A relatively straightforward day in many ways. All the lines have relatively frequent services, though some are non-existent on Sundays, so it had to be a Saturday. And one ticket - the Valleys Explorer - covered the lot. As far as I could see I could get most of the lines in today. So I set off from Paddington earlyish on a cold but sunny day. I am so familiar with Paddington now but I never tire of departing from here. It's one of the last London stations to evoke that feeling of really departing for somewhere else. As you rise out of the tube, the cavernous cathedral like space opens around you. The smell of diesel exhaust evokes that feeling that you are about to go on a real journey. You look up at Brunel's great arched roof and see the clouds of smoke from roaring Cornwall expresses and you can really imagine it in the days of steam, with scampering crowds of excited children in shorts and raincoats heading off for two weeks in Bideford Bay.
My first stop is a bit different - Cardiff Central. The 125 arrives a bit late and there are long queues in the booking office, so I miss the next leg of the day's festivities. I do a quick mental re-jig then leap on to a 2 coach Pacer to the end of the short Coryton branch. This appears to be a suburb of Cardiff. I remain on the train as it makes its return. The re-jig means I get off at Cardiff Queen Street rather than Central; if I stay on I'll miss my next train as it passes us in the opposite direction.
This is a two coach Sprinter heading for the bleak post-mining community of Rhymney (pronounced Rum-ney). It actually has a junction with the Coryton line at Heath, where there are Low Level and High Level stations - a pleasingly old fashioned term largely removed elsewhere. But not knowing the territory it's safer to stick to Queen Street. At Rhynmney I have time to walk the steepish hill to the town for some water before returning to the waiting return train. I note Caerphilly Castle on the way back and mark it down for a return visit after all the nonsense of the quest.
True heads-down questing follows; there are three branches to plough through now. First up is Merthyr Tydfil. Once home to the mines and the ironworks, it is now home to Asda, and seemingly, a machine for duplicating chavs. I am pleased to bail out. I change trains at Abercynon. This has two stations - North and South - on different lines but within touching distance of each other, though you still have to walk up the road that connects them. I gather there are plans to rebuild the two stations as one interchange, which makes a lot of sense. Abercynon is a faintly grim town, though not exactly threatening. At the North station I take another Sprinter to Aberdare. I remember little of this trip now. However what strikes me is that the landscape in South Wales is beautiful, lush rivers and valleys in every direction, but tainted by graffiti and dumped cars in every stream.
I have to change at Pontypridd (Pontypreeth) which is at that point the most horrible place I have ever waited for a train. There are yobs EVERYWHERE, the presence of several police not putting them off but making me feel marginally safer. I will be pleased to get this one over with. A Sprinter takes me and the crowds up to Treherbert. This is rough. There are security guards on the return train. Kids throw stuff at the train. I've heard since that Arriva Trains are threatening to withdraw services because they cannot guarantee the safety of their staff. What a world. Despite having more sources of entertainment than any previous generation, the current bunch of kids are still using being bored as an excuse to be obnoxious. It's about time that someone taught them they don't have a right to be entertained. Grateful to be free of this painful area, I head back past the dreaded Pontypridd, where things are quiet now, and get off at Radyr.
This change is to enable me to return to Cardiff Central via the line that comes into the west of the city, having travelled east out of the city earlier. I have a moderate wait for this particular route, and have a wander round. It's dark now, so there isn't much to see. There are lots of new houses going up in addition to the many suburban streets already there. It's also a well-used Park and Ride facility, and it's gratifying to see that. A final two coach Pacer arrives from one of the three branches that I've just traversed, and heads along the river and into the Central station. Only a couple of other people are on board. I investigate the possibility of fitting in the Penarth or Bay branches, but neither can be easily accommodated; if there is a hitch I will miss the last train home, which is an early 7.30pm. Instead I decide to tackle these plus the Maestag branch on another day, and head back to the largest of the UK's capitals once more.
London-Cardiff
Cardiff-Coryton
Coryton-Queen Street
Queen Street-Rhymney
Rhymney-Queen Street
Queen Street-Merthyr Tydfil
Merthyr Tydfil-Abercyon South
Abercyon North-Aberdare
Aberdare-Pontypridd
Pontypridd-Treherbert
Treherbert-Pontypridd
Pontypridd-Radyr
Radyr-Fairwater-Cardiff Central
Cardiff-London
Saturday, 3 February 2007
Saturday, 13 January 2007
Nottinghamshire 13 January 2007
This day started out as a bashing trip to Lincolnshire but somehow ended up being a Nottinghamshire bash. Not sure why, possibly as my Lincolnshire trip was a complicated one to sort and I couldn't be bothered to spend the time on this occasion. Anyway, very early on the first Saturday of the year at its coldest darkest time I found myself heading for St Pancras. It took ages to reach the Midland Mainline platforms, I hope when it re-opens it won't be such a slog from the street. By now the trainshed roof was visible again and looking very impressive. It's going to be a fantastic space but I hope it doesn't become a glorified shopping centre like so much regeneration in the UK, they've already trumpeted such bollocks as the big champagne bar that's coming.
I watched the sun rise over the East Midlands from my seat on a Meridian train (too knackered to see if it was a four or nine car job), but was far too tired to appreciate it, my eyes were impossible to keep open. There was no mention of the buffet car either, though the conductor seemed to be able to get himself a coffee. I woke up in time to see a new bit of trackside scenery between Loughborough and Nottingham. Nottingham is a large impressive red brick station. I gather it used to be Nottingham Victoria to distinguish it from Nottingham Central on the GCR. I am grateful for a coffee on this cold morning while I wait for the train to Sheffield.
When it comes it's a three coach 170, there are a fair few of these running in the Midlands, they're pretty good though again three coaches just doesn't seem enough nowadays. By the time we reach Sheffield the train is heaving and it's nowhere near its destination - it's continuing to Liverpool! There are some enthusiasts on board - real ones with a list of locomotive movements, and they seem fairly typical of the ones I've encountered - ordinary thirty something blokes who have a bit of a laugh together bashing, spotting, filming or watching trains. There are the stereotypes but sadly these continue to dominate most people's perceptions. Amid the seething crowd there is a small dispute when an old man is turfed out of his seat by a group who have reserved it, which seems a bit petty but the conductor finds him another seat. I can't appreciate the scenery as it is so crowded but to be honest much of the area around Nottingham and Derby appeals to me as much as my journey to work - works mess, crumbling buildings and graffiti everywhere.
At Sheffield I have a stroke of luck. I've got three minutes to catch the connection to Lincoln and I did not expect to get it, I thought that the train from Nottingham would inevitably pick up a delay and Sheffield is a sprawling sort of station that I'm not that familiar with. It's one of those with loads of bay platforms all over the place and so doesn't seem to follow the normal numbering. However not only is our train on time and the Lincoln train late but we pull up almost next to to the correct platform. This will give me a much better chance of completing the day's itinerary. When it does arrive it's a two coach Pacer. It's reasonably well patronised this morning but I do get a decent seat all the way. It's a reasonably scenic route, helped by the bright blue sky that has prevailed today. We bounce across South Yorkshire and into Lincolnshire. We pass a coal power station of the type that is booming again now thanks to natural gas running low, another of the fantastic 80s economic policies coming back to bite us - appropriate given that we are in countryside devastated by the pit closures. At Retford we head under the main East Coast Line. It's a strange feeling. Not only do I get a mental picture of filling in the map - now I've done the "over and under" here but also the sight of the overhead wires are a link to home, leading ultimately to London as they do. We pass through Gainsborough Lea Road which I erroneously imagine is a graceful sort of town then towards Lincoln. Lincoln is one of those rare places I've already visited by car but not by train and again I enjoy the vista of the cathedral and castle overlooking the city.
There appear to be riot police in the cafe there. They assure me they're only expecting Lincoln City's rivals that day while I have lunch but they are kitted out in a hell of a lot of tough looking gear - I wonder who the visitors are that day?! Next I'm on the two car class 170 to Nottingham via Newark Castle. It's an interesting route. There are a LOT of stops, close together, not many passengers except at Newark itself, and yet apart from Newark it's all very rural - not sure how all those stations still exist - though I'm pleased that they do! At Newark there is what I gather is the last proper diamond crossing in the UK. It reminds me of the Hornby ones I used to see in the track plans book, but this is quite something in reality. We wait for a northbound GNER train to pass in front of us, slowing down for the crossing, then we pass across after it's gone. Seeing it retreat into the distance makes me feel faintly wobbly as I think about the speed it must be doing by now. I'm amazed that in today's health and safety hysteria such a crossing is still permitted. I guess the investment for a flyover would be considered too much for Network Rail.
At Nottingham I head out on to the new tram, connected directly to the platforms by a stairway - another guarantee of getting fare dodgers inside! I take this to Hucknall, which I would compare to a million grim and grimy out of town places in London. The tram is pretty impressive - with a conductor, always a good idea - and I'm pleased that they are getting more. I think if used carefully there is much scope for using light rail either to replace or compliment heavy rail - as well as open up entirely new routes. Maybe a more progressive administration will allow us to catch up with the continent and open a few more. It's ironic that the clutch of light rail schemes we have now were nearly all planned and approved by the Thatcher and Major governments.
