The Weekends Away

In 1981, our friend, May, had an idea. Why don’t we leave our children at home with obliging family members and go away together somewhere nice for a Saturday night? We went to Faenol Fawr, near St Asaph in North Wales. Since then, there have been 56 weekends away over a period of 35 years. It turned out to be a very good idea, indeed.

We have visited the Lake District, Yorkshire Dales, North York Moors, Peak District, Cotswolds, Malverns and Wales and lots of places in between; staying in hotels, inns, guest houses and occasionally with other friends.

We have country-walked, town-trailed, tow-pathed, lake-steamered, climbed, cycled, caverned, discoed, footballed, bird-watched and partied our way round our incredibly varied and wonderful country.

The common factor has been the laughs we have had - in some cases, prolonged, side-splitting, can’t breathe any more, type laughs.

In October 1997, we stayed in Haworth at the splendid Ashmount Guest House. We walked to Top Withens farmhouse and rode on the Keighley and Worth Valley Railway.

Severn Valley Railway, April 1997

We took a ride behind Class A4 Pacific No. 60009 Union of South Africa. I seem to remember that she caused a lineside fire near Northwood Halt, while we were there.

I also photographed ex-LNER Class K4 2-6-0 No. 3442 The Great Marquess leaving Bridgnorth, shortly before she was repainted in BR black, as No. 61994. I could not have imagined for a second then that she would become the first active steam locomotive that I would introduce to my first two grandchildren - on the North York Moors Railway, nearly twenty years later.

What a lovely engine to start them off with. A combined volume abc of British locomotives should fit just nicely into a two-year-old’s Christmas stocking.

GCR 1995

Here are some pictures I took on the GCR in 1995. It does not seem that long ago. It was, however, still in the days when going to sleep in a chair was as unlikely as the possession of a mobile phone.

Dreamer

When I shut my eyes, and I try to dream the dream of my choice, it goes something like this. Is there anywhere I would like to be transported back to more than Crewe, in - let’s say - 1962? Was there a more important place name in the world for me than Crewe, when I was 13? Crewe was the centre of the universe. It was far enough away to feel you were going somewhere special but near enough to home for a comfortably timed day trip by train. We didn’t have to get up at stupid times to get there and we even had a choice of routes to choose from…………

Sometimes we go from New Brighton to Liverpool Central and walk up to Lime Street. We could actually get there by a slower and more circuitous route via Birkenhead Park, Bidston and a walk between Chester Northgate and General, just for a change, but we never do. Our favourite is to start off on the number ten bus to Woodside from Stroude’s corner, which is provided alternately by yellow Wallasey Corporation examples and blue ones from Birkenhead, as it is run as a joint service between the two county boroughs.

From there, the Fairburn tanks whisk us to Chester on the Paddington expresses, hammering along the four-track sections between Rock Ferry and Hooton and then on through Capenhurst. 42236 pulls up in the bay platforms which serve the ex-GWR lines out of Chester. It is detached from the train and waits for its timetabled return to Birkenhead later on in the day. 1025 County of Radnor is attached at the other end.

If there is time before the next train to Crewe, we grab a mug of tea at the buffet next to the main station entrance and then it is over the footbridge in time for 45426 coming off the North Wales line to take us to El Dorado. But first, it is Chester sheds on the left as we pick up speed, so we have to be alert as always. Past Beeston Castle and it seems that we are slowing for Crewe in no time. The works is on the left and if you stand on tiptoe in the corridor with your head out of the window there is just a chance of reading the smokebox number plates on the condemned un-rebuilt Patriots on the other side of the wall, which marks the boundary of the works. There appears to be just one long siding between the workshop buildings themselves and the wall. We crane our necks, risking life and limb, and with heads leaning well outside the carriage end windows, which we have opened as far as they will go, the leather straps hanging loose and released from the last notch on the belt.

