Some railway paintings and their artists. 7. Twilight Steam – Peter Annable

Twilight Steam shows an ex-LNER O4 Class 2-8-0 trundling through the Nottingham suburbs in the 1960s. It is seen here on the section of the ex-Great Central Railway north of Victoria station and the city centre. The down iron ore train [or one of returning coal empties] has just passed through New Basford on its journey north. New Basford station was built as an island platform on an embankment, in the typical GCR style. It was accessed from a staircase down to Haydn Road. The station master’s house is still in use as a private residence.

It is a very atmospheric shot, in half light. The locomotive is cleverly framed by its own steam, giving sharp clarity to its recognisable outline. This contrasts with the somewhat eerie and smoky backdrop that fills the space as far as the ridge, at the foot of which is Sherwood Rise tunnel’s north portal. It is a very evocative interpretation. This part of the GCR is no more, of course, but the former route that the railway took, emerging briefly from Mansfield Road tunnel at Carrington, then disappearing again, before bursting out into the open beyond Sherwood Rise, will be well-remembered by many.

Peter Annable was brought up in Brinsley in Nottinghamshire. His artistic prowess as a youngster lead him to a career as a graphic designer in industry, eventually taking him away from his home area to design bank notes, amongst many other things. Since returning to the county, he has worked as a freelance artist and illustrator and also accepts private commissions. Peter now resides at Edwinstowe, making him [to my knowledge] the nearest railway artist of repute to where we live.

When I met him for the first time recently, I mentioned that I had first noticed his work at an exhibition in Mansfield library, which he told me must have been as long ago as the late 1980s. At that time, I had made a mental note of the name and decided that I would eventually like to have one of his distinctive takes on the last days of steam, so full of the atmosphere of the time. I’m pleased to say, that I finally managed to acquire this fine example. Peter works in both oils and watercolours. Though he does not like “having to count rivets” in his paintings, he certainly has a range of styles at his disposal, as shown by the substantial and detailed oil painting of an A4 on the Tees-Tyne Pullman, which sold well at Talisman Railwayana Auction’s November 2017 sale, and which is completed in what might be described as a more photorealistic format. Peter is a full member of the Guild of Railway Artists.

Barrow Hill

I have just discovered that 41E Staveley [Barrow Hill] is not underlined in my com’ vol’. This is an oversight on my part because although I did not get around it in the days of steam, I have acquainted myself with it in modern times at a few of their invigorating open days. Our first visit was in 2004, when these photos were taken.

Now, where is my under-performing red biro?

Eastern Promise

I know this is an age thing. It boils down to the fact that my first serious train spotting started in 1960, the year I began at grammar school. That meant that my first combined volume was from that year. At that point, I started to acquaint myself with namers. Namers was what it was all about. I can not over-emphasise enough how important it was for me in those early years that a locomotive sported a nameplate. Without one, it was an emphatically lesser being. Presumably the railway companies thought exactly like I did, because they must have spent a fortune doing just that – naming their more prestigious passenger train locomotives.

I learnt so many matching pairs of numbers and names. We were encouraged at school to remember all sorts of lists of facts for tests out of twenty and regarded it as an enormous chore, whereas learning names of engines was neither problematic nor even intentional. It just happened because I was so interested. I can still remember lots of them today, so much so, that when someone came along to my local railway club wielding a quiz along those lines, I won it with only two omissions out of 40 questions, having done no intentional swotting at all on the subject for about 50 years. I did not confer, either, like some others. I did it all by myself. I was dead chuffed. I had only just joined the club and I didn’t really know anyone, so that went down really well amongst the regulars, I imagine.

The two I got wrong were 62467 Glenfinnan and 62430 Jingling Geordie. I know Glenfinnan as well as anything. I’ve been on the Jacobite twice and admired the viaduct from below as well. It was just a mental block with that particular word. I get that sometimes and perhaps increasingly so. Then I am like a dog with a bone. I will not let the word get away. I will go through the alphabet until it jumps back out from my subconscious. By this time, of course, the conversation has moved on to something completely different. When the penny finally drops, I will suddenly shout out “Wigeon” or “Francis Jeffers, the fox in the box, the new Michael Owen” at which point everyone stops talking and just stares at me.