I'm cheered by the sight of some kids photographing trams and trains at Hucknall, despite their baseball caps and tracksuits they're not following some stupid "cool" agenda. The train is on time - a scruffy two coach 158. It's a steady but largely uneventful run to Worksop, meeting up with the line I'd passed this morning. Though I'm doing the return trip I have to get off and cross platforms. I see the controls reversed as the tail lights become headlights before the train enters the platform. The conductor looks at me as if not sure if he's seen me before but says nothing! Back to Nottingham, where it's starting to get dark. That's the main problem with bashing in winter, there is always a point where you can no longer see the scenery and then it becomes a bit pointless, winter trips tend to have to be shorter by necessity. The only comfort is that on the final leg home I have usually trekked this way a few times so there is nothing new to see anyway. If I plan it carefully it's only darkness for the familiar stretches. Mansfield is a big impressive stone station. I know that the line from Worksop to Nottingham was part of the GCR and only reopened in about 1993 as The Robin Hood Line. So I'm guessing they left much of in situ in the interval, waiting for new trains. I reflect on how much evocative old evidence of disused railways has gone in my lifetime, most of the Beeching cuts being just before my birth and continuing into my early years. Where I live there are some tiny signs left and it's nice to think of Mansfield having been allowed to stay rather than mindlessly ripped down.
Thanks to the good luck this morning at Sheffield I have time to do the Nottingham-Derby service before the final leg. A sort of mistake as it turns out. Not only was it rammed with Derby fans (no pun intended) on the way back (why don't people live where their teams are any more!), but because it was dark I saw nothing, and finally the service was just a loop between two lines I'd already done to make an inter-city link - exactly the sort of links I said I wouldn't bust a gut over. Oh well, it's another line.
I have time for a couple of drinks before clambering on the three coach 170 to Norwich, fast to Grantham where I'm getting off. Nothing to see by now of course. At Grantham I have an hour's wait for my train to London, not something I relish as the station bar is full of drunken sounding blokes and I'm not inclined to wander about outside to find a pub. There is a GNER train simmering on the platform. My ticket is supposed to be tied to the later train - hence its cheapness - but I have a word with the conductor and he is happy for me to get on this service. It's no skin off his nose, after all, especially as the train is pretty empty by this time of night. I'm pleased to say that usually when I've spoken to railway staff because of stuff like this they've been almost universally friendly and accommodating. Except in London where everyone in any customer service job seems to be sliding into the same cynical indifferent attitude. Including me, probably! It's never a place I'm desperate to return to, though I'm pleased to get home anyway, especially after busy days such as today.
New lines added today:
Loughborough-Nottingham
Nottingham-Sheffield
Sheffield-Worksop-Gainsborough-Lincoln
Lincoln-Newark-Nottingham
Nottingham-Derby
Nottingham-Grantham
I watched the sun rise over the East Midlands from my seat on a Meridian train (too knackered to see if it was a four or nine car job), but was far too tired to appreciate it, my eyes were impossible to keep open. There was no mention of the buffet car either, though the conductor seemed to be able to get himself a coffee. I woke up in time to see a new bit of trackside scenery between Loughborough and Nottingham. Nottingham is a large impressive red brick station. I gather it used to be Nottingham Victoria to distinguish it from Nottingham Central on the GCR. I am grateful for a coffee on this cold morning while I wait for the train to Sheffield.
When it comes it's a three coach 170, there are a fair few of these running in the Midlands, they're pretty good though again three coaches just doesn't seem enough nowadays. By the time we reach Sheffield the train is heaving and it's nowhere near its destination - it's continuing to Liverpool! There are some enthusiasts on board - real ones with a list of locomotive movements, and they seem fairly typical of the ones I've encountered - ordinary thirty something blokes who have a bit of a laugh together bashing, spotting, filming or watching trains. There are the stereotypes but sadly these continue to dominate most people's perceptions. Amid the seething crowd there is a small dispute when an old man is turfed out of his seat by a group who have reserved it, which seems a bit petty but the conductor finds him another seat. I can't appreciate the scenery as it is so crowded but to be honest much of the area around Nottingham and Derby appeals to me as much as my journey to work - works mess, crumbling buildings and graffiti everywhere.
At Sheffield I have a stroke of luck. I've got three minutes to catch the connection to Lincoln and I did not expect to get it, I thought that the train from Nottingham would inevitably pick up a delay and Sheffield is a sprawling sort of station that I'm not that familiar with. It's one of those with loads of bay platforms all over the place and so doesn't seem to follow the normal numbering. However not only is our train on time and the Lincoln train late but we pull up almost next to to the correct platform. This will give me a much better chance of completing the day's itinerary. When it does arrive it's a two coach Pacer. It's reasonably well patronised this morning but I do get a decent seat all the way. It's a reasonably scenic route, helped by the bright blue sky that has prevailed today. We bounce across South Yorkshire and into Lincolnshire. We pass a coal power station of the type that is booming again now thanks to natural gas running low, another of the fantastic 80s economic policies coming back to bite us - appropriate given that we are in countryside devastated by the pit closures. At Retford we head under the main East Coast Line. It's a strange feeling. Not only do I get a mental picture of filling in the map - now I've done the "over and under" here but also the sight of the overhead wires are a link to home, leading ultimately to London as they do. We pass through Gainsborough Lea Road which I erroneously imagine is a graceful sort of town then towards Lincoln. Lincoln is one of those rare places I've already visited by car but not by train and again I enjoy the vista of the cathedral and castle overlooking the city.
There appear to be riot police in the cafe there. They assure me they're only expecting Lincoln City's rivals that day while I have lunch but they are kitted out in a hell of a lot of tough looking gear - I wonder who the visitors are that day?! Next I'm on the two car class 170 to Nottingham via Newark Castle. It's an interesting route. There are a LOT of stops, close together, not many passengers except at Newark itself, and yet apart from Newark it's all very rural - not sure how all those stations still exist - though I'm pleased that they do! At Newark there is what I gather is the last proper diamond crossing in the UK. It reminds me of the Hornby ones I used to see in the track plans book, but this is quite something in reality. We wait for a northbound GNER train to pass in front of us, slowing down for the crossing, then we pass across after it's gone. Seeing it retreat into the distance makes me feel faintly wobbly as I think about the speed it must be doing by now. I'm amazed that in today's health and safety hysteria such a crossing is still permitted. I guess the investment for a flyover would be considered too much for Network Rail.
At Nottingham I head out on to the new tram, connected directly to the platforms by a stairway - another guarantee of getting fare dodgers inside! I take this to Hucknall, which I would compare to a million grim and grimy out of town places in London. The tram is pretty impressive - with a conductor, always a good idea - and I'm pleased that they are getting more. I think if used carefully there is much scope for using light rail either to replace or compliment heavy rail - as well as open up entirely new routes. Maybe a more progressive administration will allow us to catch up with the continent and open a few more. It's ironic that the clutch of light rail schemes we have now were nearly all planned and approved by the Thatcher and Major governments.
I'm cheered by the sight of some kids photographing trams and trains at Hucknall, despite their baseball caps and tracksuits they're not following some stupid "cool" agenda. The train is on time - a scruffy two coach 158. It's a steady but largely uneventful run to Worksop, meeting up with the line I'd passed this morning. Though I'm doing the return trip I have to get off and cross platforms. I see the controls reversed as the tail lights become headlights before the train enters the platform. The conductor looks at me as if not sure if he's seen me before but says nothing! Back to Nottingham, where it's starting to get dark. That's the main problem with bashing in winter, there is always a point where you can no longer see the scenery and then it becomes a bit pointless, winter trips tend to have to be shorter by necessity. The only comfort is that on the final leg home I have usually trekked this way a few times so there is nothing new to see anyway. If I plan it carefully it's only darkness for the familiar stretches. Mansfield is a big impressive stone station. I know that the line from Worksop to Nottingham was part of the GCR and only reopened in about 1993 as The Robin Hood Line. So I'm guessing they left much of in situ in the interval, waiting for new trains. I reflect on how much evocative old evidence of disused railways has gone in my lifetime, most of the Beeching cuts being just before my birth and continuing into my early years. Where I live there are some tiny signs left and it's nice to think of Mansfield having been allowed to stay rather than mindlessly ripped down.
Thanks to the good luck this morning at Sheffield I have time to do the Nottingham-Derby service before the final leg. A sort of mistake as it turns out. Not only was it rammed with Derby fans (no pun intended) on the way back (why don't people live where their teams are any more!), but because it was dark I saw nothing, and finally the service was just a loop between two lines I'd already done to make an inter-city link - exactly the sort of links I said I wouldn't bust a gut over. Oh well, it's another line.
I have time for a couple of drinks before clambering on the three coach 170 to Norwich, fast to Grantham where I'm getting off. Nothing to see by now of course. At Grantham I have an hour's wait for my train to London, not something I relish as the station bar is full of drunken sounding blokes and I'm not inclined to wander about outside to find a pub. There is a GNER train simmering on the platform. My ticket is supposed to be tied to the later train - hence its cheapness - but I have a word with the conductor and he is happy for me to get on this service. It's no skin off his nose, after all, especially as the train is pretty empty by this time of night. I'm pleased to say that usually when I've spoken to railway staff because of stuff like this they've been almost universally friendly and accommodating. Except in London where everyone in any customer service job seems to be sliding into the same cynical indifferent attitude. Including me, probably! It's never a place I'm desperate to return to, though I'm pleased to get home anyway, especially after busy days such as today.
