Time and Tide

I am a little slow sometimes to acknowledge changes that might signify the march of time. I noticed recently that I had started clasping my hands behind my back whilst standing or walking slowly, a bit like members of the royal family might do when inspecting a line of troops. I soon knocked that one on the head.

Then I woke up one morning to find out that during the night someone had deliberately turned down the volume in my left ear by approximately two points. I only know this because if I lie on the pillow on my right side I can no longer hear the trundling noise that the paper boy’s trolley makes on the pavement outside our house. Within seconds, I resolved that it would be light years until I would accept the need for a hearing aid.

When a lady cold-called me last week and asked if I had ever worked in a noisy industry, because she thought I might be eligible for some compensation, defiantly holding the handset to my left ear, I replied, “Yes, in a school.” After a brief pause during which time she decided that I must have been taking the mickey, she showed no further desire to pursue the conversation. I was not joking. Corridor racket really got to me in the end.

My eyes are not brilliant, either. I’ve had glasses for reading and watching TV for years, but I have tried to hold out elsewhere, for example when driving or watching football matches. Driving is fine until daylight goes and I am approaching a roundabout that is new to me, and I have to make use of the road signs in time to make a safe manoeuvre. I sometimes end up going right round twice to be sure I’m still on track.

Football was also OK until lately, but as it is a game of two ends, I really need to be able to follow the action at both of them. Last Friday was the first time, too, that I had allowed my glasses to come with me to a concert. When the ageing rockers came on stage, I was relieved to see that they were both wearing a pair themselves. With seats near the back, I admit that at times I was still grateful for the additional support from the big screen.

Apart from that, I generally still do without my glasses, in spite of occasionally trying to open other people’s small black cars with my remote key in the supermarket car park. I always take them to auctions, however. The catalogue images are thumbnail size and the print is generally small. At venues without display screens, I would certainly be struggling to make critical decisions about the appeal of some of the smaller items.

A television interview with a rather forlorn older actress ended up with a rather wistful, “The worst thing about growing old is that your skin always looks like it needs ironing.” Admittedly, various other bits of my body are creaking, too. I will spare you most of the details, but, in the case of knees with no surviving cartilage, that creaking is audible, but now only via my right ear. I have resolved never to have a stick. I would rather crawl. On reflection, I may reserve the right to change my mind about that one in years to come.

Even my balance is now in question. When taking a photograph of a signalbox recently, I fell backwards from the top of the wire fence I had perched myself on and landed on my back in a muddy field, thus providing some unexpected entertainment for the passengers on the upper deck of the number 28 bus from Newark to Mansfield, which was simultaneously held up at the adjacent level crossing gates.

   

In direct contrast to this increase in minor infirmities, I find that, for me, an attraction of railwayana is its relative permanence and its resistance to creaking or any other sort of biologically induced disintegration. In a changing world, temporally it refuses to budge. It is fixed in the world as it was in 1968, or whenever you choose for yourself as your personal tipping point, at which the good old days ended and the modern era began. How extraordinarily reassuring it is. My totem’s enamel may have lost a bit of its shine and the shed plate may exhibit a little rusting here and there. My railway clock may have stopped and my posters may have a bit of foxing and some creases, but these are as nothing compared to the gradual toll imposed on us by our own body clocks.

Whilst in the USA, I noticed a message outside a workshop that we drove past in Sperryville, Virginia, which advertised [hopefully, tongue in cheek], “Antique tables made daily.” That reminded me about the marvellous caption on page 82 of O. Winston Link’s magnificent album of photographs, “Steam, Steel and Stars,” referring to a train crossing bridge 201, which was itself just to the east of Wurno Sidings. Wurno Sidings were so-called because there “were no” sidings there until they were added later on.  

Such are the ravages of time on the human frame that inevitably the collections of erstwhile fellow enthusiasts are periodically recycled at auction events. Their former interests are reflected in an apparent and sudden glut of hand lamps, a rash of prominent nameplates, or, in the case of the late Malcolm Guest, a veritable tsunami of posters and design work. Time stands still in the world of railwayana. Only the technology moves on - oh yes - and the threat of higher buyer’s premiums.

