Birthday Treat

We went by train from Lowdham to the Ecclesbourne Valley Railway, changing at Duffield. The heritage DMU plodded up the valley to Wirksworth, reminding me of how bouncy they could be when we rode them on the Wirral in the 60s from New Brighton and later from Bidston to Chester Northgate and Wrexham.

Another advantage was that if you secured a front seat you had the driver’s view of the road ahead. That meant you could see the numbers of approaching steam locomotive much more easily and without getting smuts in your eyes - or even risking a full-frontal lobotomy, whilst sticking your head out of the window.

At Wirksworth, we found an unfussy little town surrounded by old lead workings and stone quarries perched on the side of a hill. Not a great deal seems to have happened here apart from brief associations with a couple of well-known authors, DH Lawrence and George Eliot. On the wall in the heritage centre, which was formerly a silk mill, there is a quote from the then local MP, Matthew Parris. It flags up that this was the only place that he had ever been publicly “booed” - apparently a highlight of the town’s one thousand-year history. I got the impression that over the centuries Wirksworth has “just got on with being Wirksworth”, which, of course, is no bad thing.

What the Fxxx

Prompted by Barney Ronay’s column in the Guardian sports section this morning, “Chants in a Million”, I thought back to the days on the terraces when it seemed to be OK to say whatever came into your head and express it at the top of your voice. What was commonplace at the match was not necessarily permissible anywhere else, however. I had once imagined that this was effectively a socially acceptable safety valve for people who did nasty or boring jobs all week to let off steam on Saturday afternoon, and that it was probably better than taking out deep-seated frustrations with one’s circumstances on others at another time - and perhaps more physically. I think now, that this was a horribly misguided and naïve hope on my part.

We didn’t just save our ire for footballers, however. We used to yell insults at steam locomotives that were commonplace. City of Stoke on Trent became City of Shit on Toast and the Flying Dutchman was renamed the Flying Dustbin. Regular visitors to Crewe station that we had seen many times before were met with “thumbs down” signals, V-signs and shouts of “relic” or “stink”, as their numbers became evident when they drifted into view. Footplate crews no doubt either showed us withering disdain or, more likely, ignored us completely.

At the match, the emphasis now is rightly on campaigns to eradicate the scourge of racism. In the past, I would admit to having not thought too deeply about the airing of prejudices as part of wide-ranging chants, insults and downright abuse aimed at those on the pitch - some of it very crude and personal - as long as what was being said struck me as being funny. I know that this was never acceptable criteria for judgement, but in a sense it’s too late, so I’m stuck with my personal attempts at revisionism.

I remember a specific instance from the bad old days - except that I find that it was only a decade ago and I’d imagined it was much longer. Everton were at home to West Ham and we were seated near the front - in the area that used to be called the paddock when we stood there as youngsters. Anyone who goes to football knows that players are very vulnerable to abuse when the ball goes out for a throw-in. So, it was for Luis Boa Morte Pereira. “Fxxx off, you. You fxxxxxx French txxx”, came the tirade from just alongside us. This would have been extremely unfunny, of course, except that Boa Morte is Portuguese.

John Dyer’s picture of City of S on T was taken at Chester on a Holyhead to Euston express in March 1962.

Nailing my colours

For a very short time in the early 60s, our school ran its own version of Juke Box Jury. I was asked to be a panellist. From memory, I thought that we were still in the fags - first year at big school and described at the time as the third form. History reveals otherwise. I must have been in class MVC, which stood for middle-fifths [and comparative thickos section]. It is now known as year 10, unless it has changed again.

They played the new Rolling Stones song. I fancy that it was “I wanna be your man” but it could just have been “Not fade away”. The Stones were suddenly all the rage amongst the lads who were most fashionable and in the know. I was neither, but I also felt honour-bound to defend the Beatles against all comers, so I slagged it off. I was lambasted by my peers and the audience. I felt thoroughly humiliated, in the way that is only possible when you are fourteen.

