Getting back on the bike

I fell off twice within a couple of hours. Each time I just got back on the bike. Unlike Philippe Gilbert, who I’m pleased to say was relatively unhurt after his very dramatic tumble when he misjudged a bend and went flying over a wall in the Pyrenees during the latest Tour de France, I smacked the back of my head on the ground [OK, helmet and grass] and had a twinge in my shoulder that lasted at least a day or two. I actually went over the handlebars, no mean feat in itself on a fold-up bike and a trick I hadn’t performed for fifty years since underestimating a slope on the Red Noses in New Brighton.

We drifted [gingerly in my case] down the slope from the Stover Trail into Bovey Tracey and came upon the splendid Café 3 Sixty, a specialist watering hole for cyclists of all calibres, including those easily parted from their steeds.

Bovey Tracey station building is now a heritage centre, manned by two eager volunteers who were only too willing to show us around. The twelve-mile Moretonhampstead branch from Newton Abbot opened as a broad-gauge line in 1866, closing to passengers in 1959 and freight in 1964. Below Heathfield it remains open for timber traffic only.

                                

Bug Carts at Arnside

For the second time in a fortnight I found myself in view of a railway line from my accommodation without really planning it that way. This time it was overlooking the viaduct next to Arnside station on the Cumbrian coast line from Carnforth to Barrow.

The only respite from bug-carts while we were there was a double-header Class 68 - in snazzy Direct Rail Service livery and on a Sellafield nuclear flask working. Suddenly catching sight of it in the corner of my eye when sitting on the bed in the second-floor room, stretching for the binocs that were just out of reach, aggravating the muscle in my upper arm that was already giving me gyp, fumbling and failing to get them in focus in time to see the numbers, I was left thinking just what sort of railway enthusiast am I? Only two locomotives seen; I missed them both and no photo to show for it, either.

And that is why this image is of a bug-cart [from Arnside Knott - just].

A walk in the park

“You could take Little Man to the park,” my daughter suggested, as we prepared to look after him for a whole afternoon for the first time. “We’ll manage,” I replied, stoically, wondering which park she meant and where we would find it. They had recently moved house, crossing the city from the south west to the north east side and into an area of Nottingham that was quite new to me.

Woodthorpe Grange Park turned out to be the one in question. “There is a bit of an old railway line there,” my wife interjected, having made an earlier foray with the pram in that direction. My ears pricked up, and what had started out as a leisurely walk to the park suddenly became a bit of a mission.

The Nottingham Suburban Railway was only three and a half miles long. It ran from Trent Lane Junction, Sneinton, in the south, where it left the Great Northern Railway, to Daybrook Junction in the north where it linked once again to the wider arc of lines on the eastern side of the city which were part of the Derbyshire and Staffordshire Extension. That route also belonged to the GNR and it subsequently became known locally as the “back line.” To the south, the GNR had insisted on a flying junction to cross their existing main line at Trent Lane, so that there would be no interference with eastbound traffic. The NSR opened in 1889 and served three local brick-making concerns near Sherwood and Thorneywood, the two short branches east of the line finally reaching the factory sites up rope-worked inclines driven from engine houses.

This part of the city is distinctly hilly, as any seasoned, local, pram pusher will tell you, and there were no less than four tunnels required during the line’s construction. The double track formation climbed for two and a-quarter-miles at gradients of up to 1 in 50 before dropping down towards Daybrook at 1 in 70. The tunnels were interspersed with the three intermediate stations of Thorneywood, St Ann’s Well and Sherwood. The hope was, as the title of the line suggested, that the railway would attract workers in their daily commute to the city centre from these expanding residential areas.

Circumstance dictated otherwise. In 1900, the Great Central Railway opened their line into Victoria station and took away much of the northern outskirt’s passenger traffic from the NSR. Its importance was further reduced by the establishment of an electric tram service close to all three of its stations over subsequent years, a network which also made its way into Nottingham city centre past Victoria station.

As a result, all three NSR stations closed in 1916 and it became a through route only for passenger trains thereafter, in addition to the sparsely operated pick-up freights and the brick works wagons. In 1923, the independent NSR [though it had actually been run by the GNR, by agreement, up until that time] became part of the LNER. The line was singled in 1930. It was severed at the Trent Lane end by an enemy bombing raid in 1941 and was never re-connected. Freight ended in 1951 and the last passenger service to pay a visit was an enthusiasts’ special, via Daybrook, in 1954. That was followed by the dismantling of the track, which was eventually completed three years later.

