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.