Lincolnshire 13/14 April 2007

Lincolnshire was a really difficult one to complete. As well as one line that has trains only on Saturdays, most of the other lines in the county are served infrequently and irregularly - a deadly combination! Doing this on a Sunday was completely out as the service level drops to non-existent at times. I'd already worked out a way of covering all the lines bar one annoying bit between Grantham and Sleaford. And as I was on the earliest train up to Peterborough, I couldn't see any way of fitting it in, even if I stayed overnight in Peterborough (a place I was happy to spend as little time in as possible). Then I worked out that if I was already in Skegness on the Saturday morning, I could travel there via Grantham on the night before. And Skegness is one of those famous British resorts that I wanted to see - the poster promoting the place as "bracing" is one of the most striking advertisements of the last few decades. My chance came. I'd taken Friday 13 April off to wait in for British Gas, so I had the afternoon free. There were no engineering works, reasonable fares to and from the county were available, and I'd found a suitable hotel in Skegness. So off I went to Kings Cross on Friday afternoon.

I had an open ticket so could travel on any train but getting one to Grantham at 4.10pm meant I would reach the hotel by eight and have time for a wander, food and a couple of drinks. I managed to get a Thameslink train at London Bridge that got me to Kings Cross by four - just time to collect the tickets before clambering on a Leeds train. I'm very familiar with the East Coast journey but I always marvel at the speed at which you can cover it these days, flying along on the superb 225 trains - built by BR for electrification 20 years ago and still looking and feeling the business.

Grantham is reached in an hour. I have a twenty minute wait for the Skegness train. I've never been at Grantham in daylight before. It's quite a nice station, four platforms arranged in an odd way. The bay platform where my train was due to leave from looked very short, and I anticipated a one coach train, my heart sinking when seeing the number of people waiting to get on. To my surprise a three coach Central Trains train squeezed into the bay which allowed me to find a decent table seat in the right direction. The ride was rather slow - could not have been more than 50mph, even after we had cleared the main line by means of the new spur that means the local trains don't hold up the East Coast expresses. This was to be a theme for the weekend - there are a lot of slow lines in Lincolnshire! We cover the line to the coast in about 90 minutes, through beautifully desolate Fenlands. The landscape is covered in rape seed in vivid yellow now, and criss-crossed by dykes and drains. Then something weird happened - the light changed from the azure skies we'd had recently to a stark slate-like blue - as if someone has switched it on. A few minutes later it switched again - this time, an opaque mist had descended, hanging in the air like static smoke. Not quite what I was looking forward to on the coast! Still, it gave us a very atmospheric view of the famous Boston Stump church tower as we passed through this town. Beyond Sleaford and Boston there were no more towns until we arrived at Skegness at sevenish. In my desire to get to the hotel I didn't notice much other than there being an orderly queue of people behind a closed platform gate, not being allowed to get on the train until the ticket collector had seen all of us off the platform. This was a scene from the past - I hadn't seen people queuing for the train for years - London is a bit more of a scramble these days!

I checked the map and headed off towards the sea front. The mist didn't help, but the place had the usual miserable mix of chain shops, seaside tat and chavs. I decided I didn't want to go out in the town that night and walked the mile and a half or so to the North Shore Hotel. At the end of the road that the hotel was in was a proper chip shop, so I thought that would probably be as far as I would be going before morning. I decided not to follow the beach path as the mist made a strange place even more difficult to navigate! The hotel was very nice, a golf hotel. My room was clean and comfortable though it did look out on a fire escape. A collar and tie was needed for the restaurant but the bar was serving food. However it was the standard burgers and curry menu, so I decided to go to the chip shop at half the price. This time I do follow the beach path. Didn't see a soul which was nice, and it was mysterious walking in the enveloping fog. The beach looked beautiful - miles of dunes - but the amount of dumped rubbish was a bit depressing. Rubbish and graffiti are truly the scourge of the modern age. After a couple of pints of a local beer I enjoyed a good night's sleep, followed by Lincolnshire sausages at breakfast, then wandered down to the station.