Luckily, although I may be at a stage where increased dodderiness might soon tighten its grip, I am reminded to take more care, at every turn. At Newark station, for example, there is a notice on the stairs that connect the platforms. “Take care on the stairs,” it warns. There is even a little picture of what might happen to you, should you not heed the advice. You could, apparently, fall over. So, be careful on the stairs, then. Got it?

I won’t forget that tomorrow is the first day of the rest of my life and I shall resolve to keep on doing the things that interest me, no matter what. As former rock star and now raconteur and self-styled “grumpy old man,” Rick Wakeman, told us at an evening out in Lincoln, just a stones throw from that famous, distinctive, yet troublesome inner urban level crossing next to the Central station, “I joined Alcoholics Anonymous. I still go out drinking. It’s just that I have no idea who I am drinking with.”    

No railways this time but loads of heritage - new book now out - Seafarer Jones

Seafarer Jones is a collection of stories about mariners from previous generations, all of whom shared a relationship with this particular family of that name. I examine the familial links amongst a proliferation of seafarers and recount their experiences from the eighteenth century up to the Second World War.

In addition to the profusion of ships’ captains were local fishermen, first, second and third mates, cabin boys, ordinary seamen, able seamen, bosuns, coxswains, engineers, carpenters, stewards, pursers, marine insurers, victuallers, watchmen, landing stage superintendents, explorers, inventors, ship owners, shipping agents and shipping company directors, as well as five women who went to sea with their male relatives. Seafarer Jones describes their adventures and triumphs, their mishaps and tragedies.

From the age of sail to that of steam driven, steel merchant ships, the Jones clan travelled the globe, from Porthmadog to the Baltic, the Mediterranean, Newfoundland and New York; from Liverpool to the Americas, East Africa, the Far East, Australia and the Great Barrier Reef and to the Pitcairn Islands in the Pacific Ocean and back round the Horn. They carried slate, coal, timber, grain, salt, fish, manure - and migrants seeking new lives in the New World. Others helped to protect their fellow mariners along the Welsh coast by manning the lifeboats.

They suffered mountainous seas, collision, shipwreck, foundering, scuttling, arrest, mutiny, torpedo attack and attempted assassination. They worked at sea in peace time and served their country during two world wars. They ran the gauntlet of the German U-boats and some lost their lives whilst thousands of miles from home.

By the end of the Victorian era they had all congregated in the port of Liverpool and it had become the focal point for their continuing exploits, typical of so many other families in that period, who went “down to the sea in ships” for their livelihood.

Flying Scotsman and the Star of the Show

Rail tickets booked and adrenalin flowing in anticipation, we were soon back at the National Railway Museum for the long-awaited Flying Scotsman shindig. The party girl was not at home. All dressed up, at last, she has found she has got plenty of places to go, so she is off flaunting herself, here, there and everywhere, it seems. Back at the main venue, the celebrations go on without her. Under the subdued, ambient lighting of the Station Hall Gallery, an imaginative, uncluttered and carefully presented display of her historical importance to the nation awaits the lady’s return.

Following her momentous and triumphant journey from Kings Cross to York in February, when hundreds of thousands of well-wishers crowded the lineside - some of them even invading her personal space and getting a bit too close for the comfort of those trying to run a railway – now everybody wants a piece of her. No wonder, then, that for the moment at least, she can only be the flightiest of hosts during her own Flying Scotsman jamboree.  

For those surprised by her temporary absence, there is at least one previously unseen gem amongst all the goodies she has left behind back at base. After being hidden away for decades, it is now being given a right good airing and not before time, seizing the limelight during the celebrity’s continued meanderings.

Eminent twentieth century painter, Frank Mason, best known for his maritime scenes, was commissioned many times by the London and North Eastern Railway and later by British Railways. They employed his skills to promote travel by train to a range of UK locations and most notably to those along the North Sea coast.

The quad royal size poster, “East Coast by LNER It’s Quicker by Rail,” shows the Flying Scotsman locomotive in her 1930’s, apple green livery at the head of the crack London to Edinburgh express of the same name, emerging from a tunnel and with yet another section of the magnificent coastline that typifies Northumberland and Berwickshire stretching out ahead of her.

