Recommencing my explorations in a new year always feels uncertain and unplanned. Heading north to Scotland immediately after the festive season certainly helped me to relax a little, but after a week of catching-up with work and trying to recapture a sense of the normal following a long break, it felt exceptionally good to be putting boots on the ground once again. For a while, the weather had seemed likely to intervene so I hadn't made firm plans, content to watch the forecasts and warnings with a critical eye and with some undercover alternatives in mind. However, the snow shower that swept across the country had largely departed by yesterday and today had dawned dry and frosty. An eerie early mist drifted across Wiltshire as I sped eastwards into the promise of a glorious sunrise, and I finally dared to make some hasty plans for the day ahead. I was a little surprised at my own eagerness to get moving too - I found myself tumbling almost immediately onto a convenient Underground train and skipping my customary coffee at Liverpool Street in favour of finding refreshment along my route. So, much sooner than expected I found myself walking north along Chingford High Street towards a dark line on the northern horizon. While I tramped past the seemingly endless line of tanning salons and estate agents of Chingford I focused on the growing smudge of green in the distance. I was heading out of the city and into the forest...

The edge of Epping Forest was familiar from a previous walk last summer: I remembered how a sea of trees fronted by broad, open space broke against a resolute line of victorian villas, built for their views over this remarkable surviving swathe of ancient woodland - the people's forest as gifted by Queen Victoria. I turned east here, passing a mutton-dressed-as-lamb Tudorbethan hostelry which was in fact an over-gabled Brewer's Fayre and Premier Inn combination. This location on the edge of the forest, in what must have been an earlier twentieth century pub building, was fantastic. However its brassy, false provenance left the genuinely much older Queen Elizabeth's Hunting Lodge looking pale and ghostly beside it. The caricature of history was more photogenic and somehow more three dimensional than the real deal - this squat and haphazard limewashed block which had seen several hundred winters in this exposed spot before it's neighbour appeared and stole the limelight. The inevitable Interpretation Centre nearby was open, but the lodge was locked. A family shuffled out towards the venerable structure with a slightly disgruntled member of staff following to open up the building. They'd clearly hoped for a quiet January Saturday where the punters would be content with coddling themselves in the bar next door, leaving history for warmer opportunities. I crossed the street here to Warren Pond to assess the state of the footpaths through the southern reaches of the forest. A little ice topped the puddled ruts in the track and a remnant of snow lay on a pile of cut branches. I tested a boot on the surface and only slithered a little before the lugs of my soles chewed into a layer of sandy gravel. It felt viable - so my planned excursion could probably work as I'd hastily mapped it out. I turned east again and headed a little further along Ranger's Road. None of the passing vehicles obeyed the speed limit as they hurtled into Essex, a constant trail of taillights winking past me in the ominously dark skies which had settled on the rather bleak vista to the east, displacing the hope of winter sunshine. The road rose and turned a little to the north with the view opening out around me - a few feet ahead a tiny brick parapet was a tell-tale signifier of the presence of water - the inconspicuous River Ching. Beside it a battered and faded blue sign announced simply 'Essex'. I could start walking in earnest now...

