Insulators, anyone?

I dipped in to Great Northern Railwayana’s Poynton auction on Saturday. I am always intrigued to see the reception that the batch of artwork gets, both from the chair and from the floor. Lukewarm interest from the punters was the overall result, with 6 remaining unsold, accompanied by an exasperated plea from the front, “Doesn’t anyone want railway paintings anymore?” Perhaps most of them never did.

More puzzling to me were the 11 separate lots of insulators in boxes or on wooden bars. These were the ceramic up-turned flowerpots adorning telegraph poles alongside the track in the pre-digital age. It seemed that each of the boxes was destined for the same group of blokes, who then had a huddle around their winnings on the grass outside. I remained totally mystified. I should have asked, of course, but I’m not always keen to air my ignorance so publicly.

Also new to me was this flier on a side stall advertising West Coast Sightings Sheets - selling completed books and appealing for help with research from former train spotters for future issues. Back home, I said that I thought I might be able to help. Chris muttered something. I think it included the word “obsessive”.

Not mine, mate

Sweating cobs, out of the gym, into the car, window down, CD on - Abba’s greatest hits. Straight away I have to wait while three young people cross the car park in front of me. “It’s not mine, it’s my wife’s,” I say to myself, though actually, I played it all the way here - but only because it was in there already.

Nevertheless, l don’t want to be seen as an Abba person - yes, catchy and sing-along but not meaty, urgent, progressive, meaningful or personal. I am a Beatles, Who, Animals, Bowie, Floyd, ELO sort of person. I would even wind my window right down for Supertramp, Killers, and Coldplay [but only in a rural area, probably].

I am a railway enthusiast, not just a train spotter. I mean, come on.

    1966 photo with thanks to Ian Hughes

Free Pee

Many is the time that I have made it from King’s Cross to the St Pancras loos just in time for a free wee or a sit down. However, on Monday the Guardian online reported that any uncomfortable waddling across the road between the two is now a thing of the past.

“Toilet charges scrapped at busiest railway stations”.

Liverpool Street and Edinburgh Waverley have also been flushed into line, so now all of Network Rail’s stations are free at the point of use. Previously, they had charged up to 50p for the pleasure.

On the same day that the charges were lifted, I had reason - as is frequently the case these days, straight after an hour’s drive from home - to use the splendid facilities at the Great Central Railway’s Loughborough Central station. Recently refurbished and meticulously retaining its original features, I was reminded that Simon Bradley [“The Railways”, p.472] had also commented on the Ministry of Health poster that had adorned the wall there, warning of the perils of venereal disease.

 

Lifeline

I was a lifeline, born of fire and water,

Maintained by those who planned a future in steam.

Over the years my importance declined

Until, after a century of service, the axe fell.

Now, only ghosts and shadows remain

Of an industrial past. Rust red ironwork,

A rail-less path, punctuated by platforms,

Bridges, waiting patiently for Banksy, all overrun by wildlife,

Trampled by well heeled walkers and joyless joggers,

Irregular crocodiles of ramblers, and those seeking solitude,

Helmeted cyclists and stabilised learners,

Binoculared twitchers and gloriously offline kids.

Maintained by those seeking no reward but my continued care,

I am a lifeline, born of earth and air.

Alastair Walker’s poem about the Southwell Trail, the former Midland Railway line that linked Mansfield to the Nottingham to Lincoln route at Rolleston Junction and Fiskerton Junction, was written in February 2019. It was given its first airing at last Friday’s, Writer’s Live Open Mic’ event at Southwell library. Like Alastair, I have been contributing to these get-togethers, held every two months and on the last Friday evening of the month, for a few years, now.

Most folk read their own poems, with a few offering prose in the form of an article or an extract from a longer work. There is an extraordinary breadth to the contributions. As the News of the World used to claim [amongst other things], all human life is there - the natural world, alternative imaginary worlds, love and affection, ageing and bereavement are all common themes, before Alastair cheers us up with his irreverent adaptation of a pop-song’s lyrics or the re-working of a well-known poem.

I have found moments during the last two meetings, particularly, to be profoundly moving. The group has really developed, it seems to me, as time has passed. I have been quite blown away by some of the candid, honest - and so incredibly personal - offerings that have been shared this year, so far. I feel humbled by the bravery exhibited in some of these very public expressions of inner-most thoughts. I feel inspired to try to raise my game in response by next time.

  

Love Her

When the death of Scott Walker was announced this week, "Love Her" filled my head again, just as it had done in 1965 and for some considerable time afterwards. It is not their best-known hit but it remains my favourite. It is tender, sad and haunting and it suited my circumstances just fine that summer.

It filled my head because that was what it was intended to do. It was a Phil Spector inspired, “Wall of Sound” number, like the Righteous Brothers’ “You’ve Lost that Lovin’ Feelin’”, and it just had to be played loud. Written by Barry Mann and Cynthia Weil, it peaked at number 20 in the singles chart in June 1965. I only ever bought a handful of singles before moving on to LPs, but that one got played as much as The Animals’ “Don’t Bring Me Down” and Roy Orbison’s “It’s Over”.

You may have noticed a certain melancholy setting in here that’s not entirely coincidental. However, if it wasn’t going too well in that department, there was always football and, of course, trains - by bike on Sunday mornings to Birkenhead sheds. I could put my emotions on hold for an hour, or so, in this sulphurous fog. Railways softened the blow from disappointment elsewhere.

I picked up the Walker Brothers CD yesterday to play in the car. I opened the case, inserted the disc and pressed play. Christmas Carols!!! My grandson of two years has been kindly tidying away my CDs again. I’ll find it soon. Then I’ll thank Scott Walker once more for his rich and tuneful voice, his choice of material and his timely intervention during my youth.

The Spice of Life

Turning into Newark showground for a Talisman railwayana auction, I wondered what else was going on at the venue today? Midlands Wood Working and Power Tools were giving demonstrations. Perhaps Garden Furniture Sales could have sold the results of the power tools’ endeavours. The Photo Club was on hand to snap the freshly constructed chairs and tables.

There was also a Flyball Event. I had to look it up. It’s a sport for dogs, so now I know. www.flyball.org.uk will gladly fill in the gaps. There quite often seems to be some background yelping going on at Newark Showground.

The pick of the runners at the auction was an LMS framed poster board with shaded gilt lettering, containing a glazed double royal poster. Bryan de Grineau’s Travel LMS Speed Comfort of 1934 is a recognisable image and a classic poster. An original LMS label on the back shows that it had been delivered for display at Chester station.

The image might benefit from some a small amount of delicate restorative work. The woodwork on the rear of the frame needs a little attention, as well, but I’m not sure that Midlands Wood Working and Power Tools should necessarily be the first port of call.

Nicked

I won’t be taking my bike on the train for a bit. In fact, I won’t be taking it anywhere because it’s been nicked. I left it on a grass verge while I was litter-picking. When I returned to the spot it had disappeared. No-one had passed me on foot. A few proper cyclists in proper cyclists’ gear came past but they all had their own bikes. Someone in a van or a lorry must have stopped and picked it up.

Anyone driving along the road would also have seen me. There are no intermediate road junctions, so they would have passed me as well as my bike within, at most, a few hundred yards. I was in a high-viz vest, with a black bin liner and a picking stick. It would have been perfectly obvious who the bike belonged to. So, there you go. I appear to be between bikes.