Time Travel

The idea that it is only time that separates us from witnessing amazing events is a recurring theme in popular literature, of course. I’ve had that feeling a few times, for example, when standing in the same room in which Churchill met Stalin, at Cecilienhof, Potsdam and turning the same door handle that he turned to enter the talks.

More recently, we were enjoying a summer’s evening drink on the picnic tables outside the Bromley at Fiskerton, a riverside pub overlooking the Trent. It is a peaceful location frequented by gastro-pub grubbers and a range of aquatic birds, including the occasional kingfisher. The frontage looks over flat fields on the opposite bank of a wide bend in the river. The hilltop village of East Stoke is a mile or so across the floodplain to the east. It is a tranquil spot.

It was not always so. If we had been sitting in the same position 529 years earlier, we would have watched Yorkist soldiers fleeing for their lives after being routed by the Lancastrians at the Battle of Stoke Field. The battlefield site itself is just beyond the trees at the top of the river bluff. Estimates suggest that 4,000 men were killed in an engagement that lasted just 3 hours.

The remnants of the defeated army, fled in disarray. Many of them did not make it down the ravine that became known as the Red Gutter, as they tried to reach the river. The Trent was at that time not just lower, but more evidently seasonal - an altogether less controlled affair than it is today and even ford-able at Fiskerton, at times. Those who made it that far, attempted to swim or wade across to where we were now sitting with two pints of lager and some cheese and onion crisps. Their pursuers hacked them down as they went. From where we were positioned, we could have heard them dying and watched the river turning red.

It is sometimes just time that separate us from events of some magnitude – ones that have forged the course of modern history. Isn’t that just a mind-boggling notion?

On a different scale and with only my own self-indulgence firmly in mind once more, I sometimes re-create railway scenarios for myself, either remembering instances from my own time, or inventing them from my retrospective wish list. I am ably assisted by the railway heritage movement in this regard, naturally, and for railway modellers, surely the same is true? They re-construct a past reality down to the last detail that they feel comfortable with, whether they were actually there to see it in the first place, or not.

I sometimes like to whisk myself back to Exmouth Junction sheds - to a depot full of engines beginning with a 3, when, before that holiday, I had only ever recorded one such number, and that was on a special train at Crewe. I thought I was in heaven.

Now, I am standing at the south end of Preston station and seeing a succession of steam-hauled expresses approaching from the main line to the south. Am I right in thinking that they often came at the platforms quite quickly here, and actually braked fairly fiercely, as a result, whereas those approaching from the east were slowed in comparison by a tight bend just outside the station?

Nearer to home, and I’m being invited up into the cab of an ex-LMS tank at the buffer stops at Liverpool Central High Level and the driver is actually asking my dad if it’s OK for me to go up the tunnel with them to Brunswick and back? IS IT OK???

Those were the real ones. My made-up ones would include me joining my friends on their family holidays; to South Brent when the lines to the west were dominated by Kings and Castles, or going around Haymarket sheds in Edinburgh for rarities beginning with a 6, or spending some time on Perth station in similar pursuit, when I had never actually set foot in Scotland and wouldn’t do so for a few more years. No Waverley route for me then………. Or is there?   

A sight I can’t remember ever having seen – a steam train in Wallasey Grove Road station, in a photo taken by John Dyer, to whom I am very grateful, both for making the image available to me and for firing my retrospective imagination. Collett 0-6-0 panier tank No. 3749 heads a Wrexham to New Brighton service, 26^th April 1962.       

Talisman Railwayana Auction, 26/11/16

A mere half an hour in the car this morning, on the way to the nearest auction to home, but still able to dip into Sounds of the Sixties in time to hear PJ Proby adding some extra vowel sounds to “Somewhere,” from West Side Story.

PJ had a very distinctive style, of course. He is still the only act I have ever seen being noisily encouraged to leave the stage by the audience [successfully, as it happened] - at the Haig Club in Moreton on the Wirral, many years ago, now.