Woodthorpe Grange Park occupies the grounds of the former family home of Henry Ashwell, built in 1874 and now a Grade 2 listed building. Though compensated when the NSR cut a swathe both across and beneath his estate, in 1889, and in spite of having had a tunnel named after him, Ashwell decided to sell the property - to Edward Parry, no less - who was the designer and the chief engineer for the railway in the first place. By 1905, Parry had sold it on again, to a local councillor called Godfrey Small. In 1922, it opened as a public park, finally having been purchased by Nottingham City Council. In more recent times, it has gained a Green Flag Award, recognising it as a well managed park and open space as part of a national scheme that was set up in 1996, though, come to think of it, hardly the first time it would have enjoyed the presence of green flags.

From the house, now used as council offices, we wandered down the slopes that had made the digging of Ashwell’s tunnel a necessity. Both the former portal sites are fenced off and the material that had been dumped to block the tunnel mouths is now covered by mature vegetation. Just outside the park on the south side, blocks of flats occupy the location of the former Sherwood station. The cutting on the approach to the south portal is clearly defined and is currently occupied by a concrete cul-de-sac and a line of garages.

On the north side of the tunnel, a brief section of the former railway’s course is just about discernible, with an even shorter section of single track rail bearing a full-size model of the front end of a steam locomotive. It has been bricked in under the bridge carrying Woodthorpe Drive over the formation, as a sculptured reminder of the old NSR. A cast iron plaque nearby informs visitors about the landscape’s history.

The bridge carrying Woodbridge Drive over the former NSR, looking north.

The cutting, and ahead of it is the site of the south facing portal of Ashwell’s Tunnel.

I found these discoveries all very interesting, of course, but Little Man did not bat an eyelid throughout our perambulations, in spite of my “off path” diversions across some fairly rough terrain. “Sleep well, Little Man,” I thought. There is plenty of time for heritage and for lots of other stuff in between.

Eyeing up the elusive Royal Scot

[This article on which this blog is based was written three years ago]

We saw a baby deer on our way to badminton last night, the first ever, this close to home. A rather un-Bambi like muntjac, it scrambled up a steep bank at the side of the road. It was a good job that I had my glasses on. I sometimes forget to wear them, yet I have been advised to do so for driving since my most recent annual eye test. Sight is so precious and I still have some important tasks for it to perform.

Top of my list of important visual experiences to come was my planned imminent meeting with No. 46100 Royal Scot. I saw most of her sister engines, totalling 66 out of 71, in fact. The class leader always eluded me. I know I could have caught up with her as a museum piece or laid up in bits but I wanted to make sure that when we finally met she was not just in one piece but in steam.

Her most recent renaissance, in time for the SVR gala weekend, seemed to be ideal on the face of it and the day broke with much promise and anticipation, as well as very bright sunshine that certainly made the sunglasses a requirement for driving. Unfortunately, though, in the end we were not able to travel. 

Royal Scot was a Nottingham based engine from the time that I started train spotting in 1960 until its withdrawal in 1965. That meant it largely operated on former Midland Railway routes, rather than the West Coast Main Line, where, as Wirralians, we had most of our days out. Consequently, it went unrecorded, as I gradually ticked off most of the rest of the class on ex-LNWR metals. By coincidence, we ended up living in Nottinghamshire, but by then 46100 had long since left the county.

My Summer ’62 combined volume tells the story of how significant the Royal Scot had become over the years. I had known for decades that the only other two possible namers left for me to cop were Royal Scot and No. 60008 Dwight D Eisenhower, and, after all, she was somewhere in America, so there was a fat chance of that one turning up, except, of course, that she did.

I finally underlined Dwight at the NRM, with my com’ vol’ resting on her left buffer. It was my twentieth A4 cop and unfortunately, of course, she is the last one standing of those A4s that I needed to see.

So, what about Royal Scot? I read that after various adjustments at the SVR she will be ready again for main line running. She will represent the end of an era for me. The railway scene will never be quite the same, thereafter. There will be no “new” old faces to seek out and a process begun in 1960 will draw to a close. I shall wear my glasses, anyway, to make sure I get the best possible view. I will let someone else take the pictures as I just savour the moment.

Return to Templecombe

There has always been something special about Templecombe. I only ever went there twice and both times we were staying in Somerset on our annual family holidays. They were the last two we all took together before I branched out and went away with my friends instead. I use the term “family holiday” rather loosely. As you can see from the few dates provided, the family just had to get on without me for much of the time, while I indulged myself on the railways.

