Under Suspicion, somewhere on the old LD&ECR

The map showed me the way down to the railway sidings. I found the left turn I needed, a metalled surface but with no signs. Past the last house, which was shown on the map, the road became a track, but it was still easily drivable. Over a bridge that crossed a stream, through an open gate at the end, and I had still not passed any obvious place to park. I knew I was now just onto railway property. The signalman’s car was parked there, as was a white van marked “Network Rail.” There was just enough room for me behind them.

I went to talk to the driver of the van, who was reading a newspaper. I told him why I was there. I had looked on the internet and was expecting one coal train out and one train of empties in during the next half an hour. I asked if it would be OK to leave my car there for a few minutes while I took a couple of photos. He said he could not give me permission, but he didn’t tell me to go, either. We chatted about his job, checking the workings of the mechanical signal boxes along the line. He was based at a location on the main line about ten miles away. His next port of call was the box to the west of this one, but he was in no hurry to get there. He gave me the impression that he did not get on too well with the signalman there. He intended to reduce his visiting time to a surgical strike.

Conversation turned to the advantages of the traditional signalman’s life, which modern technology was in the midst of bringing to an end and which was the real reason I was there – to record it before it disappeared. It was a lovely summer’s day. I had already heard skylarks and yellowhammers and seen tree sparrows, in the few minutes I had been standing there. It was an idyllic rural oasis, yet only minutes away from sizable settlements.

The NR man walked over the tracks to the signalbox. I noticed that the locomotive had now pulled slowly towards me along the siding, so I picked up the camera from my car. The signalman appeared at the door of his box and shouted to me. “Do you mind standing on the other side of your car, please, mate?” “OK,” I replied and I did what I was told. The engine rumbled forward. I took a couple of pictures but the light was wrong to begin with and my newly withdrawn position just about scuppered the whole operation.

NR man returned to his van. He explained that the driver might have reported me as a “near miss,” and if he had, “We’d have had everyone here, swarming around the place.” I murmured something generally compliant and wondered what they had me down as - demonstrator, suicide, terrorist, vandal or metal thief? NR man drove off to forge a meaningful, if short-lived and no doubt a little strained, working arrangement with his colleague in the next box. When the dust settled, I followed him back to civilisation.  

On my way home, I mused over what the signalman in the next box might have said to upset NR man and wondered how that call was going. I also thought about how suspicious these two railwaymen had been of me. Surely, I don’t look like a trouble maker? They were only covering their own backs, I concluded. They were doing their job by the book. I was strictly a trespasser on railway property. It is not just technology that has changed over the years and I’m all in favour of safer working practices, but we seem somehow to have lost something of value alongside such developments. Maybe it is trust.

Remain

Last Wednesday, my son became an American citizen. I sent my good wishes and added my concerns about the forthcoming referendum. His wife, herself an American, replied,

"The ceremony yesterday was, to me, really an affirmation of global citizenship and responsibility and a celebration of the strength that diversity brings to a country. It was a reminder that we are truly a country of immigrants. They played a video of immigrants coming through Ellis Island, juxtaposed with images of more recent naturalization ceremonies and quotes from new citizens who had worked long and hard to gain their rights. The officiant even encouraged him and the other new citizens to help others who are seeking citizenship and support them through the process, as they've been supported. I dread to think how the process would change - or end - if Donald Trump were to be elected. I really hope that Britain does not leave the EU. I hope reasonable people come out in force to prevent it from happening."

It seems possible that the alliance including right-wing Tories, UKIP, the more depressing elements of the press, vehement nationalists and every racist in Britain, could actually win the referendum and we would then be left to re-negotiate all our international arrangements again from scratch. 

All this against the advice of the government, most other mainstream political parties, the Bank of England, just about every reputable international body under the sun, the trade unions, almost every independent financial and economic forecaster, the other EU member states, international security agencies, most world leaders [apart, surprise, surprise, from Putin and Trump], every conceivable environmental group, a large majority of business leaders and all the moderate and thoughtful people that I have spoken to about the issue.

However, it appears that a large swathe of the population has been persuaded to blame all their ills on foreigners and on the EU. Many of them are already comparatively disadvantaged members of the community who have experienced considerable reductions in benefits and access to services in recent years. At the same time, the tabloid press has blamed their situation on the usual convenient scapegoats - immigrants.

The consensus is, then, that it is all about immigration and, if so, the whole thing boils down to the supposition that we really don't like people who we see as being different from ourselves. Is there any hope for us as a nation - or as a species, in the long run - if that is the determining factor for our relationship with others?

Even more important than the direct economic consequences of leaving is the threat to our stability and security that would come from taking such a massive and unnecessary risk. This is not what I want for my children and grandchildren, growing up in an already turbulent world. Are we really prepared to take a leap into the unknown when we can’t possibly know what the effects of such a decision would be?