The River Ching is a strangely unremarked watercourse which barely registers on the inventory of obscure London tributaries. It doesn't go anywhere of consequence, describes no occult arcs and bubbles fairly unimportantly through boroughs which don't regard it as a feature to be cherished or advertised. It rises to the north of the bridge on which I first caught sight of it, just beyond Connaught Water, and joins the Cuckoo Brook before passing below the bridge on which I stood and heading south into a wooded valley which skirts the high ground of Chingford. Here at Ranger's Road, the rather lively, narrow stream linked the great expanse of woodland to the north with the tail of the forest which still curls southwards and encroaches on the city. I crossed the street and passed a vehicle barrier before disappearing among the ancient trees of Essex. Initially there was a well made track with a screed of sand and stone underfoot, but as the path edged around the fence of a large property, the trail became a muddy bridleway. I passed a pair of horses being ridden back towards the road, their haughty riders not returning my acknowledgement, and then I was rather suddenly alone. The ground in the forest was thick with golden oak leaves, some slowly mulching into the sodden, black earth. This wasn't a result of the melting ice or a recent downpour - this woodland floor had absorbed the rainfall over long, wet centuries. It was probably never fully dry. The aroma of decaying wood surrounded me and twists of holly and ivy curled from around the bare trunks of the oaks. Slowly, as I pressed onwards, carefully keeping my feet out of the worst of the mud, the sounds of the suburbs receded completely. Rather suddenly I burst into a wide open space where the cloud cover had broken enough to let shafts of sunlight reach the frost, clearing it in broad patches. Whitehall Plain appeared to be a pleasantly grassy field, but on closer inspection was in fact a marshy trudge. The earth sucked at my boots as I tried to walk the edges of the path, using the deep tufts of grass for extra traction. It was hard to resist breaking the ice on the horseshoe prints, but I was already conscious that my boots and trousers had a thick covering of pale, Essex earth and couldn't risk an ankle-deep mud puddle. I made for the southwestern corner of the field, where a gap in the trees indicated the makeshift trail continuing south. The map was only partially useful here - this trail didn't officially exist, and I confess to some anxiety that I'd come a long way on fairly tricky terrain. Retracing my steps didn't feel like an edifying option at this point. At the corner of the field I was faced with a choice - and with a close encounter with The Ching which babbled invitingly close to the path. A small bridge crossed it here, but it was beyond a huge slimy pool of mud. I wasn't really sure that this was the correct way ahead - but the lure of the water was strong. I edged closer, finding the undisturbed ground at the river's edge more walkable. Suddenly, and rather surprisingly, I found my toes dipping into the watercourse. As the mud from my boots clouded the little stream and washed them clean, it occurred to me that this was the first time on my many riparian walks that I'd physically made contact with a river which I was walking. It was an odd experience, but satisfying too to see the patch of muddy water billowing away from me. My shoes didn't stay clean for long - after the bridge, the path disappeared into the undergrowth in a way which suggested it was far less substantial than the one I'd left before crossing the river. This couldn't be the best option - so I edged back over and through the tricky swamp to regain the path I'd left at Whitehall Plain. I was soon in a second wide field and making much better progress, occasionally the sun flickered through the trees and my footing felt steadier. A jogger appeared, huffing along the path towards me. I could feel civilisation returning.

My brush with the suburbs didn't last long - I crossed Whitehall Road close to the point where the Ching passed beneath a decorative but otherwise inconspicuous concrete parapet. At the other side of the street there were paths on both sides of the river - but the western path, running close to the back gardens of a crescent of houses, was just a little less muddy and overgrown in appearance. I was soon trudging along close to the meandering river once again as it ambled between the trees. It was cool and quiet beneath the canopy of branches, and now that I'd found my feet a little I felt able to wander confidently along the trail. Occasionally I'd dare to stray a little off the path to the bank of the river as it curled between the venerable trunks of the forest. The water was clear and free of litter here - and I found myself wondering how it would look further along it's route. As I shuffled through fallen leaves back towards the path I spotted a sleek, red fox standing watching me ahead. I slowed my pace and locked eyes with the remarkable animal, which didn't budge at all. It stood calmly regarding me with interest and perhaps some suspicion as I crunched along the stony track which had replaced the mud. Eventually, with only a few feet between us, the fox flattened itself to the ground and launched swiftly into the ferny undergrowth. I halted and stayed quiet in the hope of perhaps catching another glimpse - but all was silent. I checked my map - this track formed the access to a nearby house, and even had a name - Newgate Street. Suddenly, and unexpectedly, I found myself at a busy roundabout with the Ching passing underneath. A miserable drizzle was falling, and the cars were kicking up a dirty spray as they shuddered by. I spied a range of shops leading towards Chingford Hatch and headed that way to get a drink. As it happened, a small filling station with a general store was the nearest option and I slipped inside to avoid straying too far from my plan. As the door opened I was immediately hit by the acrid reek of over-cooking cheese - the powerful fumes from the Subway concession almost drove me out before I could grab a bottle of water, and certainly put paid to any hunger which might have been rising. As I tried to hold my breath through the achingly slow transaction, the sales assistant appeared utterly unconcerned by what I was now convinced was some sort of emergency in the back of the garage. I was glad to be back outdoors in the clear air of the cold, grey morning again.