New lines added today:
Loughborough-Nottingham
Nottingham-Sheffield
Sheffield-Worksop-Gainsborough-Lincoln
Lincoln-Newark-Nottingham
Nottingham-Derby
Nottingham-Grantham
Sunday, 7 January 2007
Weston Super Mare and Weymouth branches
Yep, just a week into the New Year and I'm back at Bristol Temple Meads. It's marginally more cheerful than when I was here last, despite the dismal weather. It was never really a day for the seaside, fog and rain keeping the January standards high. A small number of lines today that ends up being quite complicated in the event.
From Bristol, where I have arrived on the ubiquitous 125, I can choose a stopping or a fast service to Weston Super Mare, which is tucked away on a single line branch off the main line between Bristol and Taunton. I reason that the fast train will be emptier and more comfortable. Not so! I have a moment's doubt as I see a decent 158 arrive for the stopping train. Then a mangy single coach 153 arrives for the fast service. And FGW wonder why they have a poor reputation. This has come all the way from Gloucester! My displeasure at the state of the train is tempered by a poor bloke who helps his daughter on with her luggage and ends up going with us because he is slow to get off again. Luckily for him there is another train in the other direction quite soon at the first stop.
On to the branch, and Weston is of course, empty, and probably not very nice when busy, it being another traffic trap. I don't hang around. When I get back to the station I find a proper station pub on the platform. In retrospect I wish I'd stayed longer to sample its array of local beers and ciders, as the day was about to nose-dive. But, down to Taunton on a Voyager, a trip I really enjoyed. The driver really gave it some squirt, and it was just a comfortable place to be, watching the Somerset winter flying past.
A long gap awaited me at Taunton so I found the nearest decent pub. Heading back, I discovered my connection to Castle Cary, where I was to pick up the Weymouth train, had been cancelled. The next service was now going to make an extra stop there, but it was over an hour away. And think I have missed the connection now anyway. I opted to get the next Voyager back to Bristol. I got on the carriage with the conductor in it, and explained the situation. He said that was fine and invited me to sit in first class for nothing. It's so nice when you get staff who just do a bit more than they need to.
Back at Bristol I now have to wait for the next Weymouth train, there not being too many of them, so I head to the Wetherspoons in the newly developed docks. I've been here a few times now, it's not bad. Finally the second line of the day looms into site as I clamber on to a two coach Sprinter. The bit from Bristol through Bath, Trowbridge and Westbury I've done, then we're on to the main Exeter line for a bit until Castle Cary. Westbury is interesting because it still has a glass overall roof, despite being a small station, though it is a junction. Lots of less than busy stations had such constructions. Castle Cary doesn't seem to have a castle nearby, though it is now best known as the station for the Glastonbury Festival. It has a couple of pubs that I was going to sample until things started to go wrong.
We head through Yeovil (Pen Mill) then out of Somerset into Dorset. After a stop at one of the county town of Dorchester's two stations, we join up with the 3rd rail line from Waterloo before terminating at Weymouth. Even though it's now dark, I decide to follow the tracks to the ferry port. This is a single track line that continues on from the main station, actually through the streets, like a tram, down to to the docks. Because a live 3rd live would have been a bit dangerous in the streets, the boat train was coupled to a diesel loco at the terminus and hauled through the streets to the quayside, with two blokes in hi-viz jackets waving red flags leading it. I always meant to go and see it. but by the time I was in a position to do so, the practice had ended. There is hardly any interchange between rail and sea in the south now. The tracks are still usable, stuck in the tarmac, but the dock station is now a carpark. The platforms are still there, and I walk up the ramp and stand there imagining the scene that used to be.
Then, one last treat. (Doesn't take much to please me!). The 442 EMUs that run from Weymouth to Waterloo are the last coaches in the UK to have first class compartments, 3 seats each side with a corridor to one side. I upgrade for a fiver, and enjoy this luxury for one last time - this stock is being withdrawn next week. In this brave new privatised world, companies choose their own trains. South West has just bought a load of German trains to replace its slam-door stock and would prefer to replace the BR 442s with this and thus have just one set of maintenance, driver knowledge, etc for its long distance trains. Which is fair enough I suppose, though it would have been even better for to choose the SAME stock as Southern and South Eastern as in the BR days. Ggggrrr! The 442s were only built 20 years ago, but in classic BR style they recycled many parts from trains they were 20 years old then. Good use of resources, you and I think, not them. So they're out. Too good to waste, Southern are to use them on Gatwick and Brighton services - some common sense at last. As I go through the barrier at Waterloo, I sneak a quick photo with my 'phone, as I think these are really good vehicles and am sorry to see them being wound down. Oooh, dangerously like a spotter. Another day, two more lines.
London-Bristol
Bristol-Weston Super Mare
Weston Super Mare-TAunton
Taunton-Bristol
Bristol-Weymouth
Weymouth-London
From Bristol, where I have arrived on the ubiquitous 125, I can choose a stopping or a fast service to Weston Super Mare, which is tucked away on a single line branch off the main line between Bristol and Taunton. I reason that the fast train will be emptier and more comfortable. Not so! I have a moment's doubt as I see a decent 158 arrive for the stopping train. Then a mangy single coach 153 arrives for the fast service. And FGW wonder why they have a poor reputation. This has come all the way from Gloucester! My displeasure at the state of the train is tempered by a poor bloke who helps his daughter on with her luggage and ends up going with us because he is slow to get off again. Luckily for him there is another train in the other direction quite soon at the first stop.
On to the branch, and Weston is of course, empty, and probably not very nice when busy, it being another traffic trap. I don't hang around. When I get back to the station I find a proper station pub on the platform. In retrospect I wish I'd stayed longer to sample its array of local beers and ciders, as the day was about to nose-dive. But, down to Taunton on a Voyager, a trip I really enjoyed. The driver really gave it some squirt, and it was just a comfortable place to be, watching the Somerset winter flying past.
A long gap awaited me at Taunton so I found the nearest decent pub. Heading back, I discovered my connection to Castle Cary, where I was to pick up the Weymouth train, had been cancelled. The next service was now going to make an extra stop there, but it was over an hour away. And think I have missed the connection now anyway. I opted to get the next Voyager back to Bristol. I got on the carriage with the conductor in it, and explained the situation. He said that was fine and invited me to sit in first class for nothing. It's so nice when you get staff who just do a bit more than they need to.
Back at Bristol I now have to wait for the next Weymouth train, there not being too many of them, so I head to the Wetherspoons in the newly developed docks. I've been here a few times now, it's not bad. Finally the second line of the day looms into site as I clamber on to a two coach Sprinter. The bit from Bristol through Bath, Trowbridge and Westbury I've done, then we're on to the main Exeter line for a bit until Castle Cary. Westbury is interesting because it still has a glass overall roof, despite being a small station, though it is a junction. Lots of less than busy stations had such constructions. Castle Cary doesn't seem to have a castle nearby, though it is now best known as the station for the Glastonbury Festival. It has a couple of pubs that I was going to sample until things started to go wrong.
We head through Yeovil (Pen Mill) then out of Somerset into Dorset. After a stop at one of the county town of Dorchester's two stations, we join up with the 3rd rail line from Waterloo before terminating at Weymouth. Even though it's now dark, I decide to follow the tracks to the ferry port. This is a single track line that continues on from the main station, actually through the streets, like a tram, down to to the docks. Because a live 3rd live would have been a bit dangerous in the streets, the boat train was coupled to a diesel loco at the terminus and hauled through the streets to the quayside, with two blokes in hi-viz jackets waving red flags leading it. I always meant to go and see it. but by the time I was in a position to do so, the practice had ended. There is hardly any interchange between rail and sea in the south now. The tracks are still usable, stuck in the tarmac, but the dock station is now a carpark. The platforms are still there, and I walk up the ramp and stand there imagining the scene that used to be.
Then, one last treat. (Doesn't take much to please me!). The 442 EMUs that run from Weymouth to Waterloo are the last coaches in the UK to have first class compartments, 3 seats each side with a corridor to one side. I upgrade for a fiver, and enjoy this luxury for one last time - this stock is being withdrawn next week. In this brave new privatised world, companies choose their own trains. South West has just bought a load of German trains to replace its slam-door stock and would prefer to replace the BR 442s with this and thus have just one set of maintenance, driver knowledge, etc for its long distance trains. Which is fair enough I suppose, though it would have been even better for to choose the SAME stock as Southern and South Eastern as in the BR days. Ggggrrr! The 442s were only built 20 years ago, but in classic BR style they recycled many parts from trains they were 20 years old then. Good use of resources, you and I think, not them. So they're out. Too good to waste, Southern are to use them on Gatwick and Brighton services - some common sense at last. As I go through the barrier at Waterloo, I sneak a quick photo with my 'phone, as I think these are really good vehicles and am sorry to see them being wound down. Oooh, dangerously like a spotter. Another day, two more lines.