Below are the entries in my train spotting notebooks for my visits of 3/8/64 and 1/8/65, when I was aged 15 and 16. In 1964, I cycled to Templecombe from our guest house in the village of Stoke St Michael. As I climbed up the incline on the short approach road to the station, Manfred Mann’s “Do Wah Diddy Diddy” wafted out from the open window of an adjacent cottage. We were already intoxicated by the explosion of 60’s pop music, and big vibrant hits like this one just kept on coming throughout the period from a whole range of groups. On that morning, it simply added to the excitement and anticipation that I already felt, having finally arrived at my destination after a bit of a slog down the A357.

By 1964, I had become mesmerised by the Southern Pacifics. I had only made their acquaintance in any numbers a year before, during our first family holiday to the south west, when I was almost beside myself to have actually reached Exmouth Junction sheds. Copping Southern namers then became the priority. I would have to hurry or they would be gone.

I guess I was on Templecombe station for about 4 or 5 hours on that day, during which time I saw 4 Merchant Navy Class, including 3 that were new to me and 4 light Pacifics, all of which I had seen before. I cabbed 34079 141 Squadron, which for many months previous to the summer of 1963 had been the only underlined Southern engine in my combined volume, after it had visited Crewe on a special train.

On arrival, the first visible link to the old Somerset and Dorset Railway was ex-GWR    0-6-0 No. 3218. It took its passenger train down the steep descent on a sharp curve out of the station to the north. The Warship diesels that would soon take over most of the main line duties from steam on the ex-LSWR main line from London Waterloo to Exeter also put in an appearance early in the day, in the shape of D869 Zest.

In 1965, I travelled by bus from Crewkerne to Templecombe and it seems from my notes that I only went around the sheds and did not visit the station at all. That was probably because of the impact that dieselisation was having on my choice of location. The sheds were extremely quiet, I remember, providing quite a contrast with my time on the platforms the year before, when Templecombe had still seemed to be a fairly leisurely, but fully functioning, country junction station. The public-address system still liked to make a bit of an occasion out of the arrival of its express trains to and from the capital. There was hardly anyone there when I bunked around the MPD a year later and only one or two unattended locomotives appeared to be in steam. It was on its last legs.

I don’t quite know why it is that I cling so doggedly to the memories of these two days that happened over half a century ago. After all, a whole career has sped through in the intervening decades. I can only think it is because I found the experience so exhilarating and spellbinding when it occurred. It’s something to do with that whole freshness of youth thing, that propensity to embrace with relish all those experiences which are new and stimulating. It stands out in a way that leaves Chris totally perplexed by my capacity to re-live it time and time again. Sad, it may be, but true.

All of which brings me back into the present with a jolt. An invitation has been received for us to attend a special double birthday party celebration, near Wincanton in Somerset. That’s pretty close to Templecombe, I think - then dare to say. After brief negotiations, we agree to fit a whistle stop visit in on our way back from holiday in Cornwall. We arrived on a Saturday afternoon, under dark and threatening clouds, exactly 50 years and 22 days since I was there last.

The houses on the run up to the station - looking very much like former railwaymen’s cottages, in fact - were still there, but there were no sounds of the 60’s emanating from any open windows. I pulled up in the car park. A voice in my head said “Never go back,” but it was too late. We were there. I looked around for the familiar landmarks that matched the clear mental pictures I had carried around with me ever since I had first landed there. They were few and far between.

Two years after closure in 1966, the old station buildings were removed, apart from the Art Deco - and very Southern Railways - 1930’s design signalbox, which still stands at the western end of the former up platform. It provided a welcome reminder of my previous visit. The station reopened in 1983, following successful local pressure for a reinstated rail service, allied to an optimistic survey of potential usage by Somerset County Council. A replacement footbridge, actually of 1893 vintage and acquired from Buxted in East Sussex, was positioned to connect the car park on the down side of the single track to the original up platform, and a red brick waiting room was erected there, too, adjacent to the signalbox.

On its northern side, this original up main line island platform was still served in the early 1960’s by both northbound and southbound trains coming up the spur from the S&D, so that passengers could make direct connections with the Southern Region main line services. The S&D trains then reversed back down the hill before continuing towards Bath or Bournemouth. There is no obvious visible trace of this connection today and the far side of the platform is occupied by trees and foliage with no view possible beyond them.