Autistic?Moi?

OK, so admittedly, it was the train spotting thing that got me going in the first place. When Bill Bryson met up with a train spotter, as related in his book, “Notes from a Small Island” [Transworld, 1995, ISBN 9780552996006], my suspicions were immediately raised and I guessed just what was coming over the next few pages.

Bill got trapped in transit with his train spotter on a train in North Wales and short of wandering off to the toilet to hide, trying to find the non-existent buffet car or simply telling the bloke to ---- off, [as he himself put it], he was stymied until one or other of them got off.

Bill’s parting shot was that he had read a newspaper article in which a speaker at the British Psychological Society had described train spotting as a form of autism called Asperger’s Syndrome. An expert from the Medical Research Council’s Cognitive Development Unit had apparently claimed that train spotters and others who are obsessive about collecting items of trivia, may be suffering from Asperger’s Syndrome, which is widely recognised as being a psychological condition at the milder end of the autistic spectrum.

The North Wales encounter took place between an erudite writer who decided that his new acquaintance was one sandwich short of a picnic and a man with characteristics associated with classic Asperger’s Syndrome, namely an obsession with detail in a distinct area of interest and more particularly an inability to recognise when his target audience had had enough of listening to him going on about trains. 

My early interest in the same topic, no doubt encouraged by access to the original series of the Reverend W. Audrey’s Thomas the Tank Engine books, has provided me with a rewarding life-long hobby, in which the recording of numbers is but one facet. I have been entertained by some splendid railway literature, indulged for a time in railway modelling, travelled extensively in many countries in relative comfort by rail, appreciated the subtlety of unfolding landscapes, gasped at some wondrous scenery from my passing window, admired architectural masterpieces fairly close up, found fascination in the construction of railway infrastructure and its regional variations, marvelled at engineering feats, appreciated the aesthetics of various locomotive designs, met interesting people to chat to [honestly], enjoyed the togetherness of being part of a club of like-minded souls, revelled in the company of friends who share my passion and been mesmerised by the beating heart of the steam engine, fighting its way up-hill through stunning surroundings to Ais Gill summit on the Settle to Carlisle route with a heavy load.

I have also collected locomotive numbers. It is difficult to talk about individual steam engines without making reference to their numbers. Railwaymen have to do the same thing on a daily basis, otherwise particular engines could not be given specific tasks. There has to be a system which involves numeracy. So it is for rail fans. Numbers are how we tell them apart, in addition to the obvious variations in design of the different locomotive classes. It is the obvious way to do it. In the past, big important engines also received names, plus they were painted red or green rather than black to communicate more clearly their place at the top of the pulling-power hierarchy.

Surely, being interested in all this does not mean you are suffering from a psychological condition? Bill Bryson’s travelling companion was not suffering from Asperger’s Syndrome because he was interested in trains, but because he bored him to death in a one-way “conversation.” He gave him a relentless ear-bashing and was unable to pick up on the signs that his new friend was turned off by this monologue within seconds of its having begun.

With over 400 psychological conditions to go round, according to the American Psychiatrists Association’s Diagnostic and Statistical Manual of Mental Disorders [Fourth Edition, A.P.A., 2000, ISBN 9780890420249], there is a fair chance that quite a lot of us, railway enthusiasts or not, have symptoms of some of them, even if they are not prevalent enough, in terms of frequency of occurrence or over the necessary range of recognisable behaviour traits, to tip the balance sufficiently for us to become labelled as belonging to one identified and specified group of sufferers or another.

I worked closely with young people with autism for over six years and on the whole I found them to be delightful and benign but they generally showed little disinterest in making relationships with each other. As a caring adult, it was eventually possible to gain their trust. Many were amusing and most were pleasant company. At the same time, their condition was, for the majority, patently very real and to varying degrees was an enormous impediment to their progress over a whole range of life skills and competencies.

The main problem appeared to me to be that it was a life sentence and that significant change was unlikely. Its severity varied enormously and in those with more marked symptoms, any ability to adapt their behaviour to manage their autism sufficiently to allow progress in any measured or mainstream educational sense was dramatically impaired. In fact, it often seemed to be a complete non-starter.

