there is a footpath parallel to the railway track, and for a modest sum, you can walk the length of it back to Fairbourne. The views of the river and Snowdonia are fantastic. At the other end there is a station, Morfa Mawddach, where I cross the track, and note that the platform clearly served another track once that curved off to the left, and later I discover that this went to Wrexham, having joined various other branches en route, all sadly now gone. I get back to the guest house where I've been able to leave my pack in the front room. The landlord has told me they'll be shopping but will leave the door open - lovely to know such places still exist! He's back anyway, and we chat about the walk I've just completed. He's a bit of a railway fan too, and gets quite heated about the Beeching when I mention the rusting bit of branch line that I've just found. Vowing to return some day I heave my pack off to the station and grab some lunch from the shop before heading off to Harlech.
The town of Harlech is up on a hill next to the castle, and my hotel is on the opposite hill. It's not very nice. It's a huge place, and I would guess that a family have bought it cheaply and hope to refurbish it some day. All the fittings are dated and scuffed. The carpet and bedding is pocked with burns. The TV is awkwardly plonked on a stained cloth on a chest of drawers - I'm guessing that TVs were not standard in hotels the last time it was fitted out. When I switch the shower on water comes out of the ceiling behind me. The smell of sour milk in the lounge makes me want to heave - and that is going some! I think longingly of the place I've left behind but comfort myself with the thought that it's a short stay. I head back down the hill then up a long staircase to the castle, which was built by the English against Welsh insurrection in 1283. It's a magnificent monument with great views of the surrounding countryside. There is a good view of the station with a curious level crossing that crosses two roads. I look up the long straight track heading north and think about the rest of my trip, trying to put the hotel room out of my mind. After the visit I go to a neighbouring hotel for a meal and wish I was staying there instead. I almost contemplate swapping as it wouldn't cost much, but then think of heaving everything up the hill again. By the time I've been through the sand dunes to the beach and walked along the public footpath to the hotel, climbed up the path and had a couple of drinks, it's nearly 11pm anyway. I do sleep well so I don't have much longer to go.
Friday
I head to Portmadog next. I'm going to the village of Portmerion first, an entire folly of a village which is most famous for being the location of 60s TV series, "The Prisoner". Minnifford is the nearest station, but I've already decided to go from Porthamdog so I can walk across the Cob. This is the artificial embankment created in the estuary of the River Glaslyn, to produce the harbour that eventually gave the town its name and its existence as the original port on the route from London to Dublin. This exhausts me because of the pack, and it's not that nice a walk either, because inevitably the embankment just just become another fast moving road which does not allow easy crossing for pedestrians at the other end. I am extremely grateful to reach Portmerion, where I eat a lot of ice cream and drink a lot of water! It's an interesting place, much smaller than it looks on TV. The best bit is the beach, where there is a boat shaped house that appears to grow out of the water and the quayside and the lighthouse-like lookout post. The hotel which features in the TV series extensively and is rather exclusive looking, and off limits to mere day trippers!
I head back to Minnifford, which is a junction with the famous Ffestiniog Railway, which I'm travelling on tomorrow, where I wait and watch the narrow guage trains until the real one comes to take me on. I go to Criccieth next, just to see the castle. I sit and have a cup of tea whilst waiting for the train and wonder at the plethora of pretty places along this coastline, looking forward to the end of the line, Pwllheli. Am I in for a shock! Pwllheli is a roughish town, scary looking pubs, big estate, etc etc. I'm staying above a pub which is not bad, but is not a holiday place, it's definitely more for overseas workers and the like. I do have a wander on the beach but my heart is not in it. Before the local yobs start clustering on the street outside I head back and for the first time, watch the TV all evening, not eating anything, and wanting to go to the bar below but just not comfortable there.
Saturday
I'm grateful to get away and decide to use my pass on a bus back to Porthmadog, the first train not being until nearly 10am. It's full of chavs who get off at the big holiday camp. The image of the row of baseball caps and tracksuits hanging up when they all get changed into kitchen staff overalls etc is quite an endearing one. Usually changing rooms are for changing into tracksuits! At Porthmadog I head to the Ffestiniog Railway. This time I don't have to cross the Cob. I upgrade to first, again partly for somwhere to put the pack and because there is a huge party of London scouts getting on! It's another fantastic trip through the mountains. The most interesting part is where a valley was flooded for a resevoir in the 1950s, cutting the line in half. The preservation society managed to operate the line until it had raised enough to build a loop to carry the line over and above itself and away from the valley. You can still see the old trackbed as you veer away from it.
By the time I reach Blaneau Ffestiniog, I've hit my first rainy day of the trip. It renders the pyramid-like lead waste heaps around the town even greyer than they really are. It's fascinating how slag heaps can be so spectacular! The rain holds off just long enough for me to reach the Llechwedd Slate Caverns. It's up a hill and along a dangerous road, not really suitable for pedestrians, like so much else these days, and it puts one family off entirely. I make it by climbing over some fences and doing some mild trespassing, as I am determined to get there. The museum has the obligatory fake Victorian shops, which I ignore, concentrating on the caverns themselves, which are amazing. The tough lives that men faced down here are almost beyond the modern imagination I suspect. There is something almost sacred in the atmosphere down here, especially in the flooded areas where the addition of underwater lights grant the caverns an incredible air of calmness. Up top I call Directory Enquiries for local cab firms, as I do not want to heave the pack back down to the station, the roads now being incredibly slippery. The cab is worth every penny and I am grateful to scramble aboard the "proper" train that arrives parallel to the Ffestiniog for Llandudno.
