When I was a “tacker” (West Country vernacular for a youth) and wanted to go somewhere, I would go by train. I was bred and buttered in G.W.R country.
G.W.R. country was highly rural and had spiders’ webs of branch lines that connected remoter towns and villages – parts of the Country Railway System, which was to be butchered by Beeching in the 1960s. The tiny road that ran past our house petered out in Golant on the Fowey River. If you went through Golant you might come to Golant Halt, the primitive and only station on the Lostwithiel and Fowey Railway. Lostwithiel was on the main Paddington/Penzance Line – very few main line trains seemed bothered about stopping there but it was the terminus for the Fowey Line. The Fowey Line was a typical G.W.R. branch line.
Trains normally consisted of a tank engine, a single passenger coach and on high days, a parcel van.
On really high days, begging the absence of a Railway Inspector, I was allowed to ride on the footplate – especially if Ken Williams was stoker. Ken had an “understanding” with Amy, who worked for my grandmother, so Amy was my passport. It was only about 10 miles to Fowey, but the line followed the winding of the Fowey River. The line may have been short but it must have been one of the most scenic in England (which it wasn’t - it being in Cornwall).
After leaving its’ spur in Lostwithiel, the little train would cross the splendid Resprynn viaduct, then along the steeply wooded bank of Pelynn woods. I might then have been told to pull the whistle card to alert the seething mass of shoppers, (possibly as many as 6) crossing the platform at Golant, the only halt.
The line then continued below the Golant Downs, past the creek at Saw Mills and the signal cabin at Carne Point, where Tom Bassett could always be relied on for a mug of strong milk-less tea; After that it was past the docks where a line of ships waited to ingest a load of China clay. Then a clatter over the points, blast on the whistle and into Fowey station.
Before the Hitler War, passengers could travel on through the Pinnock Tunnel and along the coast of Par Bay and into Par station. “Par, Par! Change for the Newquay Line” - another branch line I always wanted to do and tried very hard to persuade Nanny to take me. I was told very firmly that “The Gentry” did not go to Newquay; so that was that. Be that as it was, the “Golant Flyer” was part of a magical childhood. There is no passenger service now – the line is freight only “Ehen Fugaces!”
In another world, I used to be sent from London (where I was learning to fail as a Chartered Accountant) to do an audit in Bedford. This was extreme boredom, but I could relieve part of it by a bit “Extreme Steam”. There was ‘Country Railway’, which dawdled over the Cotswolds from Kingham Junction to Cheltenham; passing through enchanted names like Stow-on-the Wold, Bourton-on the Water, Naunton, Hawling, Andoversford (where the Cotswold Hunt Kennels were) and down the hill to Cheltenham. This was a magical sleepy journey, but it is not for you, because whilst you were drowsing someone has ripped up the tracks – the sad fate of so many Country Railways.
Friday 6 May 2011
Thursday 5 May 2011
Poisson D’Avril
In case you are wondering about the heading, I understand it ( as much as I understand anything French) to be the French for “April Fool”.
