In a couple of weeks time, a whole string of planned events kick in which will, all being well, see me through until midsummer. So I decided that for the next couple of weekends, I'd get around the network on service trains - something which, though sometimes frustrating, was what first brought me to the railway. I've always loved the idea of being able to plan some convoluted itinerary which meanders across the country, avoiding engineering works and taking as many unusual twists and turns as possible. I was also prepared to let recent irritations with some of the inter-TOC policies be bygones and just see how things went. However the day started with it's own strange twist with an alarm clock failure. This has simply NEVER happened to me before as far as I can remember - and certainly, not in such a way that I've missed my planned train. I'd spent last evening celebrating or commiserating at the Royal Artillery Arms, closing down likely for good. But I'd been sensible, come home early and thought I'd set the clock correctly. However, as I woke to silence at around 05:45 I knew things were amiss. Found myself surprisingly mentally agile for such an early hour - and knowing that I'd miss the planned connection, set about getting ready to leave on the 06:20 with a fistful of Rail Travel Vouchers to rebook. If I could make the 08:00 from Bristol to Manchester I could get back on track with only the leisurely hour I intended to spend drinking coffee at Piccadilly lost. Scrambled down to the station in record time, and spent the journey to Bristol kicking myself and trying not to think how much more expensive this mistake could have been.
Rebooked at Bristol, and had time for a more leisurely breakfast than I'd planned. There was no advantage in getting the 07:30 to Birmingham, so instead reflected on the cruel irony that the vouchers just spent rebooking to Manchester were effectively the compensation for CrossCountry's recent cock-up. They were, quite literally, getting their own back. I also reflected that the 08:00 train left me exactly the 15 minutes or so on arrival which had been at issue last time I travelled this way. Soon on board the 08:00 though, and upgraded to a very quiet First Class, had a rather pleasant and peaceful ride up to Manchester. The weather varied from golden spring morning to brooding storm clouds, but that was all part of the fun. Listened to the PodcART on the way which never fails to entertain and surprise me too. The trip was beginning to feel like less of a disaster now, and more like the stately jaunt up country which I'd planned. At Piccadilly, I remembered the footbridge at the London end of the station, but couldn't recall if it connected to the remote platforms 13 and 14 from where the Barrow train would leave. These platforms, which were at least one fellow travellers first sight of Piccadilly are rather windswept, drab and inaccessible - sitting on the curved lines which pass through the city avoiding the grand terminus here. I recalled said travellers first remark being "What a dump" before sighting the refurbished glass roof and spacious concourse at the main station - possibly one of the most successful revivals of recent times. Having established that the footbridge did connect up, and using the time I'd saved, I managed some banter at the coffee shop on the small concourse before descending to the windy platform level to await the train.
Soon onboard the ever-packed Class 185, but happily quieter in my reserved first class seat. This train would take me all the way to Barrow, via a spin up a favourite section of the West Coast Main Line. We set out via Bolton and Chorley - a busy bit of line which has never felt very important despite providing a link between Manchester and the WCML. After calling at Preston, the journey speeded up - and with the sun now shining strongly, this was much more as I'd hoped. As Morecambe Bay crept into view at Hest Bank, noted the campsite had started to fill for the Bank Holiday weekend. At Carnforth we curved into the platform, stopping briefly before setting off onto the Cumbrian Coast line with stunning views on all sides of the train. A fair few people stayed on until the end of trip at Barrow - with it's much modernised station. As I headed for the exit I glanced up the line ahead - nothing. Nothing in fact for many, many miles. The line around the coast is a formidable trip - one I've learned to love, but which is a real test of dedication. I think I did it twice last year, in fine weather and with interesting traction - though I recall a bumpy Class 142 ride a few years back too. Like everything around here, it's a serious business - but rewarding if you put the effort in.
