When I went to America
for the first time I took with me Bill Bryson’s book, “Made in America.” How
clever of me, to choose something so suitable to read on my holiday, I thought,
in a rather self-congratulatory way. I did not even get around to reading the
first page. America
was far too interesting to find the time to read books. I read it on my return,
instead.
When in a library, as
in a book shop, I gravitate towards railway books and humour. I will also skim
read the newspaper and magazine headlines and dip into their lead articles. I
read quickly and for overall meaning rather than descriptive detail.
With books, however, I
also increasingly take note of other people’s mistakes. Since self-publishing
my own articles and books, I know how easy it is for errors to make it through
the various levels of scrutiny to the printed page. I find it reassuring when
others mess up, too.
As a teenager, I made
a special friend of the librarian at our local library. I was an avid user of
that service. Yet, my Ian Allan abc books and the railway timetables were
picked up more frequently than anything else. I loved those substantial BR
timetable volumes, all printed in their regional colours, and I replaced winter
editions with the summer versions as soon as they became available. I had to
have examples of both the maroon London Midland Region and the Great Western
Region in its rich chocolate brown cover. This was because we lived on the
cusp, surrounded by the LMR, but also, through the presence of Birkenhead
Woodside, at the northern extremity of the WR system.
I pored over the new
timetables. I imagined journeys that I knew I would never make and some more
realistic ones closer to home that I certainly would. I read through the lists
of station names from unfamiliar parts of the country and marvelled at the
magic that they hinted at - places like Brymbo, Strata Florida and Vulcan Halt.
When I last walked
down the aisles of one of those large out of town electrical goods retailers, I
left behind the familiar fridges, kettles, cameras and tellies and soon found
myself in a different world. I did not recognise the expensive gadgetry on
show, nor did I understand what the labels said about them. It looked, on the
face of it, like it was in English, but none of it made sense and there were
new words there that I had never seen before. I stared at the contents through
the Perspex packaging, but it was not clear to me where it plugged in, what it
would be attached to, or what its function was.
“Would you like any
help, sir?” came the enquiry. “No, leave me alone,” might have been my stifled
reply, though I made do with a polite smile, accompanied by a shake of the head.
I had no intention at all of exhibiting my abject ignorance to a schoolboy
doing a Saturday job. I turned around and walked towards the door until I was
back with the hair dryers and toasters. Then I knew that I was relatively safe from
any further potential embarrassment.
The last time we were
in Liverpool, we visited the newly refurbished Central Library, one of a line
of three imposing Victorian public buildings in the William Brown Street
Conservation Area, sitting opposite the equally magnificent St George’s Hall, just
below Lime Street station. They have made a fine job of it, keeping all the
best bits, like the circular Picton reading room, whilst opening out the
central space inside the main entrance with a series of mezzanine levels joined
by prominent stairways, all culminating in a dramatic glass dome and with roof access
providing views over the city.
I gravitated towards
the local history section, where I found a multitude of books about Merseyside
that I did not know existed, many of them self-published efforts, like my own.
I find it refreshing that stock buyers take a punt on self-published books.
Some library services won’t go near them with a barge-pole, fearing schoolboy
errors and amateurish presentation. They have a point. Authors of books aimed
at niche markets can’t necessarily afford the services of professional publishers,
proof readers or literary agents. Unless they have been extremely careful,
therefore, they lay themselves open to inevitable criticism. It is the easiest
thing in the world to overlook a basic error, how ever many times you read the
proof. Although I’m tempted to trawl through such books for their cock-ups, I’m
actually very pleased they are there. They give voice to those who would
otherwise remain unheard, yet the stories and observations that they contain
are brimming with experience, insight, closely observed familiarity and an
abundant affection for their city. They are rough diamonds granted the
opportunity to rub shoulders with literary masters. Their inclusion in such a
prestigious location takes foresight from the decision makers. It does not
surprise me that in Liverpool they are given
full rein.
Like most old
spotters, I have my own library of railway books. It only amounts to a couple
of shelves and every now and then I have a bit of a cull there, too. It is
amazing how selective I have become, as there are obviously so many different
options to choose from.
The ones that I have
chosen for myself are histories of the two parts of the country I have lived in,
plus a few other favourite places I have visited. Added to those are the railwayana
section and the albums of photographs and paintings of steam locomotives. Apart
from my old notebooks and abc pocket books, that is about it.
I have a few reliable stand-bys
that I return to time and time again. They include, Rails Along the Sea Wall,
by Peter Kay, my summer 1962 combined volume, Paddington to the Mersey, by Dr
R. Preston Hendry and R. Powell Hendry and Summer Saturdays in the West, by
Simon St John Thomas and Simon Rocksborough Smith. They are my escapist books,
the ones that I rely on, periodically, to whisk me away to another place and
another time. They provide reminiscences and reflective moments - a Tardis for my
more wistful days.
[Adapted from an
article in the current edition of the Railway Antiques Gazette, with thanks to
the editor, Tim Petchey.]
