Railway Antics

My father-in-law was an Engine Driver.  He drove a huge diesel train.  I used to travel the short distance from Darlington to Croft on Tees on my way home from work if my husband worked late.  Sometimes, Harry would be driving my train and if he saw me on the platform at Croft, he would beep the train’s horn and I would be deeply embarrassed but happy all the same that he had noticed me.

In 1975, on the 150^th anniversary of the Railways in which the first locomotive was driven between Stockton and Darlington, Harry had the honour of driving the steam locomotive called ‘The Fenchurch’ in the railway cavalcade.  Its coals were painted white.  35, mainly steam locomotives, were driven in the procession.  We stood near the railway line at Shildon in the hot sun, watching locomotive after locomotive pass by. At just the precise moment that her Granddad drove past us, our daughter fainted and we just saw ‘The Fenchurch’ driving into the distance.  We were very proud of Harry.  He was a man of many talents – superb decorator, gardener, grower of prize chrysanthemums and loving family man. 

                                                           Harry on The Fenchurch

Thinking of my father-in-law driving trains, allowed me trawl up childhood memories of travelling on long journeys by steam train.  It was a very romantic way to travel.  Very few people had cars in those days.  The platform was a very busy place.  Porters’ trolleys were packed high with luggage.  Cases were ordinary – not expensive ones.  There were benches on the platform and here and there, advertisements made of enamel on metal, advertising Camp Coffee or Wild Woodbine cigarettes.

We all poured out of the taxi at Darlington Railway Station and when we reached the gate, we had to show our tickets to a member of the station staff.  If you wanted to see your friend off on his railway journey, you had to buy a platform ticket.  We sat on the bench and waited patiently for the train to arrive.  Suddenly, the train burst onto the platform, funnel belching huge amounts of smoke and flames gushing out of the boiler as the fireman shoveled large amounts of coal to keep it on top form.  It was even more dramatic if the journey took place overnight. Then the smoke and flames were accentuated against the dark sky.  It was noisy, with the couplings clinking and the engine hissing and chuffing. 

The driver and fireman were dressed for action – no smart uniform in those days.  They wore blue/grey boiler suits, jackets and jaunty caps.  It was hard, tiring work and they certainly needed large handkerchiefs to mop their brows in the searing heat of the cab. 

The appearance of the train was preceded by an announcement from the office, the sentences reverberating around the station.  Passengers lugged heavy suitcases to the edge of the platform, ready to embark.  Mum, Dad and three children prepared to climb aboard, together with luggage and Mum’s shopping bag full of sandwiches and drinks.  The steam engine was at the front, then there were coaches , either compartments with two bench seats facing each other, or long carriages with benches and tables which we loved the best and a guard’s van at the rear.  Dad put our suitcase on the luggage rack above the seats.  They were rather like hammocks to look at. We always traveled second class.  The doors were heavy and had windows in them.  Passengers could raise and lower the windows with a leather strap which was held in position by locking one of the holes in the strap over a metal stud.  Then they could lean out and wave to their friends on the platform as the train set off.  The wind would rush into their faces as the train moved out of the station  and often  we could see them looking towards the front of the train to watch the engine belching out smoke.  It was difficult to open train doors from inside for safety reasons.  The window had to be lowered and the door opened from the outside once the train had stopped on the platform.

The air smelled of sulphur from the acrid smoke but no one noticed as they hurried to climb aboard to find a seat, if they had not thought to book one in advance.  Once the guard had waved his flag and blown his whistle, the train  seemed to glide out of the station and as it gathered speed, the smoke belching from the funnel seemed to play a tune to accompany the rattling of the doors whilst the carriage swayed from side to side.  Once the train was in open countryside, my sister and I gave the noise a tune – ‘she-can-she-cake, she-can-she-cake.’ The tune seemed very accurate and I can still recollect the joy of our singing these words together and smiling at each other.

After a while,  a shrill whistle sounded, everything went dark and the lights in the carriage flickered and came on.  The smoke seemed more acrid than ever as the train journeyed through the tunnel, its whistle still shrill as the train moved through its inky depths.  Once outside, the train gathered speed again and the passengers opened windows once more.  The trouble with tunnels was that smuts appeared and sometimes they gathered not only on our clothes but occasionally in our eyes.

The dining car served tea and coffee in thick white cups and hot meals as well.  Alcoholic drinks were also sold.  During the journey, a rattling sound and clinking crockery meant that the trolley was approaching, bringing hot drinks to us.  It was such a welcome sound and the hot coffee sliding down my throat was so welcome. I was never a tea drinker. I only drink coffee.

One huge disadvantage, though, was the smelly toilet.  You were not allowed to use the toilet when the train was in the station as its contents went straight onto the railway line!!!