The queue for the first train was building again - still amazing to me - so I bought the Lincolnshire Day Rover ticket that would cover me for most of the day's travels. A rather battered 158 two coach train took me back out of the mists - just like a switch being thrown again - to Sleaford. Another station that has seen better days, despite being manned, information was thin on the ground and it was difficult to know which train was which as the screens bore no resemblance to what was on the platforms! For an area of so few services, a surprising four trains came and went while I waited; I guess they concentrate them to make it easy to change.

Hardly anyone is on my train when it arrives - a two coach Sprinter. The line to Peterborough is rather better than the one to Skegness, it's dual track and has a much faster running speed, really don't understand why there are not more services. Loads of people get on at Spalding, and when we turn round at Peterborough, loads get on bound for Spalding in the other direction. I would have thought there would be demand for the commuter Peterborough trains from London to be extended to Spalding - or maybe even Lincoln. The conductor asks me if I am just travelling around when he checks my ticket again, usually they don't seem to notice when I just stay on like this.

At Lincoln I have a 50 minute wait, time for a pint of the local beer. On my way back to the station I end up on another ring road and marvel yet again at how cars have wrecked everywhere in some way. The beauty of the cathedral rising magnificently is ruined by a streaky concrete flyover packed with speeding cars, able to save a few minutes over driving through a town - and for what? This is as much of a scourge as the litter and graffiti that I also see in every town now.

I cheer up as the Grimsby train turns up almost as I set foot on the platform - another Sprinter. It's about half full and most people get off at Market Rasen, the only intermediate stop before Barnetby, a junction of three lines. The same conductor from Sleaford is on again, and makes a wry remark about me getting around. I feel better about the spartan map of Lincolnshire's railways - there are really very few settlements in this agricultural county - unlike the regular small towns I am more used to in Kent or Cambridgeshire - and I can see that in terms of routes, not many more are needed. Though of course for walkers, the railway is perfect for dropping you at appropriate spots - and your chances of finding a rural station are low out here. But that doesn't justify the appalling frequencies - surely Lincoln needs a proper London service at least? We need a Hull Trains-like company to offer this.

I wasn't prepared for how large Barnetby was, though it is managed by Trans Pennine Express which is an inter-city operator of sorts. Lines come in from Lincoln, Gainsborough and Doncaster, and go out to New Holland and Cleethorpes, as well as being passed by several freight lines. A man and his grandson watch three coal trains making their way past, debating the locomotives, signals etc. It's refreshing to know there are kids still interested in such things. I get one of the new shiny 185 trains to Doncaster. For a new train it is VERY noisy though the heavy air conditioning is welcome as it's hot today. Though it's nice being able to open the windows on an old train, aside from the nice breeze, it covers the noise of personal stereos and mobile 'phones.

It all goes wrong just before Doncaster. I presume due to emergency engineering (there are three orange jacketed blokes checking the line gauge a few feet at a time on the bridge just before Doncaster) our train is halted then crawls into the station. I miss the connection going back to Cleethorpes as a result. I should still be able to make the train that I must get there at 6pm by catching the next one, but it does reduce the margin for errors somewhat. It slides further from then. I decide to get an earlier stopping train going to Scunthorpe rather than hang around on the miserable Doncaster station. They announce a change of platform, so I get on to a train that says Scunthorpe on the front there. It doesn't move when the time comes. The display board doesn't change. Then loads of people move to another train which has parked itself in front of my one - apparently this is now the Scunthorpe train, I have been sitting on a Hull train. So I change trains, and it waits and waits and waits. It's getting fuller and hotter. A drunken psycho is patrolling the platform and testing my patience further! The train I was originally waiting for is now less than 20 minutes away, so I get off into the fresh air. They change its platform as well and with a sinking feeling I realise that my margin of error is slipping further and further. We leave nearly ten minutes late and I decide it's probably best to change at Grimsby, even though we gain a few minutes en route. One of those families who you imagine usually go by car take ages to sort themselves out, putting their bags everywhere and hogging the corridor, with no self-consciousness at all.