More recently, an extension has been added to the remains of the former down main line platform, so that it, too, is alongside the remaining single track, which lies on the up side of the formation. A bus stop style open shelter has now been constructed here and the footbridge closed so there is no longer any access to the old up platform. Boarding trains is now from the new platform only.

Re-signalling led to the closure of the signalbox. The need to rely on a barrow crossing for wheelchair users and anyone else who found the footbridge difficult when accessing the previously used up platform have been overcome. The area where the former main station building stood, as well as the forecourt and part of the old down side platform, are all now car parking spaces. A covered waiting area has since been put up here also.

The 1930’s signalbox at Templecombe station

The former Buxted footbridge, now obsolete for a second time, spans the single track.

From somewhere close to where I had watched No. 3218 move off down the hill in 1964, I noticed a bronze statue, a figure with its back to us. It is set in what looks like an extension of someone’s back garden on the far side of the up platform at the London end and there was no obvious explanation for its presence from our side of the line. By then, it had begun to rain and so we were left to surmise as we made our way to a rendezvous with friends at our overnight accommodation, prior to the big do.

Back home again, the internet informed me that the sculpture is the result of a collaborative piece for which the sculptor was Sioban Coppinger, a name I recognised. As well as being a friend of my brother-in-law, she had an interesting piece in concrete on display much closer to home in the grounds of Rufford Abbey, which depicted a full-size sheep sitting at one end of a bench with a man at the other end and called, not surprisingly, “Man and Ewe on Park Bench.” It was very noticeable and it made lots of people smile on first viewing, including me.

The Templecombe sculpture is called “Tempus Fugit.” It dates from 1990, and it is a sundial cast in bronze. It shows a railwayman holding a railway timetable. Leaves from the book have fallen in an arc at his feet, represented by stone slabs, the positioning of which enables the sundial to come to life each day [when it is not raining]. In 2010, Templecombe Station Volunteers came together to return the station garden to its former glory. Tidying up the sculpture was one of their stated intentions.

Retrospectively, I now feel incredibly lucky to have got to Templecombe at all. I am grateful to my folks for choosing deepest rural England for a succession of holidays between 1963 and 1965. It meant that I visited Templecombe in ’64 and ’65 and, of course, the whole caboodle was gone by the summer of ’66, except for the through services from London to Exeter. It was cutting it fine and I don’t think that at the time I quite took in that I was witnessing the S&D’s final fling, though I would certainly have known that it was under threat as part of the avalanche of closures launched by Dr Beeching a few years before. I’m so glad that I made it there in time.

A Tender Behind

One of the first things I learnt about tender engines - and it was a surprise to me at the time - is that the tender is not full of coal but full of water and has a relatively thin layer of coal on the top.

One can’t overlook the contribution of the humble tender to the overall aesthetics of the tender engine. They generally go together well and are obviously designed with that in mind. Many Great Western locomotive tenders had an added dimension, an upper stepped section along the side, and that aided us greatly. When wandering down the lines through that acidic pall at Birkenhead sheds on a Sunday morning, we could easily spot the outline of the occasional ex-GWR Collett example amongst the straight-sided tenders belonging to the usual ex-LMS and Standard residents. My heart leapt at the prospect of copping another Western namer, although Hawksworth tenders were equally welcome, of course.

How sad and forlorn those former tender locomotives sometimes looked on those 1960’s scrap lines when they had been separated from their other halves and thus finally shorn of any remaining dignity. I thought that they should at least be allowed to bow out in tandem with their partners.

The Princess Royal Class always looked a little incongruous to me, with their long-bodied boilers and short tender legs. It made them appear a little “horizontally challenged” in the trouser department. The knowledge on the platform end was that this enabled them to fit on the turntables, but I don’t know for sure if that explanation ever held much water.

Although the Coronations were slightly heavier than the Prinnies, they never seemed to look out of proportion lengthwise in quite the same way. Perhaps that was down to their cutely angled smoke deflectors.

The North Norfolk Railway’s B12 No.8572, a curvy 4-6-0, certainly looked the part with her tender at Weybourne, North Norfolk Railway, in April 1992. She was all lined out with somewhere to go. “Does my bum look too big in this apple green livery?”

Tender-first photographs of steam locomotives are infrequent, compared to the standard three-quarter front views. Many will probably have been taken just because, as in this case, one couldn’t easily access the front end. In original railway artwork, they appear to be even rarer and where they do exist there is likely to be another compensatory front-on engine somewhere in the frame.