To continue walking the Ching I had to leave it briefly, taking the southeastern fork of the roundabout and heading back into the forest. As I set off, I spotted the path I could have taken on the eastern bank of the river trailing in from Woodford Golf Club. The road began to climb a little, passing pleasant streets and delving back into a thick knot of trees. Soon I found the trail leading south, and after a brief slither down a bank between the trees in sight of a dog walker who politely pretended not to see my unsteady progress, I closed in on the river again, now running to the west at the foot of a steep bank. The path rose, leaving the river again and soon came up against the fence of Higham's Park. This particularly treacherous stretch of mud was hard going, and the temptation to flit into the more manicured environs of the park via one of the stiles which separated it from the forest was strong indeed. I persisted, and was soon rewarded with a wonderful view of a lake emerging from between the trees. The rain had stopped and the waters were still, broken only by the wakes of stately swans gliding across towards the furthest bank. I rested awhile, rather taken with the quiet spot nestled between the comparatively bustling suburbs of Woodford and Chingford Hatch. It was soon time to press on - and to leave the forest completely. At The Charter Road, near another neat concrete bridge, I left the river and plunged into a built-up avenue. At the end of the street, a footpath beside Highams Park School reunited me with the Ching in a scrubby triangle of waste ground where the various developments had left a void between their boundaries. A substantial part was given over to allotments, but this narrow and hemmed-in corner was useless and unloved. The river had changed - litter tangled around the railings, and the banks were strewn with discarded household items. It seemed barely possible that this was the same babbling stream which had first appeared in open country and which had accompanied me through the silence of Epping Forest. It was time to confront the urban face of the River Ching...

Many of the rivers I've walked disappear entirely at this point, submerged into culverts which sneak under the city, leaving me seeking telltale signs of their presence beneath. But the Ching remains almost entirely above ground, even when it cuts across the lower reaches of Chingford towards the Lea Valley. That's not to say the river is always accessible, and I realised that my route here was at best speculative. The Ching flows between the back gardens of long terraced avenues, and marks the boundaries of inaccessible school fields for much of this part of its course. But first I had to pass under the railway, with the river in a narrow channel beside me as I turned into the accurately named River Walk. The yellow brick viaduct arched over both the path and the Ching - but the Network Rail information panel identified the watercourse only as 'Stream'. At the end of River Walk, an end-of-terrace house was decorated with a mural depicting a white owl in flight, and urging me to respect nature. Here the river once again disappeared between streets of pleasant victorian terraced houses, and I had to detour around these to get to yet another school where a shared cycle and footpath joined the waterway again for a brief stretch. On the other side of my path tall blocks of modern homes were being built - the first of them already occupied, bored children staring down at the footpath - on the site of Walthamstow Stadium. The map showed the distinctive oval of the dog track preserved in the footprint of the new homes, it's iconic fascia memorialised to front the development. The white wall with its distinctive lettering looked like a bright and stark headstone against the grey glass behind it. It was the spectre of a place - a lost memory that meant little to the families which now lived behind it in Parade Gardens. The river disappeared briefly underground here to pass under Chingford Road - a busy tide of traffic prioritised over a few of us hapless pedestrians navigating a complex of crossings. When I finally arrived at the other side of the road, the river re-emerged, sluggish and clotted with junk, beside the access road to a vast Sainsbury's Superstore. The temple of retail was so huge that a Holiday Inn had been enveloped by its car park - or perhaps shoppers needed to break their visit and rest overnight after trudging the endless aisles? I braved the store, needing food and facilities. It felt a little odd to be surrounded by impatient, jostling humanity after my solitary forest walk.