The “Somewhere” I was aiming for today was the Newark Showground. The notice at the entrance pointed me towards both “Railwayana” and “Northern Arms” - but gave no clues as to whether that was prosthetics or weaponry.

The auction, itself, was chock-a-block. The auctioneer thanked people for braving difficult driving conditions on the motorways. I felt lucky to have breezed it cross-county, in some admittedly tricky low sunshine.

PJ wasn’t the only one having a problem with a mic. The PA suddenly gave up the ghost at lot 63, A Great Northern Railway Glass Water Carafe. Words could not describe it, though it looked quite nice from a distance. A replacement mic was sought, found and delivered. It didn’t work, either. The chair’s willing assistant disappeared into a room labelled “Office,” clearly the nerve centre of the whole operation. This did the trick and we had all only missed ten minutes out of our lives -  just a drop in the ocean.  

My attention was drawn to lot 137, An LMS Bronze Medal issued to persons working through the National Emergency in 1926. My uncle did that. He volunteered to drive trams during what the other side called the General Strike. That was a very political decision, especially considering that he was a 19-year old student at Oxford University. Simultaneously, my mother was in the Labour Club at Liverpool University. I’m not sure that their relationship ever quite recovered from that seismic difference of opinion, though they always maintained a cordial and affectionate demeanour during their relatively infrequent meetings.

I didn’t stay until the end of the auction, so I’m not entirely sure if the mic situation held up for the duration. There was another “taaarm and a place for oss,” later on in the day, as PJ might have preferred it. Would the auction results be posted on the website by the time I got home? There is such a race to do so between GCRA and GWRA these days, that I ended up wondering if the other auction houses worry about being somewhat left behind, in that respect. It’s a bit like the rush to be the first electoral constituency to declare on election night.

No hurry, I concluded. Too much haring around and you could split your pants or something.   

Somewhere, by PJ Proby, reached number 6, but dropped out of the charts in the same month, March 1965, that I took this photo  of Ivatt Class 2 2-6-0 No. 46444 at Aintree, on Grand National day.

Peak Rail yet to peak

It was decided that we would go to Derbyshire, but not by train, this time. First stop, Rowsley, now the end of the line for the single track Peak Rail from Matlock. It’s hard not to come to the conclusion that the reinstatement of the old Midland Railway route to Buxton has always been a good idea just waiting to happen - more or less since it closed in 1968. I’m also sure that there are very good reasons why all such plans have been thwarted, so far.

Operating out of the original Matlock station since 2011, re-connected to the main network, and with a site of 28 acres to make use of that includes a 60-foot turntable at Rowsley South, Peak Rail can’t be accused of dragging its feet, yet when you compare expansion here with some of the other leading heritage railways, you have to conclude that they should surely have benefited from more active support from other relevant parties. After all, this was one of the most scenic main lines in the country. The route threads its way through a glorious national park and is within easy travelling distance from many major centres of population, enabling a comfortably timed day out for millions. Yet, in summer, the roads creak with the strain and parking becomes a real problem, but the railway is not even there to relieve the pressure. What an opportunity overlooked.

Perhaps Rowsley is a case in point, serving as a microcosm for the difficulties faced along the whole length of the line. The Grade II listed Rowsley station building sits marooned in a retail park, surrounded by the fashion outlets and coffee shops of Peak Shopping Village. As such places go, this one has at least made use of stonework of a similar hue with some sympathetic paving, all, presumably, conditions of any development at all.

I had a scout round for evidence of former railway usage. I found a rack for hanging fire buckets, though not all the brackets were intact. The building itself is occupied in part by an art gallery, open 3 days a week, and also by the provision of a “community space” which is available for hire.

At Bakewell, the remaining station building now overlooks the Monsal Trail cycleway. No loo there, so I was relieved when I read that the public toilets in the town centre have won a gold award in all of the last four years. The tourist information was selling a book about the original Bakewell pudding [not tart], which was being attributed to someone called Ann Summers.