Anyway, I just knew that anything that was going to trip me up on the subject of locomotive names would be what we knew as an “Eastern.” After all, everything could be described as either a Southern, a Western, a London Midland, a Standard or an Eastern. That is because we were all learning the ropes together, in 1960, when we were eleven and when our interest really kicked in. It was all time related. We were not at all bothered about pre-grouping stuff or the Big Four. What had happened before 1948 was neither here nor there to us. We only needed to know if it was 4 figures - WR, began with a 3 - SR, began with a 4 - LM, began with a 6 – ER or began with 7, 8 or 9 - Standard. We knew that any 5 figure numbers beginning with a 5 were old but we couldn’t care less about them, because, as you will probably know, they were not namers.

The names themselves seemed to suit my preconceptions of the geographical layout of the country as an eleven-year old. Points west were pretty hills and valleys, quaint market towns, manors, halls, granges and castles. See how easily it all fitted together? The LM connected most of the big cities with the capital and its engines were stately, official sounding, very grand and establishment, patriotic, old colonial, royalty and regiments.

The SR was Battle of Britain territory, I knew that. The West Country, or rather the far south west, spoke for itself and, reluctantly, as Liverpool had lost ground to Southampton, I probably begrudgingly admitted that in addition to London and the ports of the south east, that wasn’t a bad home for the merchant shipping names, either.

I had already made my mind up that the east of the country was low and flat and its main line straight and fast, uncluttered by as many cities and towns and therefore the perfect place for thoroughbreds and consequently for some of the most enticing names of all, Sun Stream, Steady Aim, Pearl Diver, Flying Fox and Quicksilver. I stared at my combined volume and wondered from my outpost on the Wirral coast when the hell I was ever going to see some of those.  

Amongst the very silly things I have done in my life, I have not kept all my railway books, including many regional Ian Allan pocket books and even combined volumes that I had bought both before and after the Summer 1962 version. That one remains my prized possession and the book I would take with me to my desert island, when I am asked to take part in the programme, or even if I’m not.

The spine is loose and there is some foxing which is most marked on the Stanier 2-8-0 page. I have added little pieces of paper for all four pre-1948 companies, to record steam locomotives scrapped before the Summer 1962 edition was published. It has got the Blue Pullman on the front, which was very go-ahead, no doubt, but would certainly not have been my choice.

The Western had the Star Class, which I would not have known anything much about had I not seen the museum piece, Lode Star. The Southern, which as far as my own record book was concerned had gone the best part of two years from new until April 1964 without troubling the red underlining pen, still had at least some of its Schools, King Arthurs and Lord Nelsons. I had no idea at all about any earlier SR namers. As far as I was concerned, the LM still had just about all its namers apart from a few early Patriot casualties. Some of the Standards were younger than I was and I felt I knew them all very well. Everything was in its place, pretty much, and I found that all very reassuring.

Easterns were the difficulty. I was conscious of the previous existence of many former LNER namers, which had been scrapped prior to 1962 and which, of course, I never had the chance to go and see. Of those, the Footballers were the best known, because they were, well, footballers. We liked, watched and played football. We supported Everton and I knew very well that there had been a locomotive of that name.

The named Eastern locomotives, past or surviving, that were not B1s, V2s or Pacifics were on the very edge of our consciousness. Hunt Class, Shires, Sandringhams [the County ones that weren’t the Footballers], J36s, D29, D30 and Directors were all beyond our reach and beyond our view of the world. I never once got to Scotland in the days of steam. I had a deprived childhood in that respect. Wandering Willie, Kettledrummle, Dumbiedykes and Cuddie Headrigg meant absolutely nothing to me. Even the K4s had gone before my combined was printed, though I think I had heard of the Great Marquess because it had been preserved.

The largely Scottish contingent of the numbers beginning in 6 was a land of mystery for me. It was a never-never land of intrigue - heather, mountains, bag-pipes, the timeless 1950’s and painted-on nameplates. I thought that looked cheap at the time - unforgivable corner-cutting. It was literally out of sight and out of bounds. It was an imaginary world.