It is a dramatic and powerful image. Speed and purpose are effortlessly conveyed, as connecting rods and pistons thrash. A red glow from the firebox flickers off the smoke and steam, trapped momentarily inside the tunnel mouth. The train bursts out into golden sunlight as passengers settle back to enjoy the wonderful coastal scenery that provides the highlight of the same trip north today. It is a masterpiece, capturing a moment in time with dynamism and poise.

This poster is certainly rare, if not unique. It belongs to my friend, John Beck, and it has been in his possession since 1988, when he acquired it from one of the leading specialist auction houses. The poster does not show up on the website of the Science and Society Picture Library, which oversees historical posters on behalf of the National Railway Museum and the other centres within the National Science Museums group. The NRM informed John that they do not have a copy, hence their eagerness to pursue the loan in this instance. Their representative dealing with the current arrangement said they had not seen it before.

A poster of the same description, apart from the addition of the word “Route” after “East Coast” in the main title, was sold at a Legbourne, Lincolnshire, auction in May 1999. Both forms of this title were used across a range of posters during the 1930s and they made use of a variety of different images, in addition to this one.

It is certainly a very special survivor. John has had it professionally conserved and backed to linen. It usually shares pride of place in the hallway of his home, taking its turn with some other notable quad royal examples, behind an easy-access, draw-down, Perspex display frame.

This is the poster’s first outing in nearly 30 years and that provides an opportunity for it to be much more widely admired. It will not disappoint. If you are contemplating a visit to the Starring Scotsman exhibition, which is open until June 19^th 2016 as part of the Scotsman Season at the National Railway Museum, it awaits your attention. Even if you find that the lady of the house is still doing the rounds of her well-wishers, the new “Star of the Show” will ensure that your attendance is a fulfilling experience.

A Brief Encounter with Carnforth

It was a regular port of call for us on our way to youth hostelling holidays in the Lake District in the 60s and 70s. We were attracted to one of the last operating steam depots on BR [below left, 1968] and after that to its reincarnation, keeping the coal burning as Steamtown Carnforth [below right, 1974]. It had been one of the last bastions against the inevitable tide of diesel encroachment. This latest encounter was a last minute choice after the cancellation of our intended steam special.

The station buildings are now born again as a museum of steam railway memorabilia and gift shop, with the adjacent and refurbished 40s style café trading on renewed interest in the film Brief Encounters, in the age of the DVD. Taking a stroll round the back of the currently beleaguered West Coast Railway Company’s establishment, we were hard-pressed to see any evidence of its role as a major provider of steam hauled excursions on the main network, apart from a set of pristine carriage stock, the sheds themselves and the concrete coaling stages. Any steam locomotives present were secreted away well beyond the gaze of the inquisitive and the faithful. The proliferation of diesels that were in view, especially of classes 37, 47 and 57 and most smartly attired in the maroon WCRC house colours, indicated a more recent railway heritage.

After the customary photograph beneath the famous platform clock, we got our feet under the table in the Brief Encounter café and made ourselves at home for the day. Elevenses, a light lunch and afternoon cake followed, all accompanied by numerous substantial pots of un-tea-bagged tea and either side of our tour of the museum and our reflective wanderings around the site. Welcoming staff detailed the link with David Lean’s cinematic masterpiece and speculated over possible future additions to celebrate other examples of his work.

Pendolinos sped by on the main line, where we had once enthused over a handful of surviving Standard 7s, 9Fs, Mickeys and 8Fs, and where, a generation before that, un-rebuilt Scots and Patriots had provided the swirling, steamy backdrop for Trevor Howard and Celia Johnson’s rather agonising “should we or shouldn’t we” deliberations towards the end of those wartime years.

The café staff finally took a break huddled round a corner table, no doubt wondering if we would ever leave. A large bunch of keys already dangling from the door lock provided us with a clue that closing time had already passed so we eventually offered our thanks for their having to put up with us all day, whilst we had rather publicly relived our past. We then re-joined the succession of modern units on today’s railway that would eventually see us returned to the present day.

My Must-Have Train Spotting Accessory

I go to the gym. It’s boring but I think it’s probably a good idea overall. I am not known - at the gym or anywhere else, for that matter - for being fashionably turned out. I wear what I have always worn; cheap trainers, tee-shirt and whatever shorts are available. I almost certainly stand out as being amazingly non-descript. What amazes me is what people carry around with them in there.