We took the country route home past Ogston reservoir. Last time we came this way, we stopped for a pint at the Napoleon Inn, wonderfully positioned overlooking the water; ideal for leisurely refreshment on a summer’s evening. Nice and quiet, I thought, as we wheeled in off the narrow road and onto the gravel car park. We strolled up to the front door. The family inside eating supper round their own dining room table gazed out through the window at us in surprise, if not with some alarm. The Napoleon Inn had ceased to exist in these premises years before, it transpired, and we were on the point of gate-crashing the incumbents’ quiet Sunday evening meal. The penny dropped and we slunk off back to the car as quickly as any surviving vestige of dignity would allow.

That’s the trouble with Derbyshire, I muttered to myself. Lots worth preserving, but too many interested parties competing for a slice of the action.  

GWRA Auction at Pershore, 19/11/16

Galvanising myself for an early start and the prospect of a two-hour drive, I cast my thoughts back to a time when keeping natural energy in its place was more of a daily challenge than summoning it up. Luckily, I had the Sounds of the Sixties on Radio 2 to keep me going. Friends swear by it, but I’m still not convinced. While I was hanging on for the promised Beatles, Stones and Kinks, Brian Matthews read out an email from someone living in Spain, who said that although he was a regular listener to the show, “Most of it Is rubbish,” which is pretty much how I was seeing it myself, as I navigated the melee that is the A46/A45 road works. I had almost forgotten how upset we all got at the time by yet another airing of “Yes, we have no bananas,” or anything at all by Jim Reeves.

When I reached Pershore I was faced with a dilemma. Sit in the car and wait for the track by the Nice, or go in and look at Malcolm Root’s painting that I wasn’t going to be able to afford, close up. I rooted for Root. After all, I’ve got all the Nice’s vinyl LPs [not played for decades] and their hits CD.

I offered my bidding card for perusal at the desk but was waved away, presumably on the grounds that I still seemed to be alive and that I had not moved house. I made for the loos, fairly recently refurbished, I think - but, of course, and as I know only too well - school bogs can take some stick. I approached the cubicle and turned around to shut the door. There wasn’t one. Deciding that that might be taking exhibitionism a step too far, I went next door, instead.  

Back in the main hall, my attention was drawn to the Hovercraft poster for the brief service in 1962 that ran between Wallasey, our home town, and Rhyl. I noticed that the advert pointed out that it had not run on a Tuesday. I thought about all the times that summer that my plans for the day had been thwarted by the lack of a hovercraft service to Rhyl on a Tuesday. In fact, come to think of it, the whole hovercraft thing hardly got off the ground at all.

When the image of the totem for Troedyrhiw came up on the screen as the next lot it brought an, “Oh my God,” from the chair, then, taking in a deep breath, “Here we go……Troedyrhiw.” “Six out of ten,” comes the response from the floor. In a nearby classroom, but for the PA, you would not necessarily know that there was an auction taking place nearby, at all. A knot of considerable concentration was focussed on leafing through a pack of black and white, postcard size photographs of diesel shunters, accompanied by the occasional shared observation prompted by an inscription on the rear of the item under examination. Such attention to detail devoted to, what appeared on the face of it, to be such an underwhelming locomotive probably just indicates how little I know about such things.

“Who put the lights out?” came the cry from the platform, as the hall was suddenly dimmed. No one moved. Then it was pointed out that someone had inadvertently been leaning against the bank of switches at the back of the hall. “It’s behind you.” “Oh no it’s not.” Oh, yes it is, actually.

Discussion ensued about the possible use that two pistons from diesel locomotives could be put to, and, although it was without resolution, the sale was made. Apparently, the auctioneer, too, has a piston in his shed that is was waiting for a more meaningful existence than it has at present. Perhaps the buyer had thought of something. If he had, he kept it to himself.

