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