This is a mucky story – true, but mucky. My old friend Michael came from Galway. He spent most of his life building “England’s Motorways”. He had inherited a deeply felt hatred of the English in his genes – after all we had hanged 11 of his uncles in the market place at Thurles (Co. Tipperary). In spite of this he became a firm friend of mine (I don’t know why). Anyway this is his story. Whilst he laboured for MacAlpines he was put up in digs, hither and thon. The digs were Spartan and all the workers slept in dormitories – long attic rooms with basic beds. The other thing basic were the lavatorial arrangements - I was reminded of Michael’s story after I came out of hospital, by the problem arising from getting to the loo when being unable to walk. In hospital, it is not a problem – you have a plastic bottle (in French it is a “pistolet”) and when it is full you just ring your bell and Nurse arrives with a replacement. This service is not available in our little bed back home. Nor was it available in the dormitories of the itinerant road builders. They had the use of a free-standing bucket in the corner of the room. The itinerants, being mostly Irish who had easy habits with drinking, which is not to say that they were often drunk, but they were inclined to “have drink taken” as the Irish so tactfully put it. This meant that their aim when approaching the bucket tended to be a bit wobbly. Early one morning the itinerants were wakened from their slumber by a crash and screams of female rage; what happened was – years of poor workmanship had rotted the wooden floors of the dormitory until it finally gave way and deposited the bucket and its’ contents on the floor below. This happened to be the bedroom of the landlady of the digs, who, as they say, copped the lot. She was not best suited
Song Birds
I see that the RSPB want us all to list the little birds in our gardens. With this house, there is a tiny garden at the back, but quite a large population of birds (?) can birds make a population (?) There is a family of Blue Tits who nets in a hole in our ancient Apple tree. Our little town is an ancient port and it should be thick with Gulls; I think of Berwick on Tweed and Fowey in Cornwall, which were full of clamouring gulls; Here I hardly see, or hear, one. I can only think that the French pinch all the eggs. I cannot blame them, I love Gulls’ eggs– they are always available at the bar in my London club. I cannot believe that the French would deny themselves such a delicacy, but as they glory in tripe sausages – “belief” has to be suspended.
From my armchair, which I use rather a lot during my convalescence, I get a good view across the back plots of the neighbouring houses. Through the windows I could have counted at least 3 pairs of Flycatchers. I think of all the small birds, these agile little birds are my favourite. I admire their agility as they flutter in the air in pursuit of their flying food.
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I am sure that you all felt deeply affected by the Japanese tragedy, I could not help wondering how my dear old father would have felt about it. Dad spent 3 years in a Japanese POW camp. He was left with a deep physical scar and an even deeper hatred of all things Japanese. He always said that the Atom bomb saved his life. All the POWs were told that if the British soldiers continued to insult the Emperor by winning things, all the prisoners would be marched into the neighbouring mine shaft workings and all the shafts blown up. No, Father did not like the Japs and I cannot blame him.
_______________
This is a mucky story – true, but mucky. My old friend Michael came from Galway. He spent most of his life building “England’s Motorways”. He had inherited a deeply felt hatred of the English in his genes – after all we had hanged 11 of his uncles in the market place at Thurles (Co. Tipperary). In spite of this he became a firm friend of mine (I don’t know why). Anyway this is his story. Whilst he laboured for MacAlpines he was put up in digs, hither and thon. The digs were Spartan and all the workers slept in dormitories – long attic rooms with basic beds. The other thing basic were the lavatorial arrangements - I was reminded of Michael’s story after I came out of hospital, by the problem arising from getting to the loo when being unable to walk. In hospital, it is not a problem – you have a plastic bottle (in French it is a “pistolet”) and when it is full you just ring your bell and Nurse arrives with a replacement. This service is not available in our little bed back home. Nor was it available in the dormitories of the itinerant road builders. They had the use of a free-standing bucket in the corner of the room. The itinerants, being mostly Irish who had easy habits with drinking, which is not to say that they were often drunk, but they were inclined to “have drink taken” as the Irish so tactfully put it. This meant that their aim when approaching the bucket tended to be a bit wobbly. Early one morning the itinerants were wakened from their slumber by a crash and screams of female rage; what happened was – years of poor workmanship had rotted the wooden floors of the dormitory until it finally gave way and deposited the bucket and its’ contents on the floor below. This happened to be the bedroom of the landlady of the digs, who, as they say, copped the lot. She was not best suited
Song Birds
I see that the RSPB want us all to list the little birds in our gardens. With this house, there is a tiny garden at the back, but quite a large population of birds (?) can birds make a population (?) There is a family of Blue Tits who nets in a hole in our ancient Apple tree. Our little town is an ancient port and it should be thick with Gulls; I think of Berwick on Tweed and Fowey in Cornwall, which were full of clamouring gulls; Here I hardly see, or hear, one. I can only think that the French pinch all the eggs. I cannot blame them, I love Gulls’ eggs– they are always available at the bar in my London club. I cannot believe that the French would deny themselves such a delicacy, but as they glory in tripe sausages – “belief” has to be suspended.