So, out into Barrow-in-Furness. Reason for visiting? I'd passed through before but never stopped. Reason enough I think. I'd also seen a programme about the town on TV, and was struck by how difficult and desolate life seemed to be here, within a stone's throw of the much more prosperous tourist haven of the Lake District. These sort of places always attract me - not from a voyeuristic or even paternalistic position, but just because I need to try to understand places and how they tick. And of course it's always more interesting and revealing to think about places which aren't quite working right. Barrow was, in parts however, doing OK. Out of the station and the skyline is dominated by dockside buildings. Near a small, quiet garden across the street, a statue of veteran footballer Emlyn Hughes stands tall - with the addition of a Barrow AFC scarf just now, to celebrate their forthcoming trip to Wembley perhaps? Emlyn was a rather contested figure in my childhood - an entertaining, cheeky and squeaky voiced TV presence, but also the harbinger of endless pain as my Dad enforced silence during the grim half-hour of Question of Sport. Not the jolly banter-filled version that graces the BBC nowadays of course, this was serious and dull sports quizzing. Tried to take a snap of Emlyn before heading onwards, but a menacingly zealous-looking 'Elder' - but clearly well under 25 - wanted to share his message with me. Broke into a ridiculous waddling run to escape!
Walking into town, things began to deteriorate, with the majority of large shops given over to training agencies and support groups - Connexions, Rathbone and so on. Turning into the main street, there was laudable public realm work afoot. The street is being cobbled, new stylishly curved lamps line the street, benches and feature brickwork is springing up. It looks good, but it doesn't hide the fact that around 20% of the town appears to have closed down. The new benches already have some fairly regular visitors it seems, and amongst the usual Saturday afternoon gatherings of youngsters there was a more menacing presence of older, blank-eyed drunks too. However, I didn't dislike the place at all. Visiting today suited the mood of disquiet and irritation I'd picked up from my silly timing error. I made a thoughtful circuit of the town before returning to the station buffet to be ripped off by a charming young woman who I found it hard to be truly angry with despite the huge bill. Perhaps I should have called at the food shop in the Town Centre which was, rather directly and sensibly just called "Food". That's Barrow - simple, to-the-point and not messing about.
I relaxed in the sun for a while, noticing a couple of photographers who were really struggling to find anything of interest to snap at. Eventually our train appeared - a pair of Class 153s which were soon filled by the sizeable crowd which had grown while I lazed in the sunshine. This included a touring group led by a strangely annoying and intrusive supervisor who sat near me and munched swiftly through her lunch as we headed back to Lancaster, with rain suddenly beginning to fall and a mist rolling in across the bay. By Lancaster, the rain was hammering down and a chill had descended. I was stuck here for quite a time before my next train, as I'd allowed a fair bit of recovery time here. Read, watched the station going about it's business and had a welcome coffee - noting with alarm at my lack of change that unfortunately the same chain manages the Barrow and Lancaster buffets now! A long wait for the 16:38 London train which had started at Oxenholme today due to engineering. A fairly swift run to Preston where I crossed the platform for a Birmingham train - again starting here rather than coming in from Glasgow. A quiet journey south, via Crewe and into New Street almost exactly on time. Pelted upstairs and onto the platform for my connection rather quickly, and found myself feeling queasy and shaky. Not sure if I'd not eaten for a while, or just picked something up, but in any case I stumbled about the platform feeling faint and convinced I was about to make a huge scene by passing out. In the end, the train arrived and I made a dash for the quiet coach which had inconveniently arrived at the other end of the station, and was full of displays rather enigmatically stating "THIS SEAT MAYBE RESERVED". Collapsed sleepily into a seat all the way back to Bristol.
A familiar trek to platform 15 for the HST home - it's normally waiting for me as it stands for a while at Temple Meads, but engineering work sent trains via the Berks and Hants this weekend, so it crawled in bang on time. It'd had been a long day - a mixture of frustrations, relaxing travels and a perplexing visit to Barrow. These trips, however confounding they can sometimes be, are just why I started travelling around the UK by rail.
Lost::MikeGTN
I've had a home on the web for more years than I care to remember, and a few kind souls persuade me it's worth persisting with keeping it updated. This current incarnation of the site is centred around the blog posts which began back in 1999 as 'the daylog' and continued through my travels and tribulations during the following years.
I don't get out and about nearly as much these days, but I do try to record significant events and trips for posterity. You may also have arrived here by following the trail to my former music blog Songs Heard On Fast Trains. That content is preserved here too.