Instead, I revelled in the ones that were closer to home and wondered how a woman could have a name like Princess Arthur of Connaught. Chester provided the straight GWR nameplates that stretched along the frames of the County of Radnor and the dramatic curved plates that wrapped their way around the splasher above the driving wheel of Penrice Castle. I actually thought that the King Class, although naturally impressive loco’s, had a boring set of names, with so much similarity of lettering, especially as I didn’t have a clue as to which was which, or rather, who was who, apart from Henry VIII and everyone knew what he got up to.

When I finally got down south I was impressed with the design of the SR Pacific nameplates, all round, with lots of colour and flourishes, like the scrolls on the West Countries and the elaborate and unusual presentation of the Merchant Navies. I wondered why on earth would you name every Brit’ except one and why the Duke of Gloucester was always moping around in Crewe every single time we went there, as though it was a bit of a mummy’s boy of an engine that did not dare stray too far from home. “Get up to Glasgow with the Semis, you big softy. What do you mean you can’t climb Shap like the others? You are not trying hard enough.” I think it probably went wrong a lot.

Every now and then a Clan would honour us with its presence in Preston or even make it to Liverpool Exchange. I liked the idea that they were rarer, but still possible to see, but in the end, they all congregated in Carlisle anyway.  Perhaps they thought there was safety in numbers when the scrap yard beckoned, but that plan didn’t work out right and they all went the way of the torch. The SR Standard Class 5s had feeble nameplates, I thought. It was like a bargain basement gesture of a nameplate, really, though the names themselves from Arthurian legend [I assumed] were fine.

My own favourites would have to include that belonging to V2 Class No. 60809 The Snapper, The East Yorkshire Regiment, The Duke of York’s Own, which I did get to see, eventually. Unfortunately, I was only too conscious that Royal Scot Class No. 46121 Highland Light Infantry, City of Glasgow Regiment was one of the four Scots I never got around to copping. Neither did I ever catch up with Jubilee No.45665 Lord Rutherford of Nelson, which had a nice ring to it. A nameplate on the wall would be a nice reminder. Now, what shall I choose?

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

Lads' day out on the train

In March 2002, we joined a steam special at Liverpool Lime Street bound for York, travelling behind Stanier Coronation Pacific No. 6233 Duchess of Sutherland. This was the second time this century that we had been on a lads’ day out on the trains, something we had done regularly as train spotters in the 1960s. Since 2008, it has become an annual fixture on the calendar. If we haven’t found a suitable steam trip on the national network, we’ve been to one of the heritage railways, instead.

The essential ingredients are:

1.       the lads [all now nearer to 70 than to 60]

2.       steam [as in, hauled by]

The conversation gravitates towards:

1.       reminiscences [the sorts of things that lads talk about when they get together, increasingly   football-related, these days, actually]

2.       humour [chuckles, rather than side-splitting laughter, no-one wants to risk a hernia]

3.       food and drink [normal healthy options overlooked for the day]

4.       sporting activities [efforts being made to keep ticking over]

5.       current interests [filling the time created by retirement in the third age]

6.       planning ahead [staking a claim for the next event]

All joined up and somewhere to go

When we visited the Great Central Railway [North] on one of their gala days in 2001, reunification of the two sections of the GCR was still just a glint in the collective eye of its most prominent movers and shakers.

With the bridge now in place at Loughborough, which will eventually allow through running from south Nottingham at Ruddington to Leicester North, the golden spike moment appears to be a lot closer.

Changing places

I do like Black Fives. They are such stalwarts. We turned a blind eye to them in times past, relatively speaking, as they were two a penny on the national network in BR days, and because they were overshadowed by the more colourful and powerful express locomotives that we had really gone to see.

No. 45407 has become something of an old friend since then, cropping up all over the place, including here at the East Lancashire Railway in 2001 and at Exeter St David’s in the following year.

On both occasions, she was in the guise of class mate No. 45157 The Glasgow Highlander, one of only four named Stanier Class Fives out of a total of 842. She was also one that I never caught up with before she was scrapped.

Getting your angles right

I was musing over the similarity between these two views, taken at the Great Central Railway in 1994 and 2000. I concluded that rear end views of steam locomotives with tenders rarely work aesthetically - too much tender behind.

That reminded me that I had read recently about a lady in America who had been involved in a road accident. Instead of sending the required pictures of the damaged car to her insurers, she had sent photos of herself, even obliging with “a picture taken straight on and a picture taken from each side.” I assume the insurers had not, in this particular case, asked her for a rear end view.