No time to lose, it is straight over to the other side of the coach, as we round the curve and the station comes into view. What a splendid sight Crewe North sheds is, just teeming with red and green engines, in addition to the normal black ones. We start shouting out the numbers and the subsequent recorded scrawlings in the note book are off the ruled lines and suddenly much more untidy than usual. Talk about pressure. At the back of our minds we actually know that this is probably an unnecessary panic as we have it in mind to bunk 5A as a matter of course, but you never know. It is not a good idea to count our chickens too early on. Brief arguments ensue over the misreading of a grubby cab side number, an issue we can not immediately resolve as the locomotive in question has already disappeared behind something else. In the end, we go with the majority, or maybe it is just the most adamant voice.

46228 Duchess of Rutland shimmers in the sunlight, primed for the north, all fizz and pent up energy. I get butterflies in my tummy as I anticipate a successful hit on Crewe North later in the morning, eager to see what is lurking in the depths of the shed, on parade at the mouth of the half roundhouse, or being prepared in the yard and currently out of sight.

Crewe North is not that easy. Past the little single-storey shop at the end of the road bridge that sells the Ian Allan abc books and we take a right into the warren of Victorian terraces. We know the way to the main entrance so well, but we are assured of nothing. It is always a busy route and we have to go down a narrow passageway adjacent to the offices. There are windows in the offices and the foreman can see who is going past, but only if he is on the lookout. Rather than crouch down and look ridiculously furtive, we prefer a short, sharp walking pace without looking sideways and hope for the best. With a bit of luck, the foreman is deep in conversation and will not notice us. If we can get past that bit without being challenged we could be OK, as it then opens out into the main shed. Our plan is that if we are stopped we will always ask politely if we can have a look round, knowing that the answer would be a scornful “No,” [or worse] but probably acting sensibly enough to take the sting out of the situation, as we turn on our heels in unison and make for the exit.

At the approach, we pass a forlorn group of lads coming the other way. “Got kicked out,” they tell us. We get cold feet because we are next in the firing line but we know another way in and so we walk round through yet more streets until we are on the other side of the shed where there is a high wire fence adjacent to more sturdy railings next to the shed yard and the coaling plant. This fencing is being frequently attacked and patched up again. Sometimes there is a small gap in the railings, sometimes lads have burrowed like badgers in the dirt at the foot of the fence and tried to curl it up at the base. We get in. Hearts are pounding now. We look around and leg it towards lines of engines that offer some cover as well as a host of new numbers. We work our way systematically round the site, finishing at the main entrance before walking steadily but warily past the offices and out into the daylight. The exhilaration hits us. We are ecstatic. We talk about the new cops that we know we have made without looking them up, edging towards the classing of the Semis, or taking us within one of finishing off the Prinnies, before they are all withdrawn. 

From there, Gresty Lane seems like miles away, but we go for it anyway. It is only a two- road shed but it has Westerns, usually Halls or even Granges. It is in the shadow of the Mornflake Oats breakfast cereal factory. It is a tiring trek on a hot day, but it just has to be done. South sheds, 5B, is usually fairly full, but lacks the namers that are so plentiful at North, though it could still turn up the odd Jubilee or Brit’. On the way, we have to pass the new diesel depot with a handful of English Electric Type 4’s humming away outside. We barely give it the time of day, but we do write down the numbers we can see from the path. South is a sprawling site and you have to cross many tracks on walkways to reach it. It feels a little open and we are really a bit vulnerable, both to being spotted and ejected and with having to keep an eye on moving traffic. I don’t ever remember being asked to leave from here, yet at both sheds there are always other groups of lads milling around as well.

Without permits as part of an official school party we are probably stumped for access to the works, though on this occasion we manage to negotiate tagging along with another group and we are delighted to have “beaten the system” this once. Sometimes the crocodiles of lads and their leaders queuing at the works entrance are enormous. There are a couple of elderly works employees in uniform and shiny flat hats, who are assigned to take us round, one at the front and one at the rear. At the end of the day we retrace our steps homewards, but on the cushions this time, weary and footsore, grimy but contented.

…………………Now, I am back where I started. The dream is over until next time. Such days protected me from my own mediocrity at school, from the relentless competitive jousting involved in trying to establish meaningful friendships, from the complications and disappointments that girlfriends always seemed to bring with them in their wake and from the general growing pains of youth.