As the journey progressed, Dad fell asleep and he snored.  Mum, my sister and I smiled but we were more embarrassed than amused.  Our brother was much younger and he slept peacefully whilst this was going on.  These journeys were happy, exciting ones and even today, I love travelling by train.  As I write, I recall a poem called ‘Adlestrop’ by Edward Thomas about a train stopping at a country halt and it evoked memories of our train gliding into a station and then stopping for a while as the announcer said ‘Brockenhurst, Brockenhurst, this is Brockenhurst’ in a Hampshire soft country burr.  The announcers were always men in those days..  I  smiled to myself to hear these words.  Edward Thomas never left the train that stopped briefly at the Cotswold station, Adlestrop, just before World War I, but what he saw resulted in one of the best known and loved English poems.

Adlestrop

Yes, I remember Adlestrop --
The name, because one afternoon
Of heat the express-train drew up there
Unwontedly. It was late June.

The steam hissed. Someone cleared his throat.
No one left and no one came
On the bare platform. What I saw
Was Adlestrop -- only the name

And willows, willow-herb, and grass,
And meadowsweet, and haycocks dry,
No whit less still and lonely fair
Than the high cloudlets in the sky.

And for that minute a blackbird sang
Close by, and round him, mistier,
Farther and farther, all the birds
Of Oxfordshire and Gloucestershire.

Edward Thomas.  

I think that the best poem to create the atmosphere of a journey by steam train is ‘The Night Mail’ by  W H Auden.  Here it is for those who want to re-acquaint themselves with it.

Night Mail

I
This is the night mail crossing the Border,
Bringing the cheque and the postal order,

Letters for the rich, letters for the poor,
The shop at the corner, the girl next door.

Pulling up Beattock, a steady climb:

The gradient's against her, but she's on time.

Past cotton-grass and moorland boulder
Shovelling white steam over her shoulder,

Snorting noisily as she passes
Silent miles of wind-bent grasses.

Birds turn their heads as she approaches,
Stare from bushes at her blank-faced coaches.

Sheep-dogs cannot turn her course;
They slumber on with paws across.

In the farm she passes no one wakes,
But a jug in a bedroom gently shakes.

II
Dawn freshens, Her climb is done.
Down towards Glasgow she descends,
Towards the steam tugs yelping down a glade of cranes
Towards the fields of apparatus, the furnaces
Set on the dark plain like gigantic chessmen.
All Scotland waits for her:
In dark glens, beside pale-green lochs
Men long for news.

III
Letters of thanks, letters from banks,
Letters of joy from girl and boy,
Receipted bills and invitations
To inspect new stock or to visit relations,
And applications for situations,
And timid lovers' declarations,
And gossip, gossip from all the nations,
News circumstantial, news financial,
Letters with holiday snaps to enlarge in,
Letters with faces scrawled on the margin,
Letters from uncles, cousins, and aunts,
Letters to Scotland from the South of France,
Letters of condolence to Highlands and Lowlands
Written on paper of every hue,
The pink, the violet, the white and the blue,
The chatty, the catty, the boring, the adoring,
The cold and official and the heart's outpouring,
Clever, stupid, short and long,
The typed and the printed and the spelt all wrong.

IV
Thousands are still asleep,
Dreaming of terrifying monsters
Or of friendly tea beside the band in Cranston's or Crawford's:

Asleep in working Glasgow, asleep in well-set Edinburgh,
Asleep in granite Aberdeen,
They continue their dreams,
But shall wake soon and hope for letters,
And none will hear the postman's knock
Without a quickening of the heart,
For who can bear to feel himself forgotten? 

W H Auden

This poem has fantastic rhythms that capture the movement of the steam train as it journeys south to Scotland.

I loved my holiday journeys by train and just writing this blog evokes such happy memories.

Moonfleet

It was a bright, sunny morning in July and Dad decided that my sister and I would enjoy a walk along the coastal path to the village of Fleet where we would discover something very interesting.  We set off down the road to Hive Beach, skipping along from time to time, as children do.  In no time, we reached the gate that led to Hive Beach.  As we opened it, we looked towards the Fleet Lagoon.  The tide was in and the water looked so pretty in the summer sunshine.  Dad pointed out the Army Rifle Range that we could see from Grandad’s garden.  The farmer had tilled the field ready for planting.  The soil was rich, like dark chocolate and next to me, as we stood at the edge of the field, were two huge rollers that the farmer kept for flattening the soil.  They looked pretty because they were fringed with hedge parsley, its heady perfume strong in the July heat.   The lagoon was pale blue that morning and as I stood near the rollers, I saw the English Channel rising beyond the Chesil Beach.  It was a beautiful sight to see.

  We walked on towards the jetty and pestered Dad to let us look at the boats near the black hut.  There were lots of them that day, in various colours and different states of repair.  An old lerrit was tied up near the hut.  It had 4 blue seats and looked as though it could do with a good lick of paint.  My sister and I were more interested in the upturned boats.  One, in particular, grasped our attention because it was painted orange but the sun was making a good job of fading it.  It had patches of green and red paint here and there.  I can remember asking Dad why it was not on the lagoon and he told me that it didn’t have a flat bottom so it wouldn’t be suitable for rowing on the water.  The lagoon is not very deep.