Diesel and electric locomotives don’t have that problem, of course, tending to be predictably and functionally similar at both ends. Multiple units look very deprived when the motor coach is detached from the stock with which it cohabits on a normal day.

Modern traction may not need water in quite the same quantity any more, but we have certainly picked up the water carrying habit in bottle form. This addiction is nowhere more visible than at the gym. Although I can usually wait to get back home before taking on water, half an hour on the rowing machine still leaves me with a tender behind.

Just Strolling

“We’ve got no room for it,” was my wife’s response to the installation in my office of this carefully selected piece of our railway heritage. “I don’t want to be left with all of

this stuff to get rid of,” she added - to which I had no immediate response. I resolved that I would eventually dispense with some of the “stuff” myself.

It got me thinking about how following generations will view paraphernalia that we [some of us] find so fascinating today. Of course, antiques of all kind are subject to changes in taste and fashion that are then reflected in fluctuating prices. It may well be that such variations are only to be expected in the area of collectibles like our own.

The market in railwayana is dominated by men of a certain age. Many other areas of interest are not so skewed. Let’s not beat about the bush, here. It largely appeals to a substantial group of former train spotters who are old enough to have enjoyed first-hand the age of steam.

We have a well-attended U3A set-up, locally, and we dipped our toes in when we first became eligible and had the time to do so. I read the notice showing a hierarchy of walking groups that could be ranked by the nature of the physical challenge that each posed. After Peak District walks, long walks, medium walks and short walks, came strolling. Its monthly bulletin read that there would be no strolling in August due to family visits and medical treatment. There would be no strolling in September or October due to holidays. As from November, there would only be one strolling group, on the 4^th Wednesday morning of the month. I felt like adding, “but don’t hold your breath,” but then thought better of it. 

I’m on the lookout for signs of forgetfulness as an indicator of my own ageing process. We quite often set out in the car these days and have to return within minutes to check that we have switched off the heated towel rail or closed the bathroom window. A friend even takes her hair straighteners to work with her so that she can be sure that they are switched off.

When I tell “outsider” friends about the cash exchanged for sought after name plates at railwayana auctions, they are frankly flabbergasted that such sums are frequently dispensed with “for pieces of metal.” Future generations will surely not value these artefacts as we do, because the nostalgia factor will be missing. They may still be rare, tell a story, be evocative examples of art and craft or be creations of engineering practices that are long gone, but they won’t have quite the same piquancy for potential buyers.

The important thing is that they continue to be seen as worthwhile in their own right as articles from another age, part of our history and heritage and reminders of lost industrial processes. Their value is intrinsic and in the end that may be much less to do with money. It won’t matter as long as they are still cared for. We are merely guardians of this “stuff” and we can only covet it and own it for a limited period. It may well end up somewhere else, but that’s OK. We shall offer it a good home for now and just enjoy it while we can.    

   

After Badders

We go to the Final Whistle in Southwell, a railway-themed pub, next to the track bed of the former route from Mansfield to Rolleston Junction. The pub is very popular and has a good selection of real ales and guest beers on the go.

Though it’s a solid old Victorian building, it did not have any direct connection to the railway when the line was in operation. Over the road, however, is the station master’s house and the blue plaque on the adjacent former level-crossing gate post reminds us of the railway’s former importance to the town.

During the day time, the car park serves the Southwell Trail, the footpath and cycle-way which follows the railway’s old course. At night, it reverts to being a pub car park, though by the time we get there it’s often full. Chris drives on a Friday night, so she quite often has to practise her Reginald Molehusband manoeuvre out on the road before we try to locate an empty table.

In this fine summer weather, we go outside on the decking that is loosely modelled on a station platform, complete with canopy and dagger boards. Though the railway paraphernalia adorning the place is mostly mass-produced modern copies and made with just such venues as this one in mind, there are also one or two original artefacts and a few railway paintings on the walls. I believe that the one I have in mind is an original because it is not very successful, in my view, in representing the locomotive that it purports to resemble. It seems unlikely that it would be worthwhile making multiple prints of it.

I admit to some ambivalence, here. I admire anyone who is creative and then is prepared to effectively say to others, “Here it is, what do you think of it?” which is effectively what you do when you try to sell a book you have written or parade your own artwork. You have to be prepared for someone to tell you what they really think of it, never mind just not parting with any cash for it.

Perhaps the most hurtful response under these circumstances, though, is total indifference. Maybe it’s better to receive an unfavourable reaction than no come-back at all because it is not deemed to be worthy of comment. Criticism might, at least, prompt a reality check leading to a re-think and eventually to further development.