Trains, on the other hand, never disappointed, were always reliably where you expected them to be and demanded our full attention with their splendour, their colour, their proportions and their sheer power. After tea, I would open up my combined volume and go through my notes for the day, putting crosses where I had seen them before and a tick where they were new to me, before underlining my cops very carefully in red biro in the Ian Allan book. I took satisfaction from creating a run of consecutive under-linings of engines seen, and even more so by filling in a gap to create a much longer run.

It was just me and them. None of them ever complained at me, answered me back, made fun of me, shunned me, asked me to give them anything, demanded my attention, threatened me, criticised me, told me off, hurt my feelings or let me down. I had that day actually risked my life by only half concentrating whilst crossing busy lines and wandering around industrial sites littered with angular heavy metal objects protruding from benches and trolleys, rusty bits of iron lying around on the floor, inspection pits, patches of oil, scalding water running from hoses, piles of red hot cinders, all with my head buried deep in a notebook. I had stuck my head right out of the window at risk of decapitation without so much as a thought about my own safety, but as a young person I never felt safer inside than when I was in the company of trains.

After tea, I went down to the park and played football until it went dark. I had by then stepped back into the other part of my life - my everyday life. Back home again, I deliberated over my friendships and worked out strategies for improving my performance at school without any massive input of time or effort. I worried if I was using the wrong soap. I wrangled over whether I should cut my fringe or not. I looked in the mirror and just could not believe that the spot on my cheek was still there. I thought about what I’d say to her the next time I saw the girl I liked, that wouldn’t be as weak as last time’s garbled nonsense. I went to bed and I tried to dream of trains. Sometimes, I still do.

[This article appears in the current edition of the Railway Antiques Gazette. I am grateful to the editor, Tim Petchey.]         

The Jolly Fisherman

On its way to the east coast via Nottingham and Grantham in 1994, The Jolly Fisherman is seen here passing Bingham, behind Standard 2-6-4 tank No. 80080.

In the second shot, the driver is obviously not quite so jolly, as he quite rightly indicates to me that I have strayed too close to the platform edge for my own safety, as I try to get a better angle from which to take my photograph.

I lived to tell the tale, but felt suitably admonished on my journey home. I have learnt my lesson.

David Shepherd

The renowned railway and wildlife artist, David Shepherd, died on the 17^th September 2017, at the age of 86. Also referred to affectionately as “the man who paints elephants,” he was a founder member of the Guild of Railway Artists and was one of only five elected fellows of that organisation.

David was well-known for his efforts in both wild-life conservation and railway preservation. He rescued two steam locomotives directly from British Railways, Standard Class 4 4-6-0 No. 75029, which became The Green Knight, and Standard Class 9F 2-10-0 No. 92203, which he named Black Prince. David was also instrumental in the restoration of the East Somerset Railway as a heritage line.

We met David Shepherd briefly at Ramsbottom station on the East Lancashire Railway, in 1993. He hopped down off the footplate of his 9F to autograph our travel tickets, being the only paper [or card] that we had easily to hand. He was very approachable and friendly, but I almost certainly lacked the presence of mind to tell him that I had seen No. 92203 hauling the last steam-hauled John Summers iron ore train from Bidston dock to Shotton steel works, from our sixth form library window in Leasowe, on a cold, clear November day in 1967.

   

GCR 1992

These photos were taken during a springtime visit to the Great Central Railway. There were some big beasts around that have spent a lot of time out of action since then, including Butler Henderson and Boscastle.

Down the pub

As is our wont, we were down the pub after badminton on Friday night. The railway-themed location is the third hostelry to have become our “local” in recent times. We left the last one because it had become so quiet that we could hear ourselves speak. The one before that had an open wood fire which really lived up to its name. The smoke was reluctant to go up the chimney, preferring to spread itself around the lounge bar instead. The landlord was not overly appreciative when I pointed this out to him. I think it was my two pints of lager, sledge-hammer wit that probably upset him more, though. We went outside to get some fresh air, sharing the tables with the smokers.

Our current choice is next to a former railway line which is now a trail for walkers, cyclists and horse riders. The elegant and substantial Victorian building was never connected to the railway in any way other than proximity. Amongst some fine old photographs and at least one thoroughly unconvincing railway painting, there are lots of knick-knacks from the railway age, though they are mostly, I believe, mass produced replicas.