London-Bristol
Bristol-Weston Super Mare
Weston Super Mare-TAunton
Taunton-Bristol
Bristol-Weymouth
Weymouth-London
Sunday, 31 December 2006
Greater Manchester and Yorkshire December 2006
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
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
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
Saturday, 24 September 2005
Cornish Branches No.2: September 2005
This one originated partly from wanting to see more of Cornwall, partly from the need to do more branch lines and partly from a wish to go on the sleeper again, the future of which was in doubt at this time. As part of the re-franchising process, the DFT had requested that the applicant costed the sleeper separately, in my opinion, a cynical gesture to float the idea of abolition and to expose its cost to make it easier to do so. So I thought I'd better use it before it went. It looks as if plenty of others thought the same. A campaign was launched to save it and this led to increased use, just as with the Settle-Carlisle story. To my mind, over any long distance journey a sleeper makes perfect sense. You don't waste waking hours travelling, fall asleep at the wheel, or have to wait for internal flight check in procedures. You can accomplish a great distance without effort, get a drink on the move, and it's better for the environment. Indeed, travelling by sleeper is an entirely different experience to a normal train journey. There is a curious drowsy atmosphere on board and though it can be difficult to sleep the first time you travel this way, you are subsequently lulled to sleep by the motion of the train. In the event the sleeper was saved, partly because so many other people thought the same as me and used it before it was lost. The concessions were that the last Motorail service that used to run with the Sleeper in Summer was finally killed off - another retrograde step - and the "slipped coach" at Plymouth was abolished. Interestingly no-one mentioned scrapping the Scottish sleepers - surely nothing to do with Scotland being Labour's strongest constituency in the UK while South West England is that of the Liberal Democrats? Hmmm. To my mind the question should never have arisen. While even Greece is building new sleeping cars with more facilities, ours are 30 years old and threatened with the axe. The DFT say that there is no case for sleepers in a country as small as Britain, but with 5 hours to Penzance and 8 hours to Inverness from London, this is a nonsensical argument. As recently as the 1980s, we had a much bigger network - with sleepers from London to the South West, up both east and west coasts to Scottish and English cities, South and North Wales, AND a cross country NE to SW route - the biggest loss of all, as there is no satisfactory way of doing Inverness to Penzance now. Happy days.
So after work on the Thursday, instead of going home, I take a wander down Oxford Street to get something to read for the trip, then head to Paddington. I meet a friend who gets the train to Ealing there for the last hour at the station pub, then wait patiently for the sleeper to open for business, it having been there for some time. It's a curious feeling waiting for a train this late that isn't going home, though once somewhat more common - see the Wales bash!
I arrive at Penzance at around 8.30, having been woken at 7.30 with coffee. It's a strange feeling sitting on the berth waiting for your destination - like a private train almost. With a fantastic view on this occasion as you can see St Michael's Mount looming in the bay as you approach. Last time I was here I saw it shrouded in mist, but this time its beautifully clear and I'm going to visit too. After a really good breakfast in the cafe at the station, which I heartily recommend, I head off along the coastal path to Marazion, which passes the sidings where my recently vacated bed is now stored until this evening. This once had a station and the building is still in situ. At low tide there is a causeway you can use to get to the Mount but as the tide is in I have to get the ferry - of which there are a FLEET, this being such a big tourist attraction. I always enjoy boat trips, especially if they're a bit choppy and bracing, so I'm quite disappointed when the skipper pulls a cover over me and the dozen German visitors, the blue skies having suddenly been replaced by sheets of rain.
St Michael's Mount is a fascinating place. It's one of those strange corners of the country that seems to have a bit of everything - countryside, cliffs, beach, harbour - from afar it seems astonishing that so much is packed in there. There is a winding path up to the house perched on the top, which has been a monastery and a stately home in its history - and sadly this is the dullest part of the experience for me. I've come to realise that trips to houses, however impressive, are not for me. Castles, yes, even gardens. But not houses. From the gardens I can now see the causeway appearing as the tide falls, though sadly not in time for me to cross on foot.
Anyway this is about trains. I get the boat back to the mainland, and after a pasty for lunch, get the bus back to Penzance and jump on a train (err 158?) to St Erth, where the branch to St Ives terminates. It's a half hour wait for the train, a two coach Sprinter. But the trip is worth the wait. As we head through Carbis Bay, the beautiful coastal landscape starts to unfold around us. I haven't been to the Caribbean, but the view of St Ives is like that of pictures I've seen of the West Indies. There are almost white sands, azure blue seas and even palm trees. Even the sky is a deep blue today. The town is not overwhelming but very pleasant. It's an arty sort of place with winding streets leading up to an unusual sea front which hugs a peninsula. On one side is the harbour and on the other is the beach, surfers atop the white-tipped waves. Unfortunately I do encounter a few scummy elements, out of place here, and just hope THEY aren't getting the train for a change. When I do get it, it's incredibly crowded, and I can't help but think this is a woefully under-resourced service.
Back at Penzance I go to the neighbouring bus station to catch the bus to Land's End. Luckily the last return bus is at 8pm, so there is plenty of time to see this most famous of landmarks. It's an amazing place. The landscape is incredibly varied - rocky cliffs like jagged teeth, great lush green rolling sweeps of land down to the edge, the sea seemingly a different colour in every direction. And slap bang in the middle of it all, a load of stupid tacky shops selling all the usual tat that have nothing to do with the attraction except its name written across it. Luckily these are all closing, so I can enjoy the landscape unhindered. This is a lonely place, there is such a feeling of nothing between you and North America such a long way west. It's not quite the feeling I expected, certainly surrounded by so many people taking photographs of the sign pointing to London, New York, John O'Groats etc. Amusingly, the sign is inside an enclosure, and if you want to stand next to the sign inside it, you have to pay. Even though you can stand just outside it and be photographed for nothing. I should think they have fleeced a few rich tourists with this, whoever they are. I head back to possibly the most westerly bus stop on the mainland. The bus is about 15 minutes late but as my train doesn't go until 10 I'm not too bothered.
At the Penzance Wetherspoons I have the inevitable beer and burger, before heading back to the waiting overnight train. For this leg I have booked an ordinary seat on the basis that a) I will be tired and b) most people on there will want to sleep. Wrong!!! Given that it's only ten, this is just a late local train for many people. It fills up, and up, and up. There is a family of simpletons behind me eating the smelliest burger I've ever known, a symphony of beer cans opening every couple of minutes, and at every stop the conductor wakes me to check my ticket. Before we have reached Devon I crack and ask for a cabin. To my joy there is one spare and I willingly pay the upgrade. I'm asleep in minutes, and can only really remember waking up as we arrive at Paddington. Originally I'd intended to get off and get one of the first trains back home, it being 5am, before getting in my own bed. However I'm happy to sleep for the extra two hours you get in the sleeping car - sleeping in the station back home in London being a strange notion - and then by the time I get home I'm actually ready for the day, which is an unexpected bonus. A good trip, and I hope, not my last on the Cornwall sleeper.
New lines this trip:
St Erth-St Ives
So after work on the Thursday, instead of going home, I take a wander down Oxford Street to get something to read for the trip, then head to Paddington. I meet a friend who gets the train to Ealing there for the last hour at the station pub, then wait patiently for the sleeper to open for business, it having been there for some time. It's a curious feeling waiting for a train this late that isn't going home, though once somewhat more common - see the Wales bash!
I arrive at Penzance at around 8.30, having been woken at 7.30 with coffee. It's a strange feeling sitting on the berth waiting for your destination - like a private train almost. With a fantastic view on this occasion as you can see St Michael's Mount looming in the bay as you approach. Last time I was here I saw it shrouded in mist, but this time its beautifully clear and I'm going to visit too. After a really good breakfast in the cafe at the station, which I heartily recommend, I head off along the coastal path to Marazion, which passes the sidings where my recently vacated bed is now stored until this evening. This once had a station and the building is still in situ. At low tide there is a causeway you can use to get to the Mount but as the tide is in I have to get the ferry - of which there are a FLEET, this being such a big tourist attraction. I always enjoy boat trips, especially if they're a bit choppy and bracing, so I'm quite disappointed when the skipper pulls a cover over me and the dozen German visitors, the blue skies having suddenly been replaced by sheets of rain.
St Michael's Mount is a fascinating place. It's one of those strange corners of the country that seems to have a bit of everything - countryside, cliffs, beach, harbour - from afar it seems astonishing that so much is packed in there. There is a winding path up to the house perched on the top, which has been a monastery and a stately home in its history - and sadly this is the dullest part of the experience for me. I've come to realise that trips to houses, however impressive, are not for me. Castles, yes, even gardens. But not houses. From the gardens I can now see the causeway appearing as the tide falls, though sadly not in time for me to cross on foot.