The brig, “Gomer,” Robert Dafydd Cadwalader

Robert Cadwalader is a former mariner and an artist, as well as being a volunteer at Porthmadog maritime museum. He lives in Criccieth. I bought this ready framed, oil-on-board painting of the Gomer from him. We arranged to meet him at the museum to pick up the painting during a Welsh holiday in 2016. Robert kindly allowed me to use some of his paintings to illustrate my book, Seafarer Jones. The Gomer has a special significance for Chris’s family.

Captain Richard Jones, 1814-1866, was Chris’s great, great grandfather. He was born in Criccieth in 1814. He began his seafaring career as a cabin boy in 1825, when he was just eleven years old, on board the Gomer, a brig belonging to the ship owner Richard Pritchard, who sailed it out of Beaumaris on Anglesey.

Richard Pritchard took emigrants from Anglesey and later from Porthmadog to New York. It must have been a baptism of fire for young Richard Jones. Captain Pritchard was renowned for his seamanship, to the extent that potential customers came from all over Wales for a safe passage with him to the New World, but unlike many other captains, he is reputed to have taken a somewhat more direct route there than most, which meant that the Gomer, not the largest of ocean-going vessels even at that time, faced mountainous seas with some regularity. 

An advertisement from the time indicated that the Gomer was expecting to leave Beaumaris with over 100 people on board, including a crew of nine, during her emigration voyages, as well as ballast made up of one hundred tons of slate. Her overall size, as far as can be gathered from the picture above and her limited tonnage, suggests that she might have been somewhat overcrowded at times.

As Henry Hughes put it in his book, “Immortal Sails,” “…Captain Prichard chose for his ocean career a passenger service between Beaumaris and New York, which meant fighting every mile of the way against the biggest seas in the world and some of the wildest storms. The east-to-west crossing, especially in winter months, is infinitely more difficult than the west-to-east. Sympathy can be expressed with the brave commander and his splendid men on this bleak and inhospitable route in such a small craft, but words fail when passengers are considered.”

He goes on to say, “It is not difficult to imagine the scenes, the suffering of women and children often battened down for days and nights on end in the congested surroundings of the Gomer's meagre accommodation, exhausted by sea-sickness, haunted by fear and prostrated by grief at leaving the " land of their fathers," perhaps for ever. What joy in their hearts, after fifty or sixty weary days of lifting and dipping, griping along and plunging down the slopes of great billows, to see the cheerful face of Captain Prichard peeping through the open door of their cabin to tell them the good news that the New World was under the lee and only a few leagues away!”

 It is not clear how many times Captain Pritchard made this journey, but young Richard Jones moved on to the Eivion after just one year on the Gomer. Captain Pritchard, no doubt weighing up his options carefully, eventually gave up the sea in 1835 to take a commercial position on land in Porthmadog, with his reputation as a skilled, yet daring, captain safely intact.

Richard Jones continued to learn the ropes on the Porthmadog schooners, the Eivion and the Catherine & Mary in the 1830’s, becoming a mate on the Britain and the Humility, before gaining his certificate of competence and taking charge of the Phoenix and then the Pearl. He became a ship’s master in 1851, captaining the Edward from 1855, a boat that he owned himself after 1861.

Richard had married Ann Hughes in 1836 and they had nine children, including Chris’s great grandfather, Hugh Robert Jones, 1843-91. In 1868 and at the age of only 54, Richard was drowned when the Edward, was wrecked off Anglesey. She had been returning from Liverpool when a storm blew up and she was driven onto the rocks. All of the crew of four were lost. Richard’s body was recovered, along with that of his nephew, fifteen-year old Griffith Hughes. Both family members were buried in St Catharine’s graveyard in Criccieth.

Captain Hugh Robert Jones died on board his ship, the Province, in the Atlantic Ocean, in 1891. His body was brought ashore at Sharpness for burial at Criccieth. His son and Chris’s grandfather, Captain Richard Jones, 1876-1923, also died on board his ship, the SS Antar, this time in the Pacific Ocean. He is buried in Vancouver. Richard’s son and Chris’s dad, Richard Hamilton Jones, 1920-2008, broke with this unfortunate tradition - but only just - when the ship in which he was being held as a prisoner of war, the Italian freighter, Sebastiano Venier, was torpedoed, and beached on the coast of Greece during World War Two. He avoided the fate of his father, his grandfather and his great grandfather, by escaping over the side of the stricken vessel on a rope to finally reach the shore, as she foundered on the rocks.