Grimsby looms and I change, against my wishes as I see a pack of chav teenagers on the platform messing around with a basketball. It really winds me up as I don't expect to see the sort of kids I try to avoid in London in this east coast outpost! They move off after a few minutes having not got off the train or are waiting for another one - WHY do they do it? They think they're the cool ones yet they hang around on stations for no reason! I have twenty minutes so have a quick wander. It's another clean TPE station in what I suspect is a tatty town and find a sparkling new Wetherspoons - just time for another local beer before getting the Gainsborough train.

The Gainsborough Central train - a manky Pacer - comes in late - not good because I will later have to cover the 1.3 miles between the Gainsborough stations in just 34 minutes! This line is only served on Saturdays, so in a sense the whole day has been leading to this journey(!). All goes well until we get delayed by a freight train occupying a single track section ahead. We limp into Kirton Lindsey ten minutes late and I fear that I will miss my connection at Gainsborough. The conductor thinks I should be able to make it if I walk fast. We get to the destination just four minutes late - apparently the UK's least-used station - and I start to make for the town centre. I pass some grubby kids playing with a ball who look like they've walked out of a scene from the past, past the inevitable flash new flats of the sort going up everywhere, before seeing a cab park up. I wait for the passengers to get out, and see if I can book the cab without calling, explaining that I have to get to the station within 15 minutes. Luckily the driver will take me, and I check the route as we go. Some of the roads I would have negotiated seem to be closed, and it's just as well I've found the cab. I was uneasy about navigating across a strange town that seems (again!) to be riddled with flyovers and junctions that are so anti-pedestrian.

I've been through Gainsborough Lea Road before, but I was not prepared for the spider's web of ramps for wheelchairs that greeted me by the boarded up station building. There are no platform signs to indicate which is which, and no screens to give running information. It amazes me how they can find money for the razor wire around a closed booking office and miles of ramps but not to actually open up the building or install some screens on the platforms. The view from the high level platform is of wastelands and rubbish dumps, with more unsavoury teenagers amongst them, and I remember that London had plenty of sites like this in the early 1980s - all built on now I suspect. The train is late - galling after my efforts - and it occurs to me that I will not know if it gets cancelled anyway! It eventually turns up - a single coach Sprinter - and I embark on the final new line of the day to Doncaster, enjoying the view of the sunset.

The train to London is of course late and its platform is changed. I have a cheap ticket which means I can't upgrade to first class and I instantly regret it. The train is packed and noisy and I could really do with some peace just now! Someone is feeding their child from a bowl and the child is standing on the seats blocking the corridor - the total lack of awareness of the difference between a public and private space that people have now never fails to amaze me. Matters are not helped by us being held at Peterborough for ages due to a train fault that thankfully, is rectified. I'd already been imagining the horror of the fleet of replacement coaches needed to get us all home.

When I get back, London plays its marvellous transport trick that it always does, ie, makes a short quick journey turn into an expedition. The tube platforms are hot and crowded and the trains are getting less and less frequent as midnight approaches. I watch the clock and see the chances of me getting my intended train first at Charing Cross, then at Victoria, fade away. I marvel inwardly at the day of contrasts, ie, I can travel hundreds of miles on infrequent trains across a whole county; but back home despite having to go less than a mile and a half using trains that go every few minutes, it's impossible to do it in half an hour! Struggling against the endless corridors and crowds is the problem I suppose. Eventually I have to wait half an hour at Victoria for the weird last train that doesn't stop everywhere, having bought a chicken burger I can't afford a newspaper, which is faintly irritating. At 12.50 on Sunday morning I arrive at home and look forward to bed, another part of the quest complete.

New lines:

Grantham-Skegness
Peterborough-Lincoln-Doncaster
Lincoln-Barnetby
Doncaster-Grimsby
Barnetby-Gainsborough Central