 

  Dad had waited long enough and was anxious to continue our walk so he stood near the little gate and called to us.  A milestone said:

                Coast path

                Abbotsbury        7 miles

                Chickerell           1 mile

 We walked through the gate and followed the coastal path.  We could see a farm in the distance.

We walked past the black hut which is a remnant of World War II and which is probably now used to house the fishermen’s nets and wooden boxes and  we walked on quite briskly.  My Dad was an ex RAF Warrant Officer and liked things to be orderly.  On our left, the waters of the Fleet Lagoon sparkled in the summer sunshine and to the right were the golden cornfields.  They weren’t ready for harvesting yet but their light gold colour was pretty. 

 As we trudged along the Coast Path, the cornfields changed to fields of cattle that were munching away or resting in the sunshine, their large gentle eyes fixed upon us as we walked along.  Suddenly, quite a large hole appeared out of nowhere.  My sister and I grabbed hold of the fence to avoid falling into it. Waves of mild electricity shot through my right arm.  I can remember the feeling vividly to this day.  The current moved through my arm in an ‘up and down’ movement, rather like a lasso rope being flexed by a cowboy.  Both my sister and I had touched the electric fence that the farmer had installed to keep his cattle in.  We were a bit shocked at this experience and Dad explained the reason for the electric fence.  I look with suspicion now each time I meet an electric cattle fence and those distant memories flood back as though it were yesterday.

  It was a pleasant walk and after a while I forgot about my bad experience.  East Fleet has a row of cottages in Butter Street and other cottages are scattered here and there.

 

We called at Great Aunt Lizzie’s cottage for the key to the small chancel in the churchyard, as she was the key holder.  Now it is kept open for visitors to view.  This little chancel is all that remains of the original parish church that was swept away in 1824 when a huge tidal wave swept over the Chesil Beach and made its way to the village.  In the little booklet that you can buy in the chancel, it tells the story of a young boy, James Bowering, who was my great great great grandfather.  He was eleven at the time.  He watched as the water came over the beach ‘as fast as a horse could gallop’ and he raced as quickly as he could to warn the villagers.  This storm caused much damage in the immediate area, even in Weymouth and some of the cottages in Fleet were damaged beyond repair. There is a lovely story in the booklet about the water reaching the vicar’s cottage and two ladies that were staying there had to sit on the roof and wait to be rescued.  When he became an adult, James became Parish Clerk of Fleet and his son George was the Sexton of the new parish church, Holy Trinity , for over 40 years.  James is buried in the old churchyard with his first wife on his right hand side and his second on his left!  His tombstone is badly eroded now and it is very difficult to make out the words but it has an anchor at the top and it said that he was ‘held in the high esteem of all who knew him’ which made me feel quite proud.

 

This is all that remained of the church after the storm.  The nave was completely washed away.  John Meade Falkner used this chancel as one of his locations in his book ‘Moonfleet’.  There is a vault in this chancel and in the smuggling days it was probably used by smugglers for the storage of wines, spirits etc. An underground passage runs from the vault to Fleet water.  At this point, during the tidal wave, the water reached a depth of 30 feet.  The damage was so great in Fleet that churches throughout the country had a collection for its inhabitants to help to repair the great damage that had been caused.  The inhabitants of Butter Street had to watch as their homes were completely destroyed.  It is a lovely location.  You can see the Fleet Lagoon and the Chesil Beach from the churchyard.

 

  In 1829 a new church was built about half a mile away and is called ‘Holy Trinity’.

 

Dad turned the huge key and we stepped inside the little chancel.  It smelled a bit musty but we could see that it was cared for beautifully.  The walls were freshly painted and there was a huge arched window in the centre.  Light streamed into the little church.  There was a small altar with a plain wooden cross in the centre and fresh flowers on the altar and on the floor nearby.  Two long benches were placed on opposite walls so that people could sit for a while and think or pray.  The excitement for me was some memorial brasses one on either side of the window, dedicated to the Mohun family.    I had been learning Latin at school and I was anxious to see if I could translate the words on the brasses.  One of them was a family group, commemorating the lives of Robert and Margaret Mohun.  They were shown kneeling at a desk.  Behind Robert were nine sons and behind Margaret there were eight daughters.  They were dressed in Elizabethan clothes, with ruffs round their necks.  It was a beautiful memorial to a large family.  I was thrilled to see it and even more thrilled to be able to translate it for my Dad.  It is still there today but protective bars have been placed around the two memorials. There is a plaque in memory and recognition of John Meade Faulkner.  It has been eroded now so the John Meade Faulkner Society has placed another plaque beneath it.

I will talk more about John Meade Faulkner and his novel ‘Moonfleet’ in my next post.