In addition to the co-ordinated specialist gym wear, you can be sure that at any one time there will be towels, drinks bottles, books, mobile phones, i-pods, paper tissues [left behind on the machines in the drink holder recess - lovely], various performance monitoring pieces of equipment [don’t ask me], bags [there are lockers], bunches of keys, head bands and other stuff for keeping hair in place, hats [HATS! - IT’S INSIDE AND IT’S SWEATY], print-out gym programme sheets and an outer layer that has to be peeled off whilst trying not to fall off the tread mill.

Then there are the guys who have gone off at a tangent and decided that they should make the gym a retirement activity and maybe have been nudged in that direction by medical advice, but who have never taken regular exercise since compulsory cross-country at school, and who suddenly turn up in a pair of walking trousers, a shirt with a collar, a short sleeved pullover knitted by their wife some time during the previous millennium and a pair of grubby white plimsolls, circa 1969. Perhaps they make me look really cool by comparison, but on the other hand, maybe not.

Cold and unloved at Barry scrapyard on the last day of 1967 in the photo – and that’s me on top, as well, displaying the statutory anorak, of course. The alternative duffle coat never really appealed to me, but I have long since upgraded to cagoules, which had not been invented then. What strikes me about this pose, however, is the short length of my trouser leg. That must have been a bit draughty. At least they would not get snagged whilst clambering over any rusting hulks that happened to be lying in my path.

Not long ago, I enhanced my train spotter’s kit by buying a pair of goggles. I should have done this 55 years ago, but, as I’ve already admitted and various family members will confirm, I’m not the quickest on the uptake, when it comes to being hip. They would have been very useful between

1960 and 1968 in saving me from serious [though thankfully short-lived] pain, when travelling immediately behind many a steam locomotive with my head stuck out of the front carriage window. I have already made use of them on the Scarborough Spa Express behind Royal Scot Class No. 46115 Scots Guardsman, over the Settle and Carlisle behind Black Five 45305 and on one or two of the heritage railways as well. In all cases, I have found the enhanced, goggle-eyed, experience most invigorating. This item is definitely not going to be a railway antique for some time to come.

Flying Scotsman - Plus ca change, plus c’est la meme chose

The chalk board outside the pub in the next village have flagged up their “Fresh Whitby Cod” for as long as I can remember, in spite of the fact that we couldn’t be any further from the sea. I visualise a regular special consignment – an express fish van with a police escort and flashing lights. Perhaps they temporarily close some roads, so as not to slow it down on its dash from North Sea to table in rural Nottinghamshire. Last week the notice was scrubbed out and replaced with an updated sales pitch, “New Menu. Whitby Cod.”

The more things change, the more they stay the same. That might equally apply to my planned activity for today. I am on my way to one of my favourite locations in a changing world, Sleaford Road bridge over the East Coast Main Line on the outskirts of Newark. This is the most convenient viewpoint I can reach from home and I have been here many times over recent years to witness the passing of steam hauled trains on this old racing ground.

Today is extra special. Today it’s the turn of the Flying Scotsman. The A3s felt completely at home here from the 20’s to the 60’s and though I was over the hills and far away at the time, I got across to see some of them, including this one, before they had almost all disappeared. For 50 years now, she has been the sole remaining member of her class and after her well documented recent problems she is with us once again. Virtually rebuilt, she is still essentially the Flying Scotsman, the railwaymen’s own definition being the permanence of her frames.  

Radio 5 has just broadcast a warning to onlookers not to trespass on the railway because its already leading to delays on the network. There is more traffic than usual at the bottleneck on the A46 at the entrance to Newark and I quickly park up with 15 minutes to spare. There are literally hundreds of people here rather than the usual 20 or so. The word is that she is late - 15 minutes, then 22 minutes. A class of kids from a first school turn up, filing in, two abreast behind their teacher. They just keep coming. It must be whole school full. The really naughty ones have to wear high-vis jackets.

I climb onto a roadside metal barrier so I can see over all the heads and I get a good view of the road, as well. Some motorists are clearly bemused, others smile, one or two beep their support. Only a few ignore the crowd completely. Orange-clad construction workers in hard hats have perched themselves on upper sections of their JCBs, which they have moved up to the railings on a nearby site. Three youngsters in an old banger with the window wide open yell insults and then are immediately held up at the traffic lights. They may now be reconsidering their choice of expletives.

