Doncaster

I dusted off my seriously underused Senior Railcard and drove to Retford. It was time to stop cowering from Covid. I hadn’t been on a train since the pandemic began, and though my retired status and a lot of time normally spent on the computer meant that lockdowns did not have nearly the same impact as for some, I also had started to feel that I was becoming institutionalised in my own home, as a result of my self-imposed caution about re-joining society at large.

Street parking is easier at Retford [19 miles and 30 minutes from home] than it is at Newark, though an otherwise aimless young man on the other side of the road was trying to pull weeds out from the gaps between the pavement slabs and I noticed that I’d chosen one of those old Victorian houses that might have been quite a reputable hotel in times past but which maybe does not quite attract the same clientele these days. I wondered if I should have gone for the £4 per day car park, down an adjacent side street.

The reason I’d chosen Retford as my starting point was that it was only 15 minutes on the train to Doncaster, and I was determined to make my way back in gently. I was hoping not to have to rub shoulders with anyone at all, actually, least of all with any blasé and asymptomatic youngsters just back from some sort of anti-vaxxers’ demo’ - or even a night club, come to think of it. To my relief, there was just one customer in front of me in the queue to buy a ticket. He was being attended to at the only booking office window that was open - or rather it was closed and visibly very well-sealed from the waiting area, but linked to the outside world by telecom. Unfortunately, this guy was buying the shop, so by the time it was my turn people were steadily piling up behind me, but at a safe distance, I noticed, as I gingerly glanced over my shoulder, and like me they were obediently all wearing masks as requested.

My open return at £8.55 finally secured, I was on a platform and with a mission once again and it felt wonderful. Through the underpass to number two platform for northbound trains, separated from the action on the up platform and the through lines by an ugly and totally unnecessary white diagonally slatted six-foot fence that stretches the whole length of the platform. What on earth is that all about? It effectively cuts the station up into three separate parts. A pathway leads to the Worksop to Lincoln line, which passes under the ECML to the south of the main station. This lengthy passageway down an incline connects the main building to platforms three and four. What a hotch-potch it is overall, in spite of the attractive and spacious façade and the wide, main southbound platform, set on quite a sharp curve.

Class 802 Number 802218, a five-car bimodal belonging to Trans-Pennine Trains, was on crew training/route familiarisation and soon moved off north in its cheery blue livery. Lurking behind it in the siding was one of the ubiquitous yellow Network Rail machines that now do all the jobs that armies of permanent way men used to do in the past to help keep the railway safe.

There followed my first ride on an Azuma, which was on its way to York. I’d read about the straight-backed seats, but for a short time, anyway, mine was fine. I couldn’t see anyone else wearing a mask, though the attendant was and the bloke that went to the loo put one on to do so. The acceleration on the Azuma was notable and I liked the tinted windows that cut down on the glare on this sunny morning, and the general cleanliness and the subdued overhead lighting contributed to a favourable overall impression. 

We whizzed over Bawtry viaduct and past the playground where I’d spotted trains on the ECML in the spring of 1963, staying at the youth hostel that was just up the road. Before the light had faded, one evening in early June, we had scrambled up to the edge of the ballast just in time to make out the name and number plate of A1 Class No. 60157 Great Eastern, her fire door open and shedding warm, red light throughout the cab and onto the surrounding smoke and steam. She crawled by us just feet away, recovering from a signal stop on her approach to the viaduct from the south. It provided one of those moments that remain precious for ever.

Doncaster station always has loads of spotters and the average age was not showing signs of getting any younger - but what a lovely way to spend a few hours on a typical British summer’s day, with bright sunlight, intermittent high clouds and a bit of a breeze. I found a seat at the south end of platform three, where I thought it would be relatively quiet and the footfall less. My tummy was rumbling already. In the spotting days of my youth, it was usually an early start and very difficult to make whatever provisions I had brought with me for the day last much past 11.00. The Plant clock opposite showed 11.40, so I resolved to wait until mid-day.

Suddenly, a kerfuffle ensued. A man had embarked on a King’s Cross-bound Azuma just in front of me, hotly pursued by a ticket inspector. “That man does not have a ticket”, he exclaimed to anyone within earshot. Both men reappeared from the train and another ticket collector, carrying a mobile ticket machine, engaged with the man who was in such a hurry to get to London and the transaction took place on the platform, by which time the Azuma had left, and he had to wait for the next one.

I glanced again at the Plant clock. It hadn’t moved. My phone confirmed that it was lunch time - a sandwich accompanied by a packet of crisps was the perfect combo, especially when taken at the platform end.

There still seemed to be a number of Class 91s around. Their demise is taking longer than I had thought was intended. Class 66s took freights north and south, No. 66150 in DB livery swinging over towards the Sheffield lines as all the cross-country departures do, when going south west. 

My view down platform three remained unchanged, except for the overhead wires, from that in a picture I took looking at the same view nearly sixty years before of Class A1 No. 60128 Bongrace, easing her way past that platform canopy, light engine. Meanwhile, Class 67 No. 60028 sat in front of the Plant with chocks under one of her bogies, suggesting a problem with her braking system. No “chocks away” just yet then, in her case.

Doncaster station, now a Grade II listed building was constructed by the Great Northern Railway and opened in 1849. Its present form dates from 1938, however, and it has since received a face lift that included a re-vamp of the concourse and the provision of a direct link to the Frenchgate shopping centre; changes that were officially recognised with a blue plaque in 2007. 

I was struck by how frequent trains to the capital were, though not unexpectedly most did not stop at Retford. I was happy to bide my time and wait for a mid-afternoon return. Most of these services use platform one. My southbound Azuma was almost as full as main line trains used to be. I looked for masks but there very few and certainly not on the young man directly in front of me who was making a very animated business call for the benefit of the whole carriage. I adjusted my face covering and hoped he’d been double jabbed. Fifteen minutes is too long to hold your breath, unless you’re a pearl diver [reminding me of how many of the Class A2s I never got to see before they were scrapped]. I waited fairly uncomfortably for about 12 minutes and at the first hint of the train slowing for the Retford stop, I darted towards the relative safety of the vestibule, separated from the rest of the open carriage by sliding doors. Before I left, I noticed that the couple on the other side of the aisle from me had both put their masks back on as blokey was still shouting into his phone.