The blanket accusation of affliction aimed at train spotters niggled me a bit because it seemed a sloppy way to describe vast numbers of disparate people and because it begged more questions than it answered. “Intense interest in something is not sufficient reason to label people as suffering from this or any other disorder, though I suppose the way they relate their passion to others might be grounds for concern,” was how I put it in my book, “Train Spotters.” [M. Priestley, Countyvise, 2010 ISBN 9781906823542, p.166]

The American reference book goes on to define when interests becomes obsessions, namely, when they are “compulsions that are severe enough to become time consuming, ie. they take up more than one hour a day, or cause marked distress or significant impairment” [2000, p.456/7]. That still seems like a pretty grey area to me. There is a massive difference between the first part of the claim, which I would have to declare myself guilty of, and the second, which I would confidently claim is not really me. With so many psychological conditions to go round, the law of averages would suggest that it is likely that some rail buffs are indeed so afflicted, but it is another leap of faith altogether to suggest that one equals the other.

I have to admit to having found some comfort in making collections - in the past of train numbers and more recently in some of the paperwork of the railway companies, in the form of advertising posters, carriage prints and paintings. They have an artistic merit, as well as being significant historical documents and indicators of cultural change.

I recognise that my attraction to order, predictability, consistency and symmetry puts me right in the frame for some commentators about the condition. I think that this is the extent of my obsessive behaviour, however, and if we are to include collectors of all descriptions then we would certainly have an extra avalanche of sufferers of Asperger’s Syndrome to deal with. Not just stamp collectors or those possessing an array of porcelain figures, china tea pots or silverware, but geologists, fossil hunters – in fact, hunters in general with their animal remains traditionally on show in cabinets or plastered to the wall; modellers, gardeners of all description from roses to cacti, book worms with extensive libraries, those with voluminous wardrobes containing far more clothes or jewellery than they could ever actually need to keep warm or look smart in, vintage car enthusiasts and bird watchers with tick lists of the species they have identified - all disabled by a psychological condition that they did not know they had.

In fact, anybody with any interest at all, whose enthusiasm leads them towards acquisition, is presumably tainted, especially if they derive some comfort from the assembly of paraphernalia. How is the pleasure gained to be measured? Is the nature of the pleasure only autistic if it involves classification or recognises numerical coincidences, shows a preference for sequences or a liking for complete sets of items? I would have to admit this fits me to a tee.

“Classing” of locomotives - the recording as seen of each one in a set or type - was one of the main aims of the hobby when I was younger and I definitely got a buzz out of it. I remember standing on Newton Abbott station early in the 1970’s to welcome in D1028 Western Hussar, the last one I “needed” to tick off all of that class, as clearly as if it was yesterday. I was elated, probably punching the air and letting out a whoop of delight, which may well have attracted some curious looks from the passengers on board as the train pulled up in the platform – and all that was just for a diesel! I then underlined it carefully in red biro with a ruler to register the completion of that particular sequence. What must it have been like for steam in the 60’s, when I was an impressionable school boy? At the time, it was the nearest thing to heaven for me.

To continue the theme to the present day, I also possess all 24 of C. Hamilton Ellis’s “Travel in….” series of 1950’s carriage prints, cosily enclosed in archival quality, see-through, display envelopes, which I get out from my art folio carrying case at the drop of a hat to show to anyone who shows the remotest flicker of interest in seeing them. If I accept that this is an indicator of my being an Asperger’s sufferer, I would probably respond by insisting that that is probably the only one of the symptoms I’ve got. But would that alone be enough to seal it for me? Surely not?

If I have Asperger’s Syndrome, then so does a very significant proportion of the population. I think it is unlikely. It would only be based on one criterion, after all. However, the idea that I might be more closely aligned than I had previously thought to the people I started working with when I was 56, after 34 years as a classroom teacher in mainstream comprehensive schools, certainly provided me with another angle with which to investigate the behaviour of my new students. I was obviously more like them than I had previously thought.

So what is the point I am trying to make here? One engrossing aspect to all this is that some train folk probably do have manifestations of the recognisable characteristics of these various conditions, but on the psychologists own reckoning, it is the whole cocktail that has to be present to acquire the condition. Human individuality blurs the clear-cut distinctions and casts doubt on the labels that some would like to confer in their strenuous efforts to categorise people.

I suppose my argument is that one ticked box is not enough for a diagnosis, but there must be millions of folk with odd ticks here and there to emphasise not only that autism is a continuum, but that there must be a very wide transitional zone straddling the ultimate dividing line between autism and normality [which the experts prefer to call neuro-typical behaviour].

My second point is really the answer to the question, “So what?” Well, it is obviously important to many people because accurate diagnosis is the prerequisite for allocating scarce and necessary resources to provide help for those who need it. In most cases of autism that I have seen, it is blatantly obvious where this is a “must.” For the rest of us, living full lives and hopefully in control of our own destiny but maybe carrying a few idiosyncratic behaviour traits, all this simply adds to the richness of human existence. It does not affect our day to day lives, does not impede our progress in our chosen fields and should certainly be regarded with tolerance and maybe with some fascination by those who are so bland that they are apparently free from all accusations of variation from the norm.