Northbound, a Class 91 passes at 10.40, followed by another at 10.43 and a third at 10.50, held up no doubt by the over-enthusiastic spectators mentioned on the radio bulletin. Some of the children cheer the 91 and I wonder if they have been properly briefed. At 10.59 a 5 car unit for Hull goes through and then, at last, at 11.04, the Scotsman appears. Her headlight is a powerful beam, even on a very bright day. White steam and smoke stand out against the blue and cloudless sky. The sunlight gleams off her newly painted boiler. A ripple of applause is answered by a thin whistle from the A3. There are waves from the passengers and then she is gone. The helicopter and the three light aircraft that have been buzzing around disperse, as do the crowds. Amidst the smiles, the excited chatter and the checking of images on cameras, the crocodile of schoolchildren resumes its shape, as, at 11.09, a passing HST indicates that the railway is straight away back to normal.      

I make my way back home. The Scotsman has returned to the NRM at York and Whitby cod is still on the menu. Some things may change, but the affection the people of this country have for their railways shows every sign of continuing. It is an engrained part of our history and culture. It helps to define who we are.

A railwayana auction telephone bid [as imagined from my seat]

“Hello, the lot you wanted to bid on is coming up now, so please hold the line.”

“Hello.”

“We are approaching the lot you wanted to bid on, so please make your bids as quickly as possible. I will tell you the current asking price each time and if you could simply say yes or no straight away when I do, then we won’t be left with a hall full of people sitting around twiddling their thumbs for any length of time.”

“I’ve got that, just yes or no each time.”

“That’s it”

“What’s the first bid, then?”

“Wait a second, please. It’s just coming up.”

“Have I just got time to get a pen and the catalogue?”

“No, it’s here now.”

“Where’s that pen, dear? It was just on here.”

“210?”

“210?..... It’s over there somewhere. Have a look on the chair.”

“210 is being asked for. Do you want it at 210?”

“I can’t, I’m on the phone. Just pass me the pen and a piece of paper.”

“Hello, the current asking price is 210. Do you want it at that price?”

“Yes.”

“Did you put the kettle on?”

“230?”

“230?”

“230 is being asked for. Do you want it at 230?”

“Yes, I would, please - and just one biscuit.”

“Hello, 230?”

“A Bourbon.”

“Do you want it at 230?”

“230, yes.”

“Have you found that catalogue, yet?”

“250?”

“Is it my turn again?”

“Yes, do you want to pay 250 for it?”

“Have a look on the kitchen table. I’m still on the phone.”

“Hello, 250?”

“250? Yes.”

“270?”

“How can I? I’m on the phone. Try the cupboard.”

“Hello. It’s with you at 270.”

“I only wanted to go to 260.”

“Well are you prepared to offer 270?”

“Yes. OK, that’s only an extra tenner after all. What’s the buyer’s premium, again?”

“10% plus VAT. It’s all in the catalogue.”

“I can’t lay my hands on it. So that would be about 300 already, then?”

“Yes, thereabouts. Do you want it at 270?”

“Ok, just one more go.”

“290?”

“290?”

“Yes, it’s at 290. Will you bid 290?”

“That’s more than I thought…………………………………… She says its 290, that’s a lot when you’ve added the other stuff………………….. I know I did…………………… I’ll just have to tell her no…...................... Hello? I’m going to have to say no. I thought it would be about 250.”

“So, no bid at 290?”

“Well, maybe just one more.”

“290 then?”

“Yes.”

“310?”

“310……………She said 310…………... I know I did………….…..I already said so……….….. that’s what I said …………….I’m not going to……………………….That’s too much. I thought it would go for much less than that.”

“So, no bid at 310?”

“Not this time, thank you, but I’ve got another one coming up later. When would that be, then, because I’ve got to just nip out to the shops in the mean time? I’ll just slip and find that catalogue and then I’ll tell you what number the next lot is.……………………..…..                        Hello……………….Hello………..… Are you still there?...... I think they’ve rung off. Would you believe it? Sometimes I just don’t think they want your money at all………… No, I said a Bourbon.”