As I drove home, I was kept alert by reports of Everton’s lack of a cutting edge in the final third, in their attempts to gain a miserable draw at home to bottom of the Premiership Swansea City. I thought about the wonderful railway artwork that had been on display at the auction. I may not have been able to compete with the big boys on price, but I took some comfort in at least being able to tell the work of the maestros from that of the merely competent.  

0-6-0 diesel shunter No. D2399 at Weymouth in March 1969

One Clavdivs

In my more anarchic moments I have been known to dip into Viz magazine and last Christmas a copy was a surprise present from my daughter’s partner, who obviously recognises a former Beano reader when he meets one. In truth, I did not get a great deal out of the irreverent and very un-PC comic strips, but some of the contrived contributions to the so-called letters page left me in stitches, as they have done many times before.

One such that set me off on this occasion included a reference to “One Clavdivs,” using a joke that had already been made, I believe, by Harry Enfield and Paul Whitehouse about the historical drama, almost of the same name, which was based on goings-on in the Roman Empire. It starred Derek Jacobi and was seen as rather “risky” TV in the days before the internet opened various flood gates. Poor old Mary Whitehouse. Thank heavens she was alive in a different age. She would just not have known which way to turn today.

Paul Whitehouse, on the other hand, had himself given me a fit of uncontrollable mirth on another occasion that springs to mind. It was one of those moments, sadly rather rare these days, which I experienced frequently in my youth, when I am laughing so much that I am literally doubled up and wondering at the same time, how I’m going to be able to take my next breath.

In December 2013, an unannounced translator had turned up at Nelson Mandela’s funeral, supposedly there for the benefit of deaf viewers, but, in reality, someone who had certainly not been expected by the authorities and who did not have the slightest clue when it came to the delivery of sign language. It was a clear breech of security and a moment of public embarrassment for the South African authorities and it was broadcast worldwide, just at a time when so much of the world’s population was united in grief.  

The funny bit came soon afterwards at a celebrity awards ceremony and was then made available as a few moments footage on You Tube, though, luckily, I happened to catch it on TV at the time. Paul Whitehouse arrived on stage to receive his accolade accompanied by a person unknown, who proceeded to make gestures to the audience which were obviously unintelligible to all, even more so, no doubt, to the hard of hearing. It was as topical as it was pricelessly amusing. I would probably have to go right back to the first time I saw Alas Smith and Jones’s introduction to Jazz Club for a side-splitting tele-visual moment to rival it, at least until someone reminds me of something else.

What has all this got to do with trains, never mind railwayana? I hear you ask. I’m getting there. The writer and creator of the Viz magazine is Chris Donald. He wrote an autobiography, entitled “Rude Kids, The Unfeasible Story of Viz.” I can recommend it, but although humorous in parts, it does not make for comfortable reading throughout, as Chris recalls some of the problems that a rise to prominence brought in their wake. This culminated in a rather sober self-assessment when he realised that the enjoyment had all been to do with the drive to make a success of his magazine, and that once that dream had been achieved the fun was largely over. It appears it was the thrill of the chase that had kept him going. Eventually, Chris ended up working for Barter Books, a second-hand book shop - and so much more - in Alnwick, Northumberland.

Barter Books occupies the old station building at Alnwick, designed by William Bell. The North Eastern Railway opened the station in 1887, replacing an earlier one dating from 1850, which was further away from the town centre. It was the terminus for the branch line from Alnmouth and also for another branch from Alnwick to Cornhill, where it joined the Tweedmouth to Kelso line, and which was opened at the same time.

By the end of the nineteenth century, Alnwick station was being used by sixty trains a day. Those, like me, still clinging doggedly to memories of 1960’s steam, will recall that the line became strongly associated with the Peppercorn K1 Class 2-6-0s, of which 62005 is a notable and well regarded surviving example.