I’m vain enough to look at the number of “hits” on my blog each day before I go to bed, even after the pub at 1.00 in the morning. I suppose we all want to be noticed for having made an effort. So, I’m sorry if that painting is yours. I could explain why I don’t rate it, if that would help.

Only one person looked at my blog yesterday, so, thank you, whoever you are.

Return to Donny

Three years ago, I took a day trip to Doncaster. It was the first time for fifty-two years that I had spent any length of time on the station, other than for changing trains whilst travelling through.

Class A1 No. 60128 Bongrace was one of the first engines we saw when we arrived, one day in early June, 1963. If my memory serves me, she was drifting down towards the sheds alongside the main London King’s Cross-bound platform, passing an English Electric Type 4 on the up fast centre road and a DMU at the opposite platform. The presence of the Deltics and the EE4s was the main reason that we only saw one A4, No. 60018 Sparrowhawk, when we bunked round the sheds later on in the day. We weren’t keen on the EE4s. It was their fault that the Prinnies had already all gone, and the Semis, which had shared the crack expresses out of Liverpool Lime Street with them, would also soon be a thing of the past.

Moving on half a century, or so, I rolled up at Newark Northgate in plenty of time for the 10.33 to York. Its imminent arrival was announced on the public-address system at 10.25. The digital clock above platform 1 showed 10.11 and the famous old Potts of Leeds clock that has featured in so many photographs over the years had gone completely potty, claiming it was 11.14. At least it was consistently wrong, showing exactly the same time on both faces.

Doncaster was every bit as busy as it was in 1963. It was still attracting the spotters, too. I counted at least one for every year I had been away, almost all of them around my age. Some had brought their fold-up camping chairs with them. I wondered if any of them were also present when I last sat here.

I decided that Grand Central’s black and orange was the most attractive and certainly the most stately, express passenger livery on show, since the demise of the navy blue of the former GNER.

Taken from roughly the same spot, overlooking the four-track main line between the two island platforms, and with the overhead power lines being the most obvious addition to the scene over the intervening decades, a First Trans Pennine Class 185 unit leaves the station in the direction of Sheffield.

True Meditation

Pure Land Meditation Centre and Japanese Garden in North Clifton, between Newark and Gainsborough, was chosen for an afternoon out. Just before we left the main road, we crossed an old railway line. I’m usually on the look-out for such things and I knew which this one was. It was the track bed of the old Lancashire, Derbyshire and East Coast Railway, just after it had crossed the Trent and headed for Lincoln, which was actually as far as it ever got.

Hoping for some shade on yet another sunny day, the garden was really very relaxing. Having crossed a series of little hump-back bridges, admired the crystal garden and a wide range of flowers and shrubs, as well as disappointing the carp that clearly were expecting us to come up with some grub, my mind turned to meditation. We found a little rustic bus-shelter affair and settled in.

That was when the man standing next to the pond answered his mobile phone and embarked on a lengthy conversation. I wondered if that was allowed in a meditation centre.

Driving home, I said to Chris that I couldn’t remember anything that I had been thinking about when I was in the bus shelter and did that mean I had been experiencing pure meditation. “No,” she said. “It means that you were asleep.”

The location for this photo, taken on the East Coast Main Line in 1969, was only a few miles due west of North Clifton, but on the other side of the river. The bridge in the background carries the old LD&ECR from Tuxford towards the Trent crossing. I've used this image before, but no apologies for that. Graham managed a response from the Deltic driver with a blast on the horn.   

Taking a broader view

I find the style of the travelogues that prevails in the weekend papers increasingly irritating. They could, at least, get the factual bits right.

Writing in Guardian Travel on 24/6/18, Genevieve Fox “took the broad-gauge train for all of the three-minutes from St Ives up the track to Carbis Bay.” Really? Isambard would be pleased to hear that his big idea has made a come-back.

St Ives is “…..no different to any other British seaside resort that combines nostalgia and stylish consumerism. I’m thinking of Rock across the water……” Across the water? I wouldn’t try that one in a rowing boat any time soon.

Up the tower

We made good use of a recent sunny Saturday morning to climb the 187 narrow steps to the top of the tower, high above Southwell Minster. The flag pole, held in place by the steel ropes visible on the photo, is a former ship’s mast.

The panoramic views extend into Leicestershire and Lincolnshire. Looking north-east, the course of the long-closed railway line that once served the town follows the valley of the Greet down towards the Trent.