The one that I notice most frequently on my way back from the loo, is the reproduction nameplate of Princess Helena Victoria, perched above a doorway. Well, what a fabulous name that is, for a start. Also, what a fabulous engine she was, as were the rest of her class. We knew her well in our time - and hers - a regular at Liverpool Lime Street station, Edge Hill sheds and Crewe. It is a great reminder. I couldn’t have made a better choice, myself. Every time I pass it, I want to jump up and touch it to mark my recognition and affection, just for old time’s sake.

On the other hand, if I was to start leaping around the place, heads might turn, questions could be asked and we could soon have to be looking for another pub again.

       

The North Norfolk Railway

In the spring of 1992, we took a self-catering family holiday in a bungalow at Wells-next-the-Sea. One of the highlights of the week away was a trip on the North Norfolk Railway between Sheringham and Weybourne.

Built by Holden as a Great Eastern Railway Class S69 4-6-0, LNER Class B12 No. 8572 became No. 61572 in BR days. Withdrawn in 1961, she is the sole surviving member of her class.

I was obviously very impressed by her. I don’t think I had ever taken so many pictures of one engine at one time before. That was still in my pre-digital age of spool films, when every shot taken was a potentially precious item.

The Welsh Marches Express

Imprecise note taking and fading memory mean that details are rather sketchy, but it seems likely that it was on 24^th April 1992 that we joined the Welsh Marches Express at Crewe for a trip to Hereford.

A4 Class No. 60009 Union of South Africa was dressed up as No. 60027 Merlin and the other engine employed was Coronation Pacific No. 46229 Duchess of Hamilton.

My photos show both locomotives at Crewe as well as the Stanier 4-6-2 drawing into Hereford prior to the return journey.

Here she is again

Our relationship with the Flying Scotsman continued at the Midland Railway Centre in the early 1990s, after she had returned from a visit to Australia. She worked on the main line and then on the private railways, but by 1995, was back in Southall for overhaul.

Model Behaviour

Eleven years old was too early to be faced with such important life choices. I deliberated. The decision was not an easy one. I could have sought help and advice, but chose to agonise alone. I weighed up the advantages and disadvantages and I came to a decision. I knew what I would do and then I would just have to live with it.

Watch real trains or invest in railway modelling? There was no way I could afford to do both. I guess I could have just clung on, while black-liveried Tri-ang Princess Elizabeth kept on going interminably round the same oval of track, while my transformer unit got warmer and warmer. She had no stations to call at and only two carriages to attend to, no signals to restrain her and no inclines to face. She did not even have a permanent baseboard below her wheels.

To transform her prospects would have meant money spent that I could otherwise direct to the great outdoors. Excitement and exhilaration beckoned at Chester, Crewe and Preston every weekend and school holiday. I chose reality over make-believe.

I like to think that when I carried the lot down to Exchange & Mart in Liscard Crescent, Wallasey, and waved it away for a fiver, that it was because I was intent on calling in on Mr Twinn in Seaview Road on the way home to invest in some foreign stamps, or to buy records at Strothers or books at Bookland. Unfortunately, I think I spent most of it on sweets.

So, it was that I still felt a little sheepish on re-entering the world of model railways, even though it was about 56 years after that particular transgression. I was half-expecting that I might be put on the spot by some die-hard modellers. If I’m so interested in trains, why haven’t I got my own layout?

The Elizabethan Railway Society’s annual exhibition was held over the weekend in Kirkby in Ashfield. On the way in, we passed the site of the local sheds, 16B, which I never got near to in the days of steam.

There were 21 exhibitors, spread over the main hall and 3 nearby rooms. The place was awash with dedication and enthusiasm. The time and money invested in these layouts is extraordinary. The hobby attracts ex-railwaymen and life-long railway addicts, alike, united in a common cause to recreate a slice of the action from times past and, in some cases, in very particular locations. On some stands, landscapes are fossilised, environments are faithfully duplicated and time stands still. Then a train appears out of a tunnel and we see that this place, apparently frozen in time has suddenly come to life again, just as it was then, as near as damn it. I found it quite mesmerising, even though all the locations on show were new to me.