Emerging from Sainsbury's refreshed, I noted that the early promise of sunshine was finally being delivered. The wet car park shone back at me, and I tried to appear as unassuming as possible as I slunk off to the edge of the site near the delivery bays where vast juggernauts of produce were disgorging into the store even now. On the map at least, a footpath appeared to edge around the site, shadowing the Ching as it wound around the regenerated footprint of the infamous Chingford Hall estate. I found the path, and followed it until it finally petered out at the edge of a further huge supermarket. While the bank of the river looked walkable for some distance ahead it was fenced off and marked as private land, with dire warnings for trespassers. I negotiated the edge of the supermarket car park and took a footpath leading into the quiet streets of the estate. Chingford Hall was one of the large-scale housing developments which promised so much in the 1960s, but became synonymous with urban decay and fear in later decades. Its towers were felled, one by one, and by the early part of the 21st century it had risen again in its new form - low-rise blocks in defensible cul-de-sacs, utility blocks with local shops and pubs, public space and playgrounds. But despite following the 'Secured by Design' playbook, Chingford Hall is still troubled by tensions between gangs, poverty and isolation. The local pub was derelict and open to the elements and the chip shop owner was nervously eyeing a gaggle of youngsters staging a half-hearted food-fight across a table. The quiet Saturday afternoon was palpably tense in a way I rarely sense in inner London nowadays. The roads mocked the river's hidden passage: Burnside Avenue, Ching Way. My escape from the estate was to be via more familiar territory - and since I'd left the supermarket I'd been able to detect the drone of the ubiquitous North Circular. At the end of Ching Way, a curved brick entrance opened onto the A406 near the point I'd crossed it months ago. On the estate-facing side of the wall an ancient VCR had been hurled at the ground, splaying it's archaic electronics across the path. I stepped over it and into the maelstrom of fumes and noise beyond. It was like stepping into a wholly different world. And perhaps this mad screed of traffic marking its border is why Chingford Hall feels so inescapable? The road marks a division between territories. Crossing the footbridge seems ill-advised, and the boundary must be defended. Despite standing above six lanes of pulsing hydrocarbon fumes, I felt able to breathe without the tight knot of tension which I'd experienced in the estate.

Descending from the footbridge, I felt oddly at ease. I was in familiar territory. The vast white slab of Costco rose above the trees, and signs at the litter strewn junction of Folly Lane and Harbet Road promised more industrial estates nearby. The land here is flat and open - part of the wide plain at the bottom of the Lea Valley which is filled with a tangle of watercourses and crossed by only infrequent arterial routes. As the North Circular bucked and swerved north towards Edmonton and my recent encounters with other tributaries, I turned west. The Ching was canalised here, running in a deep concrete channel with powerlines strung overhead. The lowering sun glinted from the water, and the clouds rolled dramatically over the valley. The conditions were perfect for this liminal zone, and I found a new eagerness to walk. There was only a little more of the tiny but persistent river left as it delved, arrow-straight towards the Lea. The road weaved around a pumping station complete with attractive workers' cottages, before crossing an aqueduct carrying a man-made drainage channel parallel with the Lea. Then suddenly, I found myself above the Lea, looking at the opening of the Ching's culvert. After passing under the aqueduct the river ended inauspiciously, joining the Lea as it curled around the banks of Banbury Reservoir. The sun was low over the water, and the march of pylons was a line of brooding shadow-walkers. I paused and tried to connect the tiny brook in the forest with this green, oily ending. It had been a brief journey in terms of distance - but it occurred to me I'd probably been able to stay closer to the route of the little River Ching than I had when walking other streams. I navigated the tongue of land which housed a rapidly disappearing industrial estate. I'd walked here only a few months ago and all had seemed intact, but now buildings were hollow shells with last year's calendars flapping on their exposed interior walls. I learned later that this woudl be part of Meridian Water - a new suburb rising from the dust of Edmonton, mercifully upwind of the Waste Incinerator - at least most of the time. This eastern part of the site will be reserved for employment, and linked to new housing by means of The Causeway - presumably an upgrade of the deeply pedestrian-unfriendly bridge carrying the A406 towards Angel Road station and the west. Looking back, I didn't consider these vistas threatened or this land desirable - but now the bright frontage of the tiny, closed greasy spoon caff on Towpath Road seemed oddly poignant. As I walked south the wind carried the weird, disembodied cheers and songs from White Hart Lane over the valley, away from the bright halogen of the floodlights.

At Stonebridge Lock I rested outside the fine little café which seemed a world away from it's near neighbour just along the river. While the informal and friendly owners shambled around preparing drinks and snacks for the surprisingly steady flow of visitors, cyclists relaxed in the sun and thirsty dogs ambled around their owner's feet. I bought a coffee and sat outside, resting my legs and contemplating pushing on further than Tottenham. I felt better than I had for a long while, and I thought I could manage it. But I also wanted to rest and mull over the strange contrasts I'd experienced today. The bright winter light was lowering to the south west, and the Lea Navigation was a reflective river of black water. The edges of London are constantly torn and remade but somehow its waterways persist - in the margins of developments, delineating parcels of land, and rising in protest at being curtailed or culverted. Choosing to walk these ancient routes has linked the disjointed fringes of the city in a way I'd never have expected. I sipped my coffee and contemplated my next move.

