Breakfast in America

We enjoyed breakfast at the Omelette Café, Manassas. It had certain other attractions in addition to the tasty omelettes - and the grits and beans that our grandson got stuck in to. A railway runs alongside the rear of the building. When we arrived, a diesel locomotive on a short permanent way train was just pulling out of the loop but I couldn’t get out of the car quickly enough to take the picture. I had to make do with the repeated, characteristically mournful hooter that so typifies the American railway scene, as the train slowly disappeared into rural Virginia.

Beginning life as the Orange and Alexandria Railroad, it changed its name to the Orange, Alexandria and Manassas Railroad in 1867. The line was later taken over by the Southern Railway System and when that concern joined with the Norfolk and Western, it became part of the present-day Norfolk Southern. Amtrak now runs a locomotive-hauled commuter service to Washington on this route.

The close association between the town and its railway is represented in a series of murals in the Omelette Café. I have seen this notion featured elsewhere in America, on occasions. It seems entirely appropriate to me that local enterprises should choose to display their railway heritage so emphatically in this way.

Big Birthday Present

Peter Waller’s excellent book, England’s Railway Heritage from the Air, ticks a lot of boxes for me - railways, landscape, history and photography. Mostly, however, it ticks the friendship box, especially as it comes with heartfelt dedications from my closest friends, as we clock up yet another decade together - for which I am extremely grateful.

  

Looking Forward

From outside the George Washington Masonic National Memorial, on Shooter’s Hill in Alexandria, VA, one has a good view of the Amtrak and Metro lines which connect the town to Union station in Washington, DC.

Amtrak diesel No. 9 was just leaving for the capital with a passenger train from Fredericksburg or Broad Run. In the background is King Street, the main road through the town that connects the stations to the waterfront, from where you can see the Capitol building on the other side of the Potomac river - the beating heart of USA government.

The memorial costs 18 dollars to look around. Instead, I stayed outside on the steps and watched the white-throated sparrows and flame-red cardinals in the surrounding gardens, and listened to the northern mockingbirds going through their varied repertoire.

Then I wondered if the USA government’s heart is still really beating in the way that George Washington and those who came after him had intended and when at least one aspect of American democracy might be restored to something approaching its full health.

  

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.