Modellers are not bound by the limitations of former realities, of course. One is free to make up one’s own version of what reality should have been like. You can invent your ideal landscape, decide on a name for it and furnish it with whatever attracts you. There are no limitations to the imagination - only dexterity, feasibility and how adept you are at using the available technology, which itself is now fiendishly clever.  

Robin Sharman’s, N Scale, Fenny Hill is explained on his website at www.facebook.com/fennyhillrailway

His layout is full of intrigue and personal touches that reflect his wider interests. Thought has gone into every last detail of its presentation and there is a reason lurking behind all of the inclusions. If they are not immediately apparent, Robin is only too happy to fill in the gaps. I made sure that my picture included the poster advertising The Who.

The Great Central Railway

Throughout the time that we have been living in the East Midlands, the Great Central Railway has been enjoying a renaissance. As a member of the Friends of the Great Central Railway Main Line, I have volunteered in recent years at Loughborough Central station museum.

With family and friends, we have made many visits to the GCR - to gala days, in particular. With extensive double track sections allowing intensive train movements on a scale not possible on other preserved lines, the GCR has created a distinctive reputation within the railway heritage movement for recreating an authentic BR main line atmosphere.

This significance will be further enhanced now that the bridge above the former Midland Railway main line at Loughborough has been reinstated. The rail link between the current operation and GCR North will eventually allow through services once again between Leicester and Ruddington, on the southern edge of Nottingham.

In conjunction with the National Railway Museum, a new museum is to be constructed adjacent to the station at Leicester North.

These photos were taken on one of our earlier visits, in the spring of 1990.

The North Wales Coast Express

On 4^th July 1989, we took the InterCity Charter Train Unit’s special from Crewe along the scenic coastal route to Llandudno and Holyhead. We were hauled by Bulleid West Country Pacific Class No. 34027 Taw Valley.

On the return journey, someone got left behind, having become separated from his friends in the port. It was probably not the first or the last time on one of these trips that a passenger has found the local hospitality so much to their liking that they have quite forgotten what day it is. I’m sure he must have got home safely in the end.

  

Barbershop Quartet

I’ve just been down to check. Four of the fourteen shops and services on Main Street are barbers or hairdressers. Is there something in the water that makes our hair grow faster here? They used to grow roses in the fields around the village, now they just grow new houses.

There does seem to be quite a concentration of coiffeurs, though I’m not a customer. When my hair thinned, I bought a trimmer that my wife periodically runs across my head, thus mitigating the enormous expense incurred by visits to her own hairdresser -  who is miles away.

Here are some photos of me at railway venues. On each occasion, I was between hair-cuts.

The Gala

For us, but not for all, it was the “gaila,” rather than the “gahla.” When we were children, it was a really big deal. It was held every summer in Central Park, Wallasey. It was the only time I went to a travelling or temporary fair as a child. New Brighton fairgrounds, both indoors and out, were there all year, but I think the gala had the edge, because it was an annual “one-off” and because it had extra attractions like marching bands, competitions and displays.

I can’t actually remember much about being there. I think they had given up bear baiting, cock fighting, freak shows and bare-knuckle boxing by the 1950’s, but I’m sure there was still plenty to keep us amused.

When the restored railways announce their galas these days, which is admittedly fairly regularly, the mere mention of the word means that Central Park flashes across my consciousness as a prelude, before I check out what is actually on show.

This October, at the Great Central Railway’s Autumn Steam Gala, Standard Class 5 No. 73156 came back from the dead in time to impersonate No. 73084 Tintagel, in keeping with the “50 Years from the end of Southern steam” theme. The star visitors were the two Bulleid Light Pacifics, rebuilt No. 34053 Sir Keith Park from the Severn Valley Railway and un-rebuilt No. 34081 92 Squadron from the Nene Valley Railway – that one in quite a fetching early BR green livery with “go-faster,” yellow, lining out.

We had a lovely day out and didn’t miss the candy floss, toffee apples, zoo animals, Punch’n’Judy and dodgems at all. Thinking on, though, in the late nineteenth century fairground rides themselves would have been steam-powered and one of the lasting fairground attractions to this day is the ghost train.