The Alnwick to Cornhill branch lost its passenger services in 1930 and goods traffic ceased in 1953, though the Coldstream to Wooler section survived until 1965. British Railways closed the line to Alnmouth and Alnwick station, in 1968. The substantial, stone-built, twin train sheds both still survive and are home to a number of enterprises today, of which Barter Books is surely the most widely known? 

This is no ordinary second-hand bookshop. We were met during our October visit by a roaring open fire, plenty of animated and helpful staff, comfortable seating, a well-stocked children’s room, an inviting café, oceans of shelf space for browsing purposes, tasteful and decorative artwork on the walls, an overhead model railway and some amazing, commissioned murals that take your eye from above.

You can walk along one of the former station platforms to peruse the aisles of bookcases. They also hold book group meetings and entertain visiting speakers. It would be possible to spend the whole day there quite easily - and especially if it is raining - which, as we found out, is quite possible in Northumberland in October. Luckily, there is also a good selection of railway books. I bought Bartle Rippon’s, “The Alnwick Branch,” which seemed like the obvious thing to do. 

All of this is within the substantial original framework of Victorian stone, wrought iron, timber and glass, which the owners have continued not just to protect, but to enhance, by their sympathetic restoration, for example, of the fireplaces and the canopy.

The Aln Valley Railway is aiming to bring trains back to Alnwick by 2020, although this time to a new station at Lionheart, further out from the centre of town, as subsequent road and other developments appear to have thwarted plans to include the original building in the reconstruction of the line.

When in any bookshop, I make a beeline for railways and then the humour section, much preferring to be entertained in that way than by the classics, detective stories or any other genre, really. Not that I have found that railways, or even the railwayana scene, are exactly humour-free zones, either. At auction, it is usually the chair that we depend on for a bit of light relief from the serious business of all that cash changing hands.

I have to admit that I can find the pleas of an exasperated auctioneer trying to move on a substantial piece of metal with somewhat jagged edges rather amusing. “Deltic flame cut………Nobody wants it for 350 quid?..............My God.” In a different place, there was an introduction to the Lawrence Hill totem, “If your name was Lawrence Hill, you’d have that.” Wry smiles and half-hearted apologies often accompany the various attempts at the pronunciation of the latest Welsh key tokens, and there must surely be a limit to how many presents of china or silver plate that the wife’s sister can make use of?

I had a soft spot for Malton’s regularly aired suspicion that certain items had been found on “Eeeee-Bay,” whilst in another part of the country, the chair asked a buyer sitting near the front and struggling to protect his recent acquisition with bubble wrap, “Are you wrapping your Christmas presents?” All the auctioneers have their own endearing characteristics and catch phrases, of course. Perhaps some styles are more easily identifiable than others, and so I think that many regular attenders over the years might recognise this “bigging up” of a piece of original artwork, “That’s nice. Look at that. That’s nice. That’s almost 3D. £500 to start……£450, then. Not a penny less. It’s got to be worth every penny of that.” It makes me smile. It is all part of the theatre of the event.

We all laugh at different things. Some people were no doubt left in stitches by Terry and June and see Mrs Brown’s Boys as the highlight of their watching week. It is laughing itself that is important. It is sociable and apparently good for your health as well, releasing endorphins in the brain and encouraging that “feel-good” factor. So, thank you, Chris Donald, a man with a serious side who likes books, trains and off-beat humour. I can identify with all of that.

[This article also appears in the current edition of the Railway Antiques Gazette. Thanks are due to the editor, Tim Petchey] 

Keswick railway station? I wish!

“Surely there is no other place in this whole wonderful world quite like Lakeland,” wrote Alfred Wainwright in the introduction to his book on the Eastern Fells. An exhibition of his life and work is currently on show at the Keswick Museum and Art Gallery.