Consequently, I have been a little wary of going out on a boat with Chris. So far, our ferry journeys have all passed without incident. It is at the back of my mind, however, that her family has “got history” when it comes to incidents at sea. 

At the match

We are at the match. We don’t get to many, such is the friction of distance. I get the same old shiver down my spine as the Z-cars theme strikes up to welcome the players onto the pitch. The moment is awash with the usual optimism. Unfortunately, our theme tune is also used by Watford at their home matches. You would have thought Elton John would have come up with something appropriate, without needing to highjack ours.

Our seats are high in the stand. They are also directly behind a stanchion which is in line with the middle of the goal. This is what they mean by “restricted view.” We are separated from each other on the back row by a single seat, soon to be occupied by a person unknown. He turns out to be quite affable and readily swaps seats with me. “They’re all crap, anyway,” he adds.

The Old Lady, as the ground is known, is showing her age. Our plastic bucket chairs offer very little leg room even for my very little legs. We are surrounded by sturdy Victorian brick and royal blue-painted timber, but we will have to wait a few more years yet for our shiny new palace on the waterfront.

I have been coming here for the best part of six decades. I think of it as my spiritual home, though there are many more ardent followers than me. Over the years, we have acclaimed our champions and our cup winners here. We have revelled in the artistry of one of the best midfields of all time - Harvey, Ball and Kendall. We live in hope that the glory days will return during our lifetime.

The crowd is subdued. The calm is interrupted by occasional murmurs of discontent. Any positive move on the pitch receives a brief smattering of encouraging applause. The crowd is willing the players to perform, but they are cautious. Anyone who has played the game at any level knows that when you are lacking in confidence you first try to play safe and then gradually build on small successes. The split-second chance of an ambitious through ball to set up an attack is turned down in favour of a sideways or backward move, just in case you mess up. The crowd groans, but under its collective breath, so as not to deter the next opportunity for flair, should the opening present itself.

Half time is reached without implosion. Entertainment during the break is provided by two likely lads who are talking across us. I can’t follow their conversation, though I am trying. It’s not the accent but their private language that baffles me. Frequent references to the “Bizzies” and a friend “in Walton” - a reference to a temporary rather than a permanent home address, I suspect. They tease each other for some time about who is going to get the pies. One goes off but soon returns, apparently empty handed. Perhaps he’s stashed the pies in a safe place. Neither of them look like compulsive pie eaters, to me.

For 60 minutes, our opponents have been the better team. Attacking and defending as a unit, quick passing, running into space. It’s an easy, uncomplicated game on paper. It can be frustratingly difficult if your head is not in the right place. What we former amateurs can only imagine is how the expectations of the 40,000 faces, intensely watching every tentative move, can affect already fragile confidence. Two defenders glance up simultaneously to see if the other will go to mop up momentary danger. Both are caught on their heels. The crowd gasps in frustration. A goal for the visitors is quickly followed by another. Apprehension turns to despair.

An inspired substitution is made. The new addition threads a ball into a gap between defenders. It is latched onto and bundled home. It proves to be a lifeline. The player I had berated only days before for not being able to head the ball, nods one over everyone else and into the far corner of the net with pinpoint accuracy. I am left eating my own words and humble pie, all at the same time. The potential winner soon follows via the penalty spot. Sorrow has turned to euphoria in a matter of minutes.

Oh, No! A trip in the area, and a last-gasp penalty is conceded. Luckily, the pressure of the occasion is too much for the taker. It is met with the biggest roar I’ve ever heard for a penalty miss.

We have actually won. The relief is tangible. The residents have been out buying fireworks in anticipation of this victory and the sky is lit up all the way back to the car. On social media, a shell-shocked visiting fan grudgingly admires the crescendo of noise generated by the home fans at the end of the match. It rekindles the commonly held belief from years past - by visiting players and managers alike - that it can be an intimidating arena.