Anyway this is about trains. I get the boat back to the mainland, and after a pasty for lunch, get the bus back to Penzance and jump on a train (err 158?) to St Erth, where the branch to St Ives terminates. It's a half hour wait for the train, a two coach Sprinter. But the trip is worth the wait. As we head through Carbis Bay, the beautiful coastal landscape starts to unfold around us. I haven't been to the Caribbean, but the view of St Ives is like that of pictures I've seen of the West Indies. There are almost white sands, azure blue seas and even palm trees. Even the sky is a deep blue today. The town is not overwhelming but very pleasant. It's an arty sort of place with winding streets leading up to an unusual sea front which hugs a peninsula. On one side is the harbour and on the other is the beach, surfers atop the white-tipped waves. Unfortunately I do encounter a few scummy elements, out of place here, and just hope THEY aren't getting the train for a change. When I do get it, it's incredibly crowded, and I can't help but think this is a woefully under-resourced service.
Back at Penzance I go to the neighbouring bus station to catch the bus to Land's End. Luckily the last return bus is at 8pm, so there is plenty of time to see this most famous of landmarks. It's an amazing place. The landscape is incredibly varied - rocky cliffs like jagged teeth, great lush green rolling sweeps of land down to the edge, the sea seemingly a different colour in every direction. And slap bang in the middle of it all, a load of stupid tacky shops selling all the usual tat that have nothing to do with the attraction except its name written across it. Luckily these are all closing, so I can enjoy the landscape unhindered. This is a lonely place, there is such a feeling of nothing between you and North America such a long way west. It's not quite the feeling I expected, certainly surrounded by so many people taking photographs of the sign pointing to London, New York, John O'Groats etc. Amusingly, the sign is inside an enclosure, and if you want to stand next to the sign inside it, you have to pay. Even though you can stand just outside it and be photographed for nothing. I should think they have fleeced a few rich tourists with this, whoever they are. I head back to possibly the most westerly bus stop on the mainland. The bus is about 15 minutes late but as my train doesn't go until 10 I'm not too bothered.
At the Penzance Wetherspoons I have the inevitable beer and burger, before heading back to the waiting overnight train. For this leg I have booked an ordinary seat on the basis that a) I will be tired and b) most people on there will want to sleep. Wrong!!! Given that it's only ten, this is just a late local train for many people. It fills up, and up, and up. There is a family of simpletons behind me eating the smelliest burger I've ever known, a symphony of beer cans opening every couple of minutes, and at every stop the conductor wakes me to check my ticket. Before we have reached Devon I crack and ask for a cabin. To my joy there is one spare and I willingly pay the upgrade. I'm asleep in minutes, and can only really remember waking up as we arrive at Paddington. Originally I'd intended to get off and get one of the first trains back home, it being 5am, before getting in my own bed. However I'm happy to sleep for the extra two hours you get in the sleeping car - sleeping in the station back home in London being a strange notion - and then by the time I get home I'm actually ready for the day, which is an unexpected bonus. A good trip, and I hope, not my last on the Cornwall sleeper.
New lines this trip:
St Erth-St Ives
Thursday, 31 March 2005
Cornish Branches No.1: March 2005
This one started as a visit to the Bodmin and Whatsit railway in Cornwall. I thought it would be fun to go by sleeper as I'd never done this and always wanted to, so I booked through to Bodmin Parkway, leaving on Friday night and arriving VERY early, 6.45am in fact, on Saturday. Realising that being a Parkway, there would be little going on there, or in Bodmin itself at such a sensitive hour. Also I had four hours to the first train. I cancelled and booked all the way to Penzance instead. It didn't cost any more, it arrived at the somewhat more civilised time of 8.30am, and then I could get a train back to Bodmin at a more convenient time. I couldn't get a sleeper so booked on the ordinary coach.
Arriving at Paddington at around 9, I found a decent pub there, a rarity on stations, called the Mad Bear and Bishop, and settled until I could board the train. I thought it was worth asking the attendant if there were any spare solo berths, and luckily there was, for a reasonable £30. I sat on the bed until about the train moved off, not really knowing what to do, then headed for the buffet car. It was almost empty, most people choosing to sleep I suppose, and I got very comfortable there, the combination of beer and the lateness of the day making me drowsy. At Reading we were entertained by the British Transport Police assisting a large slightly abusive besuited man off the train, but we were little delayed. We were hardly likely to be late, given that the train has over 8 hours to reach Penzance. I wonder how, given that it normally takes 5 hours, how the extra 3 are filled. I know it sits at Plymouth for an hour while they detach a couple of coaches, and it goes the long way round through Bristol, so I guess it must have a lot of stops and goes more slowly anyway. As we pass through Swindon I decide to wrench myself out of my comfy repose, as since I've paid for a berth, I ought to use it. Also, I am actually tired! Sleep takes a while to come but once it does I sleep well. It's an odd place to sleep until you get used to it.
I wake early and want the loo, and it's a new experience padding down the corridor (like a sort of compressed hotel!) to the WC and looking out as we fly across a very high viaduct - no idea where! At 7.30 I get up as they bring coffee round just before 8. It's only possible to have a perfunctory wash in the basin which I suppose is one of the downsides of the thing these days. In an ideal world these berths would be like miniature hotel rooms with a shower, tea and coffee making, and maybe even a TV or internet access. Maybe we'll see a new set of sleeper cars one day, though my hopes are not high. As we wind down to the final stop, St Michael's Mount is almost completely shrouded in mist as it homes into view, but I expect I'll be able to see it properly later. I have a small pang at the thought of not visiting it today, but I suppose it's not going anywhere. My mind turns to more mundane things when I get off the train. First, I'm sort of disappointed by the small scale of Penzance station. It has a high arch over the trainshed, but there seems to be so little there. I had been warned that Penzance was a much smaller city than I'd thought, and I suppose the station reflects that. It's not as if the place is a junction or the trains can even go any further! Secondly, I'm hungry and have a while before the train back to Bodmin. So I do a quick circular walk around the town. It's got a busyish shopping street, plenty of sailing clubs and the like, nice seafront pubs and restaurants, and the seemingly obligatory studios and galleries. Vowing to come back for a proper look, I head back and have a very good breakfast in a cafe on the station.
I board a Glasgow Voyager, not as full as they usually are because it's the start of the route, and enjoy a proper view of the Mount, the rising sun having scorched off the early morning mist. In this respect arriving by sleeper is a bit like going camping or caravanning, the morning feels more raw because you haven't slept in a bed, and it only perks up when the dew and mist vanish. It takes a surprisingly long time to reach Bodmin. From what I can tell by the burble of conversation, most people are heading for Truro, some way beyond my destination. At Bodmin Parkway I have less than half an hour to wait for the first train up to Bodmin General and nothing to do. I watch the B&W people arrive with the train and do the points etc, giving every impression of playing with a big trainset, once every boy's dream? I don't know what I was expecting, but unfortunately there is not much to do at Bodmin, and as the railway is one of the newer ones, no extensive bar with local ales or even a guide book, which is the one souvenir I like to collect. This is definitely one for the true enthusiast, an opportunity to see locomotives up close, photograph them etc, whereas I tend to like the museum aspect of preserved railways, and the chance to visit places they serve that otherwise I wouldn't be able to get to. I shall have to visit in a few years I think.
Wondering what else to do, I go back to Bodmin Parkway, having a token hang out of the window, and then decide to go to Looe. For three reasons. One, I've never been to a Cornish seaside resort, and they are quite distinctive landscapes. Two, Looe is divided into two by a river estuary with an arched bridge across the river mouth, which seems quite interesting. And three, the branch to Looe, is completely separated from the main line, the platform for it being at a right angle AND a different level, which is intriguing. I buy a ticket and wait for a train to Liskeard. A bloke in a pony tail asks me in a West Country accent if I've seen the Western go through yet. So I must look like an enthusiast, which I suppose I am of sorts, but I'm not keen! Got enough problems without being regarded as a trainspotter. What's worse is that I know what a Western is, and if he thinks I knew, he must have thought I looked as if I knew! Hmmm. Faintly interested in seeing the Western, though not enough to wait in the middle of nowhere all day, I get on the Exeter train that arrives (Sprinter I think) and head for Liskeard.
Having not been here before, I'm prepared to sprint if necessary, not knowing how far apart these platforms at different levels are. I needn't have worried, it being one or two steps down to the branch platform. You only really see the gradient change once you depart. The track loops round back on itself almost, under the viaduct carrying the main line, overcoming the height difference between the main line and the ground. Even more bizarre, it loops back again to a little used station, then reverses (the driver changes ends) before heading to Looe on the coast. On the main line you actually pass over it twice before it is actually pointing towards its destination. Why it's like this, who knows.
Looe is a pleasant little place, every bit the typical Cornish fishing village of myth. The houses tumble down the surrounding cliffs, the harbour is full of bobbing boats tied up, the sands are soft and golden and the seas blue. It helps that we are having a warm spell that makes it feel like summer, something of a contrast from the morning murk. I have a wander around, climbing the cliff path and wishing I could keep going rather than having to remember the train times, a common theme on my trips. One day I will actually base myself in an area and have the time to explore properly. Seeing as this was nearly two and a half years ago I can't remember much else of it. On the train back to Liskeard most of the passengers on the (same?) single coach Sprinter are the same ones who came down, which is unusual. I also remember that the train seemed to hug the river all the way back - almost next to it. Railways are often built in valleys because most of the civil engineering has already been done by nature, but this seems very close!