I first came to Keswick in 1960. My parents had chosen a Lake District family holiday staying in Troutbeck bungalow at Grange in Borrowdale. It was also the first time we had ever been on holiday other than to stay with relations. I have loved the Derwentwater area ever since and have been back there regularly; youth hostelling with friends, playing football on Fitz Park, exploring with my wife, then dragging our own children up some steep slopes to give them a compulsory “taste of the hills.” More recently, I am choosing my peaks a bit more carefully than in years past, based on avoiding unnecessarily knee-jarring descents.

I was eleven years old at the time of my first visit. Our train from Penrith to Keswick was headed by an Ivatt Class 2MT 2-6-0. Amazingly, at the first stop at Blencow, the driver beckoned me forward to the engine. He had noticed me, I think, with my head on a stalk, permanently leaning out of the first carriage window behind the tender. This remains one of the railway highlights of my life, a quite spontaneous and unexpected cab ride as far as Threlkeld.

The driver explained that for me to arrive at Keswick on the footplate might gain him some unwanted attention from his superiors, but I’d had my fix and so I returned delirious to the rest of the family in standard class for the run into the town.

The most memorable thing about the ride was how rough it was. Whether that was caused by an out of condition engine, poor track maintenance or just that it was par for the course, I still don’t know. The locomotive bucked sideways quite alarmingly and I loved every minute of it. I perched on the driver’s seat and just hung on. The rest of the holiday was tame by comparison. Even climbing Scafell Pike came a distant second.  

The Cockermouth, Keswick and Penrith Railway opened in 1865, primarily to carry mineral traffic, though passenger trains ran from the start and later gained greater importance. The Cockermouth to Workington section closed in 1966 followed by Keswick to Penrith in 1972. My two visits - by steam train in 1960 and on a diesel multiple unit in 1962 - were timely indeed. In addition to the return journeys on our way home, I also went train spotting to Carlisle - changing trains each time at Penrith - a further three times during that last week in July 1962, so I travelled that section of line 10 times altogether [5 trips each way], and for that I shall be eternally grateful.

This boundary marker, with the original railway company’s initials engraved into the Coniston greenstone block, still stands at the end of Station Road in Keswick, next to Fitz Park and at the entrance to the station approach. The asphalt pavement and kerbstone have been replaced just this year, alongside the considerable amount of reconstruction work that was required after the devastating floods that hit the town and its surrounding area in December 2015.

The former station master’s house still stands and is now a very presentable bed and breakfast establishment, appropriately named and with this smart and thoughtfully designed sign at the entrance. Behind the house, the track bed west of the station is now occupied by the Keswick Leisure Pool and Fitness Centre.

The original station hotel is now the Keswick Country House Hotel. It was formerly owned by the railway company and its construction was completed in 1869. After the closure of the railway the hotel expanded into the adjacent station buildings on the remaining platform. The rest of the former station site provides public car parking space and it is also the starting point of a footpath and cycleway along the old track bed as far as Threlkeld [Route 71 of the Sustrans National Cycle Network and also part of what is known as the c2c, or Sea to Sea, route].

The 2015 floods removed two of the old bowstring bridges that once carried the railway through the Greta gorge and damaged a third one, dramatically curtailing the leisure path in the process. We walked the section out of Keswick that remains open, past the site of the old bobbin mill platform at Briery. We saw the evidence of the dramatic landslips that had accompanied the flooding and brought down trees into the torrent, no doubt causing further damage downstream and in the town.

Vegetation has been planted alongside the platform edge where we disembarked in 1960 but the flagstones are still in place and the station canopy is still intact, though in need of a little attention. The conservatory addition to the hotel complex currently serves as a snooker room.

On the conservatory window, there is a notice drawing attention to a group who would like to see the reinstatement of the railway between Keswick and Penrith, though they are quick to make clear that this will not be a heritage railway but a modern business venture offering a regular train service. The website of the organisation [www.keswickrailway.com] has been recently updated to take note of additional post-flood concerns.