From my armchair, which I use rather a lot during my convalescence, I get a good view across the back plots of the neighbouring houses. Through the windows I could have counted at least 3 pairs of Flycatchers. I think of all the small birds, these agile little birds are my favourite. I admire their agility as they flutter in the air in pursuit of their flying food.
_______________
I am sure that you all felt deeply affected by the Japanese tragedy, I could not help wondering how my dear old father would have felt about it. Dad spent 3 years in a Japanese POW camp. He was left with a deep physical scar and an even deeper hatred of all things Japanese. He always said that the Atom bomb saved his life. All the POWs were told that if the British soldiers continued to insult the Emperor by winning things, all the prisoners would be marched into the neighbouring mine shaft workings and all the shafts blown up. No, Father did not like the Japs and I cannot blame him.
_______________
APRIL 2011 - SPRING AT LAST
It occurs to me that I have not blogged you for some time. My excuse for this has been quite simple – I have been in hospital having bits chopped off me. The last time this happened; I got a new knee in a French hospital – I had always heard of the efficiency of French surgery – well, speak as you find – I was not impressed. The French staff made no attempt not to display obvious contempt for my impoverished attempts at speaking French – worse was to come: a week after the op my stitches were taken out and the following day I suffered a “rotule” of the knee cap (in other words it slipped) and if you want to suffer extreme pain (and who does), let your knee cap “rotule” a bit and you will be sorry (very).
Fair play to the French, they mended the bloody thing, but that was 2 years since and it is still not fully right yet. So, when the other knee went on the blink, I decided to give the Gallic Orthopods a miss and caught the ferry from Cherbourg to the Lister hospital (Lwr Sloan Street). The Lister came very highly recommended for the carving ability of Mr Lavalle, which I am very happy to endorse – a very neat piece of carving, even my (very) French GP has said that it is “tres joli”.
“Spring is Sprung” and that’s official. In France Spring comes on March 30th and you better believe it. “I wonder where the boidies is?” They say “de boids is on the wing, but that’s absoid, because de wings are on the boid”. Remember that.
Spring in Normandy reminds me of Spring in Cornwall – roadside banks full of Daffodils and great clotes of Primroses – gardens full of songbirds, flights of the water birds coming in from the sea-side to the marshes.
We are only a couple of miles from Utah Beach. In fact our little town was the first place freed after D Day. If you watch the movie: (again) “The Longest Day” you will see a shot of John Wayne leaning on a road-isle town sign. It is a neat little cruciform town (pop: 2,600) and you can be out of it and into deep rurality in 10 minutes.
Fair play to the French, they mended the bloody thing, but that was 2 years since and it is still not fully right yet. So, when the other knee went on the blink, I decided to give the Gallic Orthopods a miss and caught the ferry from Cherbourg to the Lister hospital (Lwr Sloan Street). The Lister came very highly recommended for the carving ability of Mr Lavalle, which I am very happy to endorse – a very neat piece of carving, even my (very) French GP has said that it is “tres joli”.
“Spring is Sprung” and that’s official. In France Spring comes on March 30th and you better believe it. “I wonder where the boidies is?” They say “de boids is on the wing, but that’s absoid, because de wings are on the boid”. Remember that.
Spring in Normandy reminds me of Spring in Cornwall – roadside banks full of Daffodils and great clotes of Primroses – gardens full of songbirds, flights of the water birds coming in from the sea-side to the marshes.
We are only a couple of miles from Utah Beach. In fact our little town was the first place freed after D Day. If you watch the movie: (again) “The Longest Day” you will see a shot of John Wayne leaning on a road-isle town sign. It is a neat little cruciform town (pop: 2,600) and you can be out of it and into deep rurality in 10 minutes.
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