At Liskeard I pop across the road to a reasonably pleasant pub, in which most of the punters seem to have Southern accents and swear a lot, then get back on the train home - at this time, the longest waking train journey I've done. There's a few things to look for - the Tamar Bridge that marks the border between Devon and Cornwall, most notably. Of course I've already crossed it, but I was asleep. Now I get a chance to see this engineering miracle. It lives up to its reputation, and I would like to see it from a better vantage point some day. Then there is still one of my favourite stretches to cover - along the river Teign, then through the amazing sandstone tunnels at Dawlish, and the river Exe estuary - where you feel like you're skimming the water when the tide is in. And for any reading enthusiasts, this is all on a 125, which always seems like an old friend, I suppose because it was the state of the art train when I was 7, and I always wanted to go on it. Now it's commonplace to me, but I still like to see a 125 round the corner when I'm ready for home. And in a miraculous five hours, I'm 300 miles away from Cornwall and back home.
New lines this trip:
Plymouth-Penzance
Liskeard-Looe
Arriving at Paddington at around 9, I found a decent pub there, a rarity on stations, called the Mad Bear and Bishop, and settled until I could board the train. I thought it was worth asking the attendant if there were any spare solo berths, and luckily there was, for a reasonable £30. I sat on the bed until about the train moved off, not really knowing what to do, then headed for the buffet car. It was almost empty, most people choosing to sleep I suppose, and I got very comfortable there, the combination of beer and the lateness of the day making me drowsy. At Reading we were entertained by the British Transport Police assisting a large slightly abusive besuited man off the train, but we were little delayed. We were hardly likely to be late, given that the train has over 8 hours to reach Penzance. I wonder how, given that it normally takes 5 hours, how the extra 3 are filled. I know it sits at Plymouth for an hour while they detach a couple of coaches, and it goes the long way round through Bristol, so I guess it must have a lot of stops and goes more slowly anyway. As we pass through Swindon I decide to wrench myself out of my comfy repose, as since I've paid for a berth, I ought to use it. Also, I am actually tired! Sleep takes a while to come but once it does I sleep well. It's an odd place to sleep until you get used to it.
I wake early and want the loo, and it's a new experience padding down the corridor (like a sort of compressed hotel!) to the WC and looking out as we fly across a very high viaduct - no idea where! At 7.30 I get up as they bring coffee round just before 8. It's only possible to have a perfunctory wash in the basin which I suppose is one of the downsides of the thing these days. In an ideal world these berths would be like miniature hotel rooms with a shower, tea and coffee making, and maybe even a TV or internet access. Maybe we'll see a new set of sleeper cars one day, though my hopes are not high. As we wind down to the final stop, St Michael's Mount is almost completely shrouded in mist as it homes into view, but I expect I'll be able to see it properly later. I have a small pang at the thought of not visiting it today, but I suppose it's not going anywhere. My mind turns to more mundane things when I get off the train. First, I'm sort of disappointed by the small scale of Penzance station. It has a high arch over the trainshed, but there seems to be so little there. I had been warned that Penzance was a much smaller city than I'd thought, and I suppose the station reflects that. It's not as if the place is a junction or the trains can even go any further! Secondly, I'm hungry and have a while before the train back to Bodmin. So I do a quick circular walk around the town. It's got a busyish shopping street, plenty of sailing clubs and the like, nice seafront pubs and restaurants, and the seemingly obligatory studios and galleries. Vowing to come back for a proper look, I head back and have a very good breakfast in a cafe on the station.
I board a Glasgow Voyager, not as full as they usually are because it's the start of the route, and enjoy a proper view of the Mount, the rising sun having scorched off the early morning mist. In this respect arriving by sleeper is a bit like going camping or caravanning, the morning feels more raw because you haven't slept in a bed, and it only perks up when the dew and mist vanish. It takes a surprisingly long time to reach Bodmin. From what I can tell by the burble of conversation, most people are heading for Truro, some way beyond my destination. At Bodmin Parkway I have less than half an hour to wait for the first train up to Bodmin General and nothing to do. I watch the B&W people arrive with the train and do the points etc, giving every impression of playing with a big trainset, once every boy's dream? I don't know what I was expecting, but unfortunately there is not much to do at Bodmin, and as the railway is one of the newer ones, no extensive bar with local ales or even a guide book, which is the one souvenir I like to collect. This is definitely one for the true enthusiast, an opportunity to see locomotives up close, photograph them etc, whereas I tend to like the museum aspect of preserved railways, and the chance to visit places they serve that otherwise I wouldn't be able to get to. I shall have to visit in a few years I think.
Wondering what else to do, I go back to Bodmin Parkway, having a token hang out of the window, and then decide to go to Looe. For three reasons. One, I've never been to a Cornish seaside resort, and they are quite distinctive landscapes. Two, Looe is divided into two by a river estuary with an arched bridge across the river mouth, which seems quite interesting. And three, the branch to Looe, is completely separated from the main line, the platform for it being at a right angle AND a different level, which is intriguing. I buy a ticket and wait for a train to Liskeard. A bloke in a pony tail asks me in a West Country accent if I've seen the Western go through yet. So I must look like an enthusiast, which I suppose I am of sorts, but I'm not keen! Got enough problems without being regarded as a trainspotter. What's worse is that I know what a Western is, and if he thinks I knew, he must have thought I looked as if I knew! Hmmm. Faintly interested in seeing the Western, though not enough to wait in the middle of nowhere all day, I get on the Exeter train that arrives (Sprinter I think) and head for Liskeard.
Having not been here before, I'm prepared to sprint if necessary, not knowing how far apart these platforms at different levels are. I needn't have worried, it being one or two steps down to the branch platform. You only really see the gradient change once you depart. The track loops round back on itself almost, under the viaduct carrying the main line, overcoming the height difference between the main line and the ground. Even more bizarre, it loops back again to a little used station, then reverses (the driver changes ends) before heading to Looe on the coast. On the main line you actually pass over it twice before it is actually pointing towards its destination. Why it's like this, who knows.
Looe is a pleasant little place, every bit the typical Cornish fishing village of myth. The houses tumble down the surrounding cliffs, the harbour is full of bobbing boats tied up, the sands are soft and golden and the seas blue. It helps that we are having a warm spell that makes it feel like summer, something of a contrast from the morning murk. I have a wander around, climbing the cliff path and wishing I could keep going rather than having to remember the train times, a common theme on my trips. One day I will actually base myself in an area and have the time to explore properly. Seeing as this was nearly two and a half years ago I can't remember much else of it. On the train back to Liskeard most of the passengers on the (same?) single coach Sprinter are the same ones who came down, which is unusual. I also remember that the train seemed to hug the river all the way back - almost next to it. Railways are often built in valleys because most of the civil engineering has already been done by nature, but this seems very close!
At Liskeard I pop across the road to a reasonably pleasant pub, in which most of the punters seem to have Southern accents and swear a lot, then get back on the train home - at this time, the longest waking train journey I've done. There's a few things to look for - the Tamar Bridge that marks the border between Devon and Cornwall, most notably. Of course I've already crossed it, but I was asleep. Now I get a chance to see this engineering miracle. It lives up to its reputation, and I would like to see it from a better vantage point some day. Then there is still one of my favourite stretches to cover - along the river Teign, then through the amazing sandstone tunnels at Dawlish, and the river Exe estuary - where you feel like you're skimming the water when the tide is in. And for any reading enthusiasts, this is all on a 125, which always seems like an old friend, I suppose because it was the state of the art train when I was 7, and I always wanted to go on it. Now it's commonplace to me, but I still like to see a 125 round the corner when I'm ready for home. And in a miraculous five hours, I'm 300 miles away from Cornwall and back home.
New lines this trip:
Plymouth-Penzance
Liskeard-Looe
Sunday, 24 October 2004
Settle-Carlisle October 2004
This is an early one, before the days when the quest became simply a line-based business. It began as a day out on the Settle-Carlisle line, likely to be the most scenic rail journey in England. I then discovered that Settle was just a station on the way to Leeds which made it an even more adventurous trip. How it expanded beyond that I'm not sure now. It was originally going to be London-Leeds-Carlisle-London. I think when I noticed there was a line between Newcastle and Carlisle I thought it might be fun to do a big loop around the country, except that Leeds is right in the middle of that bit of England. Hence returning to the West Coast via Preston and thence south from there. Also, it was the week that the Pendolinos launched, so it seemed like a good excuse to have a go on one at the same time. An early epic for me, and all in one day - I hadn't started to build overnight stays in at this point.
I managed to get a reasonable single to Newcastle, and was looking forward to my first foray north of York. I don't quite know what I was expecting. North Yorkshire is beautiful, but I already knew that! Seeing a giant lineside arrow with a sign announcing "London-Edinburgh: Half-Way," was quite entertaining. Beyond that seeing Durham Cathedral and crossing one of the many Tyne bridges with their interesting different levels was something. I had about thirty minutes' wait at Newcastle to watch the world go by, I decided not to go into the city, vowing to return, and 3 years on, I've still only changed trains there!