The company running the project is called CKP Railways plc. Their website is very clearly set out and explains in detail how they envisage developments will take place. Perhaps my grandchildren’s first approach to the Lake District will not be too dissimilar from my own, after all. Now that would be something to write a Lake District postcard home about. That old road sign on the way into town at the junction of Crosthwaite Road and Brundholme Road may just find it has a new lease of life. Perhaps it will also receive a new coat of paint. 

Bishop Eric Treacy

When steam disappeared from the national rail network in 1968, I buried my head, as well as my imagination and my indignation – you could say I was sulking – in a series of photo albums, most of which were published by Ian Allan.

Every now and then, I have a cull of the railway books on my shelves to make space for something new. These three, however, always seem to get the nod for a reprieve. It is hardly surprising, as they were agreed masterpieces of their time.

I was reminded of this as I wandered the platforms at Appleby on the Settle and Carlisle line during a lunch stop en route to the Lake District recently. The plaque commemorating Bishop Eric Treacy, who died at that location in 1978, was partially hidden by scaffolding, as the station buildings undertake further attention.

I leafed through Glory of Steam on our return home and reminded myself of the debt that we owe to him and his contemporaries for helping us to keep the flame of steam alive during the dark days before the preservation movement got its act together. They provided a bridge in time between the “real thing” as we remember it in the 60’s and the magnificent - and still developing - heritage railway provision that we enjoy throughout the country today.

A southbound Class 158 unit pauses at Appleby on the Settle and Carlisle line on 4/11/16.

A Sign of the Times

I thought it might be nice to have a reminder of our local, now defunct, signalbox. Level crossing gates and signals at Fiskerton have recently been automated and the old box has been decommissioned.

I wandered down there to see where they were up to. Perhaps when they tried to move it, I mused, the box board had fallen off and was just lying there waiting for me to rescue it.

A workman dressed in lurid orange said it belonged to East Midlands Trains. To cut a long story short, EMT told me it belonged to Network Rail. NR said they had a special department for that sort of thing, called Railway Recycling.  An email to them was replied to by the Redundant Assets department.

They said the box would be sold complete with its contents [to the preservation movement, one would hope], though I had noticed that the signalbox diagram had disappeared from view already. The man in orange had told me that signalmen like to have them as souvenirs of their time working there, which seems fair enough.

I was invited to put my name down for the redundant assets tender list, on the grounds that other nearby box boards may be sold separately. I have since been offered opportunities to bid for volumes of concrete sleepers and multiple signal posts.

I have also asked my wife if she has any particular design or dimensions in mind for a possible garden shed in the near future.

I hate that

Whilst on my way back from the gym in the car this morning, Adrian Chiles informed me - from the safe haven of his studio at Radio 5 Live - that today is the 25^th anniversary of the day that Bryan Adams’s song, “[Everything I do] I do it for you,” was at last deposed from its number one position in the singles chart after 16 unbroken weeks at the top.

“I hate that song,” I told him, out loud, “I really hate that song.” Yet, of course, all around the world many millions of people really loved that song, to make it the enormous smash hit that it became. There is no accounting for taste, but perhaps in the field of music more than any other, deep, deep, down, I’m still convinced that I’m right and the countless hordes who thought it was brilliant are wrong.

I could explain why I think it’s so bad, but I probably wouldn’t persuade anyone and I could possibly be missing the point. It really is just a matter of taste. My more tolerant other self that is usually in charge knows that there is no right and wrong in this instance.

Hate is actually a very strong word to use in any context and when I’m in more thoughtful mode I certainly refrain from directing it at other people and generally I draw back from using it at all. I’m personally dismayed at how much I have seen and heard it expressed in the media in recent times, particularly in the recording of political events on both sides of the Atlantic during this recent summer of seething discontent and schism.

My railway hobby is a relatively angst-free zone. I love railways [and a lot of other things and people as well, I hasten to add]. Railways offer a non-judgemental comfort zone. They offer solace, but unfortunately they cannot shield me from the ignorance, prejudice and hatred that I hate so much.