It is when supporters choose to make it so, and that hinges on the relationship with the players. What gets them going in the stands is when the players show passion in their play. Perhaps that does not happen enough these days but it’s reassuring to know that the beast in us can still be stirred when it does.

Doncaster 150

The summer of 2003 was the 150^th anniversary of the opening of Doncaster locomotive works by the Great Northern Railway. Amongst the steam locomotives in attendance were Mallard, Union of South Africa and Flying Scotsman, together with examples of modern traction.

On a visit to York at around the same time, we noted both Flying Scotsman and Stanier Class 8F       2-8-0 No. 48151, which was working the Scarborough Spa Express. On our return journey, we saw the A3 again, this time in Doncaster station.

The following year, Flying Scotsman was bought for the nation by the National Railway Museum for £2.3 million, in a sealed bid auction. The rest, as they say, is history.

GCR Gallery

I’m pretty sure that I have never had to cut the grass in November before. I submit this fragment of evidence to the global warming “debate.” The trouble is that some very influential players still seem to have their fingers in their ears.

As the nearest sizable heritage line to home, I have spent quite a lot of time at the Great Central Railway over the years, usually at their lively steam galas. These photographs were taken there in 2001 and 2002.

A wren became the fourth bird species to put in appearance on the neighbour’s new fence, this morning. He then hopped off into the ivy, which covers an adjacent wall. Unfortunately, that has just been cut off at the roots, too, so no more little goodies will be available there soon, either. I think it’s time for an additional bird feeder.

Hands-on

My railway volunteering has rather run out of steam for now, and I didn’t really get my hands dirty at all. My friend, John, however, is doing his bit in the carriage department at the Severn Valley Railway. He uses his know-how as a former art teacher and as a practising artist to line out and number refurbished and repainted stock and apply lettering to carriage boards, etc, in accordance with some very prescriptive graphic styles.

The SVR’s carriage department - and John, himself - feature in a TV programme in the BBC1’s Escape to the Country series, to be broadcast on Tuesday 14^th November at 3.00 pm.

Though Kidderminster is hardly countryside, no doubt the intention is to show viewers some of the interesting things that are happening round and about, should you choose to up sticks and move to rural Worcestershire.

My photos are from 2001, while the paint has barely dried on John’s.

“Hey, soft lad”

Grand-parental duties take us to soft play centres these days. The play equipment for the very young is wrapped up in padding. Even outdoor playgrounds designed for those a few years older are thoughtfully designed with safety in mind.

It’s a long way from the swing parks of our youth, in unforgiving steel, engraved at regular intervals with the name “Wicksteed,” to crack your shins on. High steps up the slide enticing us skywards, accompanied by concerned reminders from ground level not to look down. The Kettering, Northamptonshire, company have been making playground hardware since 1918.

Within a few years we were daring each other to go “up to the bar,” on what a little bit of research tells me is officially known as a plank swing. This involved standing at opposite ends and rocking it upwards until it cracked into the horizontal bars from which the plank was hung. In time, we had done that so frequently that the foundations of the metal framework had loosened, rendering the equipment even more dangerous than it was before. If you fell off anything at all in those days it hurt. There were no rubber compound surrounds to soften the blow.

None of which made me “hard,” I have to admit. “All right, soft lad?” was a typically provocative scouse greeting from friends as was, “Hey, soft lad,” from those who weren’t being friendly at all.

As habitual trespassers, the railway environment was every bit as dangerous for us but far less threatening. Only like-minded lads went there. There was a permanent truce in operation. Though we got thrown out of a few sheds, only once - at Shrewsbury - were we seriously reprimanded. I think we tried to bunk it again the next day.

Soft Machine completely passed me by. Were they any good?

“Taunton is a part of Minehead already”

We’ve nipped in to the West Somerset Railway a number of times. It is a [fairly] convenient stopping-off point on the long journey back home from the south west of England, though we have also travelled the full line once or twice, when staying nearby.

Every time I go anywhere near it, I am reminded of Monty Python’s North Minehead bye-election sketch, in which Mr Hilter and Mr Bimmler plan world domination from a guest house in the resort, hold meetings at the Axis café and a mass rally from a balcony attended by a local yokel and three children.

