The writing is on the wall

Whenever we arrive in a town that is new to us, we park up and make our way, with a spring in our step, to the tourist information office. We obtain a town walking trail and set forth to familiarise ourselves with our surroundings. “Is the station marked on there?” I ask, before we start, because regardless of whether the station is pointed out as a “must see” feature or not, I will certainly want to include it in our itinerary.

In Chesterfield, the modern and functional station building is rescued by the presence of a statue of George Stephenson, which stands alongside its main entrance. Stephenson spent the last ten years of his life in Chesterfield, and the sculpture to commemorate his immense contribution to the railways was unveiled in 2005.

Who could fail to be impressed by the approach to Bristol Temple Meads via that triangular wedge of a car park that faces the main station entrance? It feels like you are being funnelled into a church. The sheer scale of the interior of the station and the dramatic curve of its platforms is never a let-down, either. This is one of the true “cathedrals of steam.”

Is there another station anywhere that fits so perfectly into its city - like a foot into a comfy slipper - than Edinburgh Waverley? It occupies the valley floor parallel to the famous thoroughfare of Princes Street, dominated at each end by two fine old railway hotels, representing the former North British and Caledonian companies.

What were they thinking of at Fort William when they decided to evacuate the old station that overlooked the loch and take the opportunity to separate the town from the splendid views over to Mull by constructing a busy ring-road in between, instead of incorporating the frontage and using it to good effect, as waterside gardens, for example. Instead, the nearby main street literally turns its back on the town’s main asset.

West along the road and the railway, Glenfinnan has much more to offer. Apart from the breathtaking views of the viaduct in one direction and the Bonnie Prince Charlie memorial at the head of Loch Shiel in the other, the station is delightful, with a second platform to serve the passing loop, a signal box, museum and other station buildings all carefully maintained.

Tenby station in Pembrokeshire was built of Bath stone in 1871 and still retains its cast iron canopies. Tenby itself is obviously a big believer in blue plaques in order to plug its historical attractions. “It is said that Henry VII fled through a tunnel here on his way to France.” Just a minute. “It is said that..?”  Since when has “It is said that..” been a justification for a blue plaque? Who said it, anyway, the bloke in the pub down the road? I thought blue plaques were statements of fact about who had actually lived in a particular house and usually went on to tell you exactly when, as well. This dented my belief in blue plaques a bit, especially on this particular town trail. What next, I thought, “They do say in these parts…ooh, argh” or “Some folks do think, ‘appen, ‘appen…”

Blue plaque number two, at East Rock House, claims it as a fact, but our accompanying town trail gives the game away again. “In 1802 Sir William and Lady Hamilton....may well have stayed at this family house.” Oh, yes, are you sure? By the time we had passed the pub where Dylan Thomas “was said to have” got so drunk that he left behind the manuscript for Under Milk Wood, and an advert for a local restaurant claiming the best pizzas in the world, we had just about suspended belief in signage of all description.

By then [and, in fact, carefully planned in advance by those with alternative motives], we were ready for concentrating on the important business of a live, televised football match between Everton and Arsenal, for which we would require a hostelry with a TV. Conveniently for us, it seemed, set into the town walls is Tenby Rugby Club, advertising “the biggest screen in Tenby.” Less fortunately, our visit coincided with two stag parties, which eventually led to some angry exchanges between the two well-oiled rival factions, all set to a background of complete disinterest in association football that I had already half expected, given the likely clientele, but which was also accompanied by intermittent barracking of “soft” soccer players, whenever any of them hit the turf. My wife and daughter joined us from their look around the shops just in time for the simulated sex acts involving the blow-up doll. To put the icing on the two imminent wedding cakes, Everton meekly surrendered a two-goal lead in the last few minutes to draw a game they should have won comfortably, by which time everything that could have gone wrong with the afternoon had probably done so, apart from ultimate defeat. Oh, I almost forgot. My daughter’s partner supports Arsenal………I’m an Evertonian. Get me out of here.

Type 2 diesel No. D5405 leaves the old Fort William station on 1/5/72.

[Adapted from an article of the same title in the current edition of the Railway Antiques Gazette and with thanks to the editor, Tim Petchey]