I wasn’t asked again and I wouldn’t have gone near it, had it ever been mentioned. Though I’ve seen and enjoyed the Stones in concert since, I remain a Beatles man to this day. I still think that “I wanna be your man” was a weak song. The Stones had yet to show what they were capable of. 

The railway society met in a different room in the same building. I felt safer there. I was back in my comfort zone. Trains did not answer back. In the same year, John Dyer took this picture in Duke Street, Birkenhead. I should have just gone down to the docks on my bike with my camera after school, instead of mouthing off.   
  

Southwell Railway Club

After a break of fifty years or so, I joined my second ever railway club. I was still in short trousers when I joined our school railway society. It was a pivotal moment for me, encouraging a life-long interest in trains. I was still in my shorts when I joined Southwell Railway Club - but only during the summer months, by then.

The railway club has been going for “a good long time” and has had many fine guest speakers over the years, including nationally-known figures in the railway world, like Malcolm Ranieri, Colin Boocock, Chris Leigh and Les Nixon.

Many in the group have long-standing experience of employment on the railways, including founder member and local author, John Meredith. Other members volunteer their services on the heritage lines of today, so knowledge and expertise abound. All are welcome to join us.

Meetings are held at the Reindeer, in Westgate, at 7.30 on the first Wednesday evening of each month, apart from January and August. Presentations by guest speakers on a wide range of topics alternate with themes chosen and delivered by members of the group. Thanks to Robin Sharman, posts about the club’s activities can be found on Facebook under Southwell Railway Club.

Robinson Class O4 at Bidston [former GCR shed] in the winter of 1962, with thanks to John Dyer.

Deja Vu

August 2018 was the fiftieth anniversary of the official end of steam on the national network. It was a comparatively low-key event when compared to the efforts that had been made ten years before, for the fortieth.

Some of the heritage lines made a bit of a fuss of it and the Severn Valley Railway, to their credit, wheeled out Stanier Black 5 No. 45110 and rounded up some of the significant personnel, who had played a part during the final acts of August 1968.

My friend, John Beck, was in attendance at Kidderminster where he met some of the former participants. He also renewed an acquaintance with 45110, marked by these two photos of his - separated by half a century of railway enthusiasm for all of us.

Shining a light on Margidunum

Above the big green sign that tells me its time to leave the A46, I noticed for the first time an add-on-extra sign stuck above it, saying Margidunum. Knowing that the old A46 is also the Fosse Way, I guessed that it might, therefore, not just be a roundabout between Bingham and Newton that I thought it was but something of greater significance. I have to admit that the sign could well have been put up last week, or it may have been there for 2,000 years. I just wouldn’t know, because although I might like to think that I’m observant, I’m really not that much, it seems.

Once back home, the internet dramatically increased my education about the location - from absolutely nothing to quite a bit, in fact - and in a relatively short time. There was a substantial Roman camp there, which has yielded lots of important information about the Romans, both from the earthworks and from the artefacts that they left behind. There was even a Roman road going in pretty much a straight line to our village - where there was also a smaller camp - and beyond.

Coincidentally, I had been handling artefacts myself for most of the morning, but coming from much closer to the present day. You would have thought I would have been a bit more tuned in. Well, shine a light.

Food for thought

Isn’t it great when remarkable old structures, apparently reaching the end of their productive lifetime, then find a new lease of life? Wetherspoons are commendable in this respect - the old post office in Newark, a former tram depot in Nottingham and the cinema in Stafford, to name but three.

The principle does not just apply to stately edifices, of course. In the Sherwood district of the city, an old shipping container has found use as a pizza restaurant. It is warm and cosy and the pizzas are excellent.

It was back to Lincoln this week, and the old Great Central Railway warehouse at Brayford Wharf caught my eye. It would be hard to miss it, after all.

Built in 1907 as a goods and grain store, it was used as a builder’s warehouse in the second half of the last century, before falling into disrepair in 1998. It was rescued by a five-million-pound renovation and conversion into the main library for the University of Lincoln, opening in 2004.

Food for thought all round, then.