After two dodgy nights I am not looking forward to tonight, assuming that it will be English Chav heaven as is much of the North Wales coast. It's an easy journey to Llandudno, a large number of people getting on at Betws -Y-Coed, where buses to Snowdon link from, but surprisingly few at Llandudno Junction. A fantastic view of the Conwy Estuary greets me before we terminate at Llandudno, where a pleasant sight is to be seen. It's another Aberystwyth! It's clean and graceful, generally free of tossers, and with fanstastic views of the Great Orme, a geological feature that looms over the west end of the town. I find my guest house, but they have no record of the booking! Disaster. But all is not lost. They have a double room that has just been redecorated, not quite ready, but awaiting its first guest tomorrow. Hence it's free tonight. The owners are so friendly and accomodating and I feel very upbeat about the day as I head into town.
First stop is the Great Orme Tramway. This is fantastic, being pulled by cable through the streets at incredible gradients, before raeching a half-way station where you change for a second tram to take you right to the top of the Great Orme. Needless to say the views of the town between the Great and Little Ormes is amazing, but it's the incongruity of seeing a tram amongst the scenery that's entertaining. I work my way back down to the town, taking in a tiny church clinging to the side of the Orme and a cable car system which is not working today due to the high winds. I get drenched and wish I'd brought my as yet, untroubled waterproof trousers. Back in town I have a very pleasant walk along the front, almost to the Little Orme, before heading back for the inevitable fish n chips and heading back to the B&B. I check the train times en route and marvel at a)the generally low level of annoying people there and b)the fact that the station is clearly about a quarter of its original size. I imagine the crowds arriving in their thousands in the 1950s before cars and the Expressway blighted the coast here. Ahh.
Sunday
I leave my pack while I head back to the Great Orme to explore the ancient copper mine that has been unearthed there. Apparently it has thrown the accepted view of where the Bronze Age fits into human history because it pre-dates the mines from the middle east. You can explore it yourself with an audio guide, as many times as you like, which is great fun. Much more is waiting to be uncovered and I look forward to a return visit in a couple of decades! After that I find the cable car station, and enjoy an airborne ride down to the town. It's faintly alarming when you reach the end as it swoops down with some speed before two blokes grab it and let you out. Their wry grins make it clear that they have seen the look on my face a few times now! Before I head off I spy a Camera Obscura, something I've always wanted to see. It works by reflecting light via mirrors on to a projection table. By altering the arrangment of mirrors you change the angle of the view. The whole thing is housed inside a hut, the mirrors being in a turret like roof. With the doors closed the picture of the world outside projected on to the table is breathtaking, almost like looking at, for want of a better phrase, a living photograph! I'm glad that my trip to the town ends on a high, because the trip goes downhill from now on!
I get a bus to Bangor because the rail service on Sundays is so poor. Ideally I'd have gone to Holyhead, thus covering the whole North Wales line today, but there are, unbelievably, insufficient trains to reach there before the London train starts back. I look for a bus to Holyhead without sucess and can't help but think that my planning has been deficient here. Probably I was fed up by this point in the proceedngs! As Bangor is a cathedral and university city, I'm sure it will be a nice place, and I intend to head up to the Menai Straits to look at the bridges also. Wrong!!! The cathedral is tiny and closed. The town is run down and miserable. My maps are useless and I get hopelessly lost before calling a halt to it and heading for the station buffet, which is grubby but sells beer. Almost the final bombshell. There are delays caused by kids on the line at Chester (just RUN THEM OVER, they wouldn't do it again) and the London train (ie the one of just 3 that day) is cancelled. So I hung around in this pit of misery rather than going to Conway Castle or a better exploration of the Great Orme to drink crap beer, get lost and tired, then get crammed on to a 3 coach train with everyone off the Dublin ferry rather than a comfortable 8 coach first class seat. So enraged I slump into my seat and head for Crewe, not really able to enjoy what remains of the sea view over the Expressway, spitting blood at the notion of destroying it with a four lane road when there is a prefectly good two track railway all the way there, that is choosing to run hardly any trains today.
At Crewe I get a Pendolino back to Euston, where the final spoiler waits. The cab I have booked to take me home is 20 minutes late, the last thing I need just now. The driver doesn't even apologise, and expects me to be grateful that I am not one of the world's starving people when I say that I am tired and keen to be home. Though my last day has been a washout, I remember that I've enjoyed several packed days and completed some large chunks of the quest. A good result.
New lines this trip:
Barry to Bridgend
Bridgend to Swansea
Swansea to Shrewsbury
Shrewsbury to Aberystwyth
Dovey Junction to Pwllheli
Blaneau Ffestiniog to Llandudno
Bangor to Chester
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