The Carlisle train arrived, much to my surprise it was what I now know as a Pacer, though I'd have called it a bus on rails at any rate - which I gather it was it is, pretty much. The roughness of the ride didn't detract from the glorious scenery along the upper reaches of the Tyne, but it's a remarkably inappropriate train for a Cross Country service. It only gets full at the city ends of the route, and as this was before I-Pods took off, it's a peaceful trip. Aside from the non-stop groaning and squeaking of the body and the roar of the engines. We get every type of weather along the way, and although I'm not happy about this at first, I realise that it does allow me to see the landscape in all its varied glory over the course of the day.
At Carlisle I visit the small cathedral and wander back through the obligatory pedestrianised shopping centre before buying fish cake and chips. The fish cakes look great in the hot cabinet, or at least I think they do, thinking they are the tennis ball-sized things. What I'm served is more ordinary fish cakes. I see there is haggis on the menu but I gather that the tennis ball things are not that either - so I never do find out! Carlisle is interesting in that it's a border town - the first I've really been to. There is a curious mixture of accents and I realise that this must be what continental borders must be like - the gradual transition rather than the sudden change we tend to associate with crossing borders in the UK. Anyhow. The train to Leeds is almost an hour late before it's cancelled. Luckily the next one was an hour later, otherwise this could have been a bit disasterous, usually it's not exactly a clockface timetable over the Settle-Carlisle usually.
Finally we're off. It's a four coach Sprinter which is better than I was expecting. Most of the people on it appear to be on it for the sights too, at least until we get into the Leeds commuter belt. There's not much point me talking about the individual sights on the line, except of course for the magnificent Ribbledhead Viaduct that crosses the Ribble Valley, as it is famous even with people who don't know much about railways. All you need to say is that it ploughs through the best countryside that Cumbria, Lancashire and Yorkshire have to offer. So I could drone on about the line's history instead. It was built, at great expense, by the Midland Railway, who were seeking their own route to Scotland to compete with the companies running over the more direct West and East coast routes. To this day it seems bizzare that they should have done so, as the areas covered remain to be sparsely populated and difficult terrain to build and maintain a railway in. I'm glad that they did though! It was almost inevitable that after the Beeching, the line's days would be numbered - chiefly because of the cost of maintaining Ribblehead Viaduct. All bar Settle and Appleby stations closed in 1970 and in 1983 BR announced its closure. Such was its reputation for breathtaking scenery that interest in the line started to revive. People travelled it just to see it before it went. And as a consequence, by 1989, the then-Conservative Transport Secretary refused BR's request. Since then the line has gone from strength to strength. Sightseers and walkers now make much use of the line. It's used for the increased number of coal trains that have followed the decline of oil and gas for electricity generation, keeping them off the busy West Coast line. West Coast passenger trains have also been diverted over the route whilst the main line has been refurbished. Volunteer groups have re-opened all the stations, incredibly not bulldozed but well preserved, and now run cafes, bookshops etc. It's a happy story amongst much that has been unhappy for the railways in recent times.
As we approach Leeds, I'm aware of how built up it has become, and am unprepared for the number of people struggling to get on the (late) class 158 train to Preston that I clamber on to. In Northern fashion an elderly lady talks to me about the Settle Carlisle trip and suggests other routes I might like to try. She is visiting her daughter in Preston who has moved there from Doncaster, and true to type makes a remark about being "over the border" when we stop at a Burnley station, ie the first stop in Lancashire! I think Trans Penine Express have just taken over from Northern Spirit and they have a long way to go.
At Preston I have a half hour wait for the train. It's a big station befitting a city of its stature and I like the big sign that states, "Welcome to Lancashire." I have time for a quick drink before catching the new Pendolino to London. For possibly the last time ever I am on an almost empty Virgin train. Because it's dark I can't appreciate the new bit of line I'm covering, though I can just about appreciate the tilt in action. I gather that the tilt works on this train better than BR's ill-fated APT. The APT mechanism tried to compensate for the brain's interpretation of the tilting action, which meant that the eye saw one thing but the brain experienced another, causing nausea. The new train allows the brain to deal with it by itself and thus doesn't give it a problem. It certainly seems to work, as I'm not aware of tilting at all, though I am aware of how fast the acceleration of the thing is, it shifting away from stops incredibly fast. It seems no time before we are back in London and I head for the tube to Victoria and home.
New lines covered this trip:
York-Newcastle
Newcastle-Carlisle
Carlisle-Leeds
Leeds-Preston
Preston-Tamworth-London
I managed to get a reasonable single to Newcastle, and was looking forward to my first foray north of York. I don't quite know what I was expecting. North Yorkshire is beautiful, but I already knew that! Seeing a giant lineside arrow with a sign announcing "London-Edinburgh: Half-Way," was quite entertaining. Beyond that seeing Durham Cathedral and crossing one of the many Tyne bridges with their interesting different levels was something. I had about thirty minutes' wait at Newcastle to watch the world go by, I decided not to go into the city, vowing to return, and 3 years on, I've still only changed trains there!
The Carlisle train arrived, much to my surprise it was what I now know as a Pacer, though I'd have called it a bus on rails at any rate - which I gather it was it is, pretty much. The roughness of the ride didn't detract from the glorious scenery along the upper reaches of the Tyne, but it's a remarkably inappropriate train for a Cross Country service. It only gets full at the city ends of the route, and as this was before I-Pods took off, it's a peaceful trip. Aside from the non-stop groaning and squeaking of the body and the roar of the engines. We get every type of weather along the way, and although I'm not happy about this at first, I realise that it does allow me to see the landscape in all its varied glory over the course of the day.
At Carlisle I visit the small cathedral and wander back through the obligatory pedestrianised shopping centre before buying fish cake and chips. The fish cakes look great in the hot cabinet, or at least I think they do, thinking they are the tennis ball-sized things. What I'm served is more ordinary fish cakes. I see there is haggis on the menu but I gather that the tennis ball things are not that either - so I never do find out! Carlisle is interesting in that it's a border town - the first I've really been to. There is a curious mixture of accents and I realise that this must be what continental borders must be like - the gradual transition rather than the sudden change we tend to associate with crossing borders in the UK. Anyhow. The train to Leeds is almost an hour late before it's cancelled. Luckily the next one was an hour later, otherwise this could have been a bit disasterous, usually it's not exactly a clockface timetable over the Settle-Carlisle usually.
Finally we're off. It's a four coach Sprinter which is better than I was expecting. Most of the people on it appear to be on it for the sights too, at least until we get into the Leeds commuter belt. There's not much point me talking about the individual sights on the line, except of course for the magnificent Ribbledhead Viaduct that crosses the Ribble Valley, as it is famous even with people who don't know much about railways. All you need to say is that it ploughs through the best countryside that Cumbria, Lancashire and Yorkshire have to offer. So I could drone on about the line's history instead. It was built, at great expense, by the Midland Railway, who were seeking their own route to Scotland to compete with the companies running over the more direct West and East coast routes. To this day it seems bizzare that they should have done so, as the areas covered remain to be sparsely populated and difficult terrain to build and maintain a railway in. I'm glad that they did though! It was almost inevitable that after the Beeching, the line's days would be numbered - chiefly because of the cost of maintaining Ribblehead Viaduct. All bar Settle and Appleby stations closed in 1970 and in 1983 BR announced its closure. Such was its reputation for breathtaking scenery that interest in the line started to revive. People travelled it just to see it before it went. And as a consequence, by 1989, the then-Conservative Transport Secretary refused BR's request. Since then the line has gone from strength to strength. Sightseers and walkers now make much use of the line. It's used for the increased number of coal trains that have followed the decline of oil and gas for electricity generation, keeping them off the busy West Coast line. West Coast passenger trains have also been diverted over the route whilst the main line has been refurbished. Volunteer groups have re-opened all the stations, incredibly not bulldozed but well preserved, and now run cafes, bookshops etc. It's a happy story amongst much that has been unhappy for the railways in recent times.
As we approach Leeds, I'm aware of how built up it has become, and am unprepared for the number of people struggling to get on the (late) class 158 train to Preston that I clamber on to. In Northern fashion an elderly lady talks to me about the Settle Carlisle trip and suggests other routes I might like to try. She is visiting her daughter in Preston who has moved there from Doncaster, and true to type makes a remark about being "over the border" when we stop at a Burnley station, ie the first stop in Lancashire! I think Trans Penine Express have just taken over from Northern Spirit and they have a long way to go.
At Preston I have a half hour wait for the train. It's a big station befitting a city of its stature and I like the big sign that states, "Welcome to Lancashire." I have time for a quick drink before catching the new Pendolino to London. For possibly the last time ever I am on an almost empty Virgin train. Because it's dark I can't appreciate the new bit of line I'm covering, though I can just about appreciate the tilt in action. I gather that the tilt works on this train better than BR's ill-fated APT. The APT mechanism tried to compensate for the brain's interpretation of the tilting action, which meant that the eye saw one thing but the brain experienced another, causing nausea. The new train allows the brain to deal with it by itself and thus doesn't give it a problem. It certainly seems to work, as I'm not aware of tilting at all, though I am aware of how fast the acceleration of the thing is, it shifting away from stops incredibly fast. It seems no time before we are back in London and I head for the tube to Victoria and home.