[Based on an article that first appeared in the Railway Antiques Gazette, with thanks to the editor, Tim Petchey]

Trains? Why Trains?

At a railwayana auction a couple of years back - one of the last held at the Gateway Centre at Derbyshire County Cricket Ground - a young cricketer walked through the club's reception area and noticing that something out of the ordinary was afoot, he cast a glance towards the main hall and looked even more puzzled when he saw the Saturday morning crowd within. “What’s going on?” he enquired of the receptionist at the desk. She opened her eyes a little wider and stretched her mouth downwards in mock bemusement.

“Go and have a look!” she suggested, as if anything she might have offered in the way of an explanation might have failed to do justice to the scene. He retraced his steps and took a peek inside the arena, in which he was more used to hearing the smack of willow on leather from his team mates practising in the indoor nets. He took the view in sufficiently to register that an auction of railway antiques was taking place. “I see what you mean,” he offered on his return, raising his own eyes to the ceiling and shaking his head in feigned bewilderment. 

I’ve had this attitude paraded in my direction from time to time throughout my life. “Trains?” they say, quite contemptuously, “Why trains?” I can put up with a bit of mickey taking about train spotting. I explain that it is really railway enthusiasm, which obviously suggests a more rounded interest to begin with. I go on about our national prowess as inventors, the architectural legacy we have been left by previous generations, the inspiration for art and literature, the engineering skills passed down in our workshops, the aesthetics - the essential attraction of the steam locomotive, our contribution to transport development on a truly global scale and all the rest of it, but I know that minds are already made up. They think we are a little eccentric - and certainly in no way “cool.”

That’s OK with me. I’ve noticed that when you ask a lot of those people who like to profess that we are a bit of an unusual bunch what their own interests are they often don’t come up with very much about themselves; maybe watch a lot of telly, walk the dog, go to slimming classes or take a lot of interest in lotteries. Some do a lot of shopping and then go on social media to tell their friends what an exciting time they have had at a retail outlet.

On the other hand, I’m always a little intrigued to hear about activities that are more off-beat than ours. Whether its collecting plastic traffic cones [you can buy them from Barriers Direct], keeping a pet skunk [OOPS –Owners of Pet Skunks - have their own website, which includes a Skunk of the Month competition], the Roundabout Appreciation Society, collecting air sickness bags, extreme ironing [in unusual locations], or the lady in Sussex whose hobby is knitting woollen breasts [100 in three years to enable her daughter, a community nurse, to teach mums to breast feed], it is all OK with me. Apparently, vehicle tattooing is big in Taiwan.

Talk about life’s rich tapestry. I think all this is wonderful. How boring life would be if everybody had the same interests. What would we be able to tell each other about? Each to their own is how I see it. There is nothing wrong with a bit of harmless amusement - and does it necessarily mean the adherents of these particular hobbies are oddball characters? I certainly won’t be the one to cast the first stone.

What a numerous and loyal following railwayana collecting seems to have. And so, of course, do the trains themselves. When I get talking to folk, I often find out that they also know a train man and they might even admit to having one in the family. Go to any access point on the main line when there is a steam special booked and I can almost guarantee that you won’t be on your own by the time it arrives and not everyone who comes along could strictly be described as a devoted fan. Yet, grandfathers bring grandchildren to show them what a “proper engine” looks like and even unsuspecting passers-by spontaneously turn their heads in admiration. It is, after all, a fine sight for anyone with an inkling of romance or a sense of history about them.

One day, also about two years ago, I waited in the company of about twenty other people on the Sleaford Road bridge in Newark to celebrate a north bound run of Tornado. The guy with the fancy video recorder set up on a tripod, who had been training his sights on the curve of the main line for the previous half an hour, suddenly realised at the last minute that three people and a dog were walking into his view finder and more particularly into ear-shot along the line-side footpath and just below his strategically chosen position. “Excuse me, can you be quiet, please?” he demanded.

The thing was that none of them was actually talking [or barking] and the only sound, apart from Tornado, which was by now just visible, was the tapping on the ground of the disabled old lady’s aluminium walking stick, which she had securely strapped on at the elbow. She stopped abruptly, looked at her companions in disgust, lifted her stick into the air, stared at it pointedly and then glared back towards the source of the request in disbelief at what she had just heard. Perhaps that was one potential convert lost to the cause, I thought, as 60163 steamed resplendently by and disappeared in the direction of York. I’m pleased to report that the lady in question managed to remain firmly upright throughout the event. I doubt if she bothered to turn up for the return working that evening, though.   

[From an article first published under the title "Hobbies" in the Railway Antiques Gazette and with thanks to the editor, Tim Petchey]