The WSR is an excellent set-up, of course. Lengthy by heritage railway standards, it crosses attractive countryside before hitting the seaside at Watchet and then again, after a brief landward dog-leg, at the delightfully named Blue Anchor.

Thanks to the West Somerset, Taunton was joined to, if not a part of, Minehead already, when I took these pictures at the end of the summer in 2000. However, mein Dickie old chum, wouldn’t it be great if their normal services were able to make the whole journey again, instead of having to start from Bishop’s Lydeard?    

Goal Hanger

I know less about birds than I do about trains, but I enjoy bird watching, too. I explained my favoured technique to my daughter’s partner. I don’t look out for rare birds so much as look out for bird watchers who are already looking out for rare birds. It cuts out a lot of faffing about and I am on the case straight away. My only encounter with a long-eared owl, for example, happened because I noticed a huddled group of onlookers staring into a hedge in Norfolk, as I drove past.

If, when I turn up, the bird in question is hiding in a crowd of other birds with [arguably] quite similar features, I just ask someone at my elbow with more knowledge than me [i.e. most folk present and all of those appropriately dressed in camouflage outfits or possessing very sturdy tripods], where I should be aiming my telescope. I may give the deserving bird - after all, it has probably flown thousands of miles in the wrong direction to entertain us all - about ten minutes. Then, before my hands get too cold, I make the mental addition to my life list and go for a nice lunch in a nearby pub - job done.

My wife calls me a “mere ticker.” She says it like I am only one step up from being a violent criminal. My daughter’s partner likened my behaviour to a footballing goal hanger. I am in the right place at the right time [due to modern technology] and then all I have to do to score is point towards the goal and open one eye.

Yesterday, the hedge that was in front of me here at home was replaced with a fence. My wife is particularly disappointed about the deterrent effect that this will have on our local wildlife and she actually made a forlorn, last-minute plea to the neighbours for a hedgehog gateway to be incorporated within one of the panels. I am personally encouraged that a blue tit, a great tit and a robin have all seen fit to perch on the new fence already this morning. It’s not even dinner time on day one and I haven’t had to move a muscle to tick them off.

     

Crewe works open day, 20/5/2000

About 35 years after our previous visit to Crewe works, we returned for an open day to what had been a special location for us in the past. Although it was at the heart of former LNWR and LMS operations, on the day, I chose to photograph mainly ex-LNER types. The elegant lines of the V2s are particularly pleasing to the eye.

I remember that the eminent railway artist, Philip D Hawkins, had a stall at the event, where he was selling signed prints of his paintings. I wish now that I had shown more interest in his wares. I’ve come to appreciate his skills all the more as time has again moved remorselessly on.

 

Furness Railway No. 20

Now, here’s an old engine. Furness Railway Class A5 0-4-0 No. 20 is actually the oldest working standard gauge steam locomotive in Britain. Built by Sharp Stewart in 1853, she belongs to the Furness Railway Trust. No. 20 currently resides at the National Railway Museum outpost at Shildon.

We happened upon her by chance when we called in at the Lakeside and Haverthwaite Railway in 2000, during one of our regular jaunts to the Lake District. In Furness Railway livery, she looked a very fine old girl indeed.  

Dawlish

From 1979 to 1986 we took our young family each year to the south west, starting off at Teignmouth, then Dawlish and finally St Ives. Repeatedly poor August weather eventually drove us to France, where we spent every summer holiday until 1999.

Dawlish has a special place in the minds of the railway fraternity. The line between Exeter and Newton Abbot skirts the coast on the route built by Brunel. It provides one of the most scenic stretches of railway anywhere in the country.

I spent many hours on Dawlish beaches, watching trains between splashing in the sea, building sandcastles with my children and the compulsory visits to the rock pools. I took no photographs of the trains and did not carry a notebook to record what was passing, relying instead on a pocket loco-shed book to make sure that I was not missing any diesels that were new to me on the sea wall.

During an additional break in July 1998, we broke our journey by road and returned briefly to Dawlish to see a King Class locomotive that was due to pass through on a special train. I had never seen steam on the main line west of Exeter before. We arrived just in time to photograph No. 6024 King Edward I. Was this the most stupid headboard ever carried by a special train – The Clotted King?