New lines covered this trip:
York-Newcastle
Newcastle-Carlisle
Carlisle-Leeds
Leeds-Preston
Preston-Tamworth-London
Tuesday, 30 September 2003
East Anglia 2003
This was my earliest bashing trip of any note. I bought an Anglia Rover, Anglia being the company for the Norwich and Norfolk/Suffolk local trains before it was replaced by the daftly-named One Railway. The whole trip was achieved in a day, East Anglia not being that far away from London.
Step one was to reach the western limit of the Rover area at Peterborough. I took a GNER 225 non-stop from London King's Cross. There was just a few minutes before the first connecting train, a single coach Sprinter that would take me into the heart of East Anglia. The first stop of note was at March in Cambridgeshire. This used to be a fairly significant junction for trains coming and going from all over East Anglia and Lincolnshire, but these days it's just a through station. You can get an idea of the former scale of the place from the number and shape of platforms there though. After this we cross the New Bedford River, a major part of the Fens drainage that prevents East Anglia returning to the sea. It's quite an impressive sight in terms of its width and depth, and the same goes for the girder bridge that carries us over.
Next stop is Ely and its magnificent cathedral. Because of the flat landscape you can see it for miles as you apparoach and depart the city. We then bump across the line that crosses counties from Cambridgeshire to Suffolk, passing through Bury St Edmunds where disappointingly little of the city is visible from the railway. Back on to the main East of England line as the overhead lines loom into view and we're at Stowmarket. This train continues to Harwich I think, but I clamber off here. Looking back, what's changed is that in those days I didn't really plan these days in anything like as much detail as I do now. This is partly a reflection of me getting used to the idea that everywhere does not have a train every 30 minutes like London, which took some getting used to. So I was actually quite lucky that I could get another train going north that quickly at Stowmarket. Some of the lines in this part of the world have an irregular service, so the day could have been a disaster.
This is an express to Norwich, at that time, one of the last loco-hauled regular services, a class 73 pulling mk3 coaches, and now in 2007 the only one, until the new Wrexham and Shropshire Company starts work. The main event of note was going to the loo and getting a quick eyeful of a lady who has forgotten to lock the door and is firmly enthroned. By the time we have sped to the capital of Norfolk it's lunchtime. I have a long gap until the next leg and no new journeys are available, so I get the train to Great Yarmouth, a trip I did in 2002, grab a sandwich and return, in time to get the 2 car 170 to Cambridge.
I notice we cross a swing bridge on the way out of Norwich. Can you imagine them leaving a swing bridge just outside Leeds or Manchester? The trip to Cambridge is across rural flatlands, and I am surprised by the length of the journey, though when you look at the map it is a longish route. I pass through Ely again, one of the couple of loop backs I will do today. Then we're in Cambridge, a station I am very familiar with as I have friends in the area, though interestingly I have never approached it from the north, and of course such a daft thing pleases me.
At Cambridge I just miss the Ipswich train, an unfortunate side-effect of not doing much pre-planning. Ironically it leave a couple of minutes late too. I probably went in the drab buffet (now a Marks Simply Food - no booze at Cmabridge at all now!) to wait the hour. I spot a vending machine on the platform Eventually I'm on a single coach Sprinter that is incredibly noisy for two reasons. One, it's full of schoolgirls, thankfully all of whom have gone by Newmarket. Two, some bit of the engine is thumping in a way that sounds like it needs an overhaul, and this goes all the way to the other end! Never mind. We then join the line from March and travel for the second time across to to the East of England line through Bury St Edmunds. This time I stay on through Stowmarket as I am going all the way to Ipswich.
There I have a half hour wait for the Felixstowe train. I think it was another single coach Sprinter but possibly it is electrified, so possibly it was a non-descript EMU - a 321 or something. This is double track but only for the huge amount of container trains going to and from the port. We pass a couple such trains and a sea of containers piled up like lego bricks before arriving at the minimal station in Felixstowe. I can see that the same thing has happened here as at many terminals - the large impressive station has been turned into a retail park and the line now stops far short of the original end of the line and has hardly any facilties at all. I suppose if it helps to keep lines open at all by lowering maintenance costs it's okay, but it is a shame. I'm too tired to look around so I get back on the return train, something I then felt reticient to do, but I'm keen to get home now.
At Ipswich I get on a London Express. Somebody talks loudly on their phone all the way home despite me glaring at them. Looking back it's sobering to think that this was quite rare in those days as they were still pricey to use. Now of course, someone's always on a mobile, with no regard for the other passengers. Why didn't I upgrade to the relative peace of first class? We arrive in London at Liverpool Street, and the notion that I performed a huge loop from King's Cross appeals to my sense of symmetry.
King's Cross-Peterborough
Peterborough-Ely-Stowmarket
Stowmarket-Norwich
Norwich-Cambridge
Cambridge-Ipswich
Ipswich-Felixstowe
Felixstowe-London Liverpool Street
Step one was to reach the western limit of the Rover area at Peterborough. I took a GNER 225 non-stop from London King's Cross. There was just a few minutes before the first connecting train, a single coach Sprinter that would take me into the heart of East Anglia. The first stop of note was at March in Cambridgeshire. This used to be a fairly significant junction for trains coming and going from all over East Anglia and Lincolnshire, but these days it's just a through station. You can get an idea of the former scale of the place from the number and shape of platforms there though. After this we cross the New Bedford River, a major part of the Fens drainage that prevents East Anglia returning to the sea. It's quite an impressive sight in terms of its width and depth, and the same goes for the girder bridge that carries us over.
Next stop is Ely and its magnificent cathedral. Because of the flat landscape you can see it for miles as you apparoach and depart the city. We then bump across the line that crosses counties from Cambridgeshire to Suffolk, passing through Bury St Edmunds where disappointingly little of the city is visible from the railway. Back on to the main East of England line as the overhead lines loom into view and we're at Stowmarket. This train continues to Harwich I think, but I clamber off here. Looking back, what's changed is that in those days I didn't really plan these days in anything like as much detail as I do now. This is partly a reflection of me getting used to the idea that everywhere does not have a train every 30 minutes like London, which took some getting used to. So I was actually quite lucky that I could get another train going north that quickly at Stowmarket. Some of the lines in this part of the world have an irregular service, so the day could have been a disaster.
This is an express to Norwich, at that time, one of the last loco-hauled regular services, a class 73 pulling mk3 coaches, and now in 2007 the only one, until the new Wrexham and Shropshire Company starts work. The main event of note was going to the loo and getting a quick eyeful of a lady who has forgotten to lock the door and is firmly enthroned. By the time we have sped to the capital of Norfolk it's lunchtime. I have a long gap until the next leg and no new journeys are available, so I get the train to Great Yarmouth, a trip I did in 2002, grab a sandwich and return, in time to get the 2 car 170 to Cambridge.
I notice we cross a swing bridge on the way out of Norwich. Can you imagine them leaving a swing bridge just outside Leeds or Manchester? The trip to Cambridge is across rural flatlands, and I am surprised by the length of the journey, though when you look at the map it is a longish route. I pass through Ely again, one of the couple of loop backs I will do today. Then we're in Cambridge, a station I am very familiar with as I have friends in the area, though interestingly I have never approached it from the north, and of course such a daft thing pleases me.
At Cambridge I just miss the Ipswich train, an unfortunate side-effect of not doing much pre-planning. Ironically it leave a couple of minutes late too. I probably went in the drab buffet (now a Marks Simply Food - no booze at Cmabridge at all now!) to wait the hour. I spot a vending machine on the platform Eventually I'm on a single coach Sprinter that is incredibly noisy for two reasons. One, it's full of schoolgirls, thankfully all of whom have gone by Newmarket. Two, some bit of the engine is thumping in a way that sounds like it needs an overhaul, and this goes all the way to the other end! Never mind. We then join the line from March and travel for the second time across to to the East of England line through Bury St Edmunds. This time I stay on through Stowmarket as I am going all the way to Ipswich.
There I have a half hour wait for the Felixstowe train. I think it was another single coach Sprinter but possibly it is electrified, so possibly it was a non-descript EMU - a 321 or something. This is double track but only for the huge amount of container trains going to and from the port. We pass a couple such trains and a sea of containers piled up like lego bricks before arriving at the minimal station in Felixstowe. I can see that the same thing has happened here as at many terminals - the large impressive station has been turned into a retail park and the line now stops far short of the original end of the line and has hardly any facilties at all. I suppose if it helps to keep lines open at all by lowering maintenance costs it's okay, but it is a shame. I'm too tired to look around so I get back on the return train, something I then felt reticient to do, but I'm keen to get home now.
At Ipswich I get on a London Express. Somebody talks loudly on their phone all the way home despite me glaring at them. Looking back it's sobering to think that this was quite rare in those days as they were still pricey to use. Now of course, someone's always on a mobile, with no regard for the other passengers. Why didn't I upgrade to the relative peace of first class? We arrive in London at Liverpool Street, and the notion that I performed a huge loop from King's Cross appeals to my sense of symmetry.
King's Cross-Peterborough
Peterborough-Ely-Stowmarket
Stowmarket-Norwich
Norwich-Cambridge
Cambridge-Ipswich
Ipswich-Felixstowe
Felixstowe-London Liverpool Street
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