You can see a gallery of images from the walk here.

The last couple of years have seen fairly late starts to the railtour season, which has meant lots of opportunities to plan my own visits around the country. This is both a blessing and a curse - zipping around at possibly the quietest time of the year is always pleasant enough, but finding the time and the imagination to try to plan lots of new things to do is sometimes near impossible. However this year things have conspired to place a number of pretty fantastic trips in a short space of time. Indeed there are more I could have done if I'd not had other plans in February, but having a couple of track bashing type excursions right from the outset has to be a good thing.

This had already turned into an unexpected and luxurious long weekend. A brief but enjoyable trip to Bristol yesterday, and a near-to-home start today made for a fairly easygoing itinerary. It didn't feel that easy heading out for the 05:48 this morning in fairness, as the winter finally landed with a wonderfully fresh, frosty morning. We sat waiting for the ECS of the London HST at Weston too, which set the train back just enough minutes to be worrying late. I had a +12 into the Swansea train which reverses at Bristol Parkway, but hoped to grab some breakfast and coffee on the way, knowing that Parkway was pretty much shut up this early. Thought about flagging it for my reserve train - 1M21 at 07:00, but thought it might not be wise and dashed for the 06:46. Into Parkway on time, but predictably not much open. Settled in for the short wait for the stock to arrive from Eastleigh, heralded by the rumble of 66002 tackling Filton Bank. The seating issues reared their head early, and it became clear that the whole mess was bigger than my ticket, despite my almost being bumped down to Standard being possible the most drastic outcome. Soon settled into the warm and steamed-up, but the soapy window trick soon fixed that, and I settled in for breakfast and a wonderful sunrise as we headed north through Gloucestershire.

The rest of the merry band joined at Birmingham New Street, having set out far too early and got bored and cold waiting at International. Good to see lots of familiar faces anticipating a sociable day of interesting track. Out via Leamington and Banbury before our first bit of unusual track at Oxford where we briefly waited in the loop from which the Cowley branch peels away. Lots of speculation about future access to this, before we headed around the West Curve at Didcot, and took the line through the gates of the power station. This was huge track - particularly given the difficulty of doing anything on private lines nowadays. The downside of doing the Coal Line rather than the more common Ash Line was the MGR speed limit, actually imposed on all trains - 0.5 mph! It took significantly longer than timed to make it around the loop, and on the warm stock, things became a little drowsy. There was a little concern now that perhaps we wouldn't manage the loops on the Great Western given our lateness - with a counter view that actually we'd get looped everywhere because we were out of course now.

In the event, after a quick reversal in the sidings at Appleford, we set off to cover almost all of the booked loops at Steventon, Challow, Hullavington and the most interesting for me, the Down Goods at Bristol Parkway, between the platforms and Stoke Gifford Yard. Once through the Severn Tunnel and into Wales, we headed further west tackling the loop at Alexandra Dock Junction before traversing the rare crossover to the Valley Lines platform 7 at Cardiff Central. I was into long unvisited territory here, with the Valleys being an early target after I restarted my travels. The lines to Barry had seen a further visit when Vale of Glamorgan trains started - but that too was years ago. Noted the massive redevelopment in the area, and it's gradual gentrification too. Soon we were clear of the conurbation and onto the coast as the sun began to dip - always a consequence of winter tours - with a stunning sunset over the sea and the Somerset coast beyond. I remembered the tangle of lines around Aberthaw which had confused me on my original journey, as the mainline cuts in sharply from the coast near the curious Boys Village at St.Athan. Instead we followed the line into the Reception Sidings before proceeding into the Power Station site. Somehow more impressive than Didcot, the fading light gave it an even more sinister aspect as we slowly made our way onto the Oil Line, meaning at least we kept up a reasonable pace. During the traversal of the loop we learned just how touch-and-go this whole trip had been, given the parent company's reluctance to let a passenger train into the site. Thankfully persistence and contacts had paid off, and we were soon back into the Reception Sidings and heading towards Cardiff. We'd lost a little of the time we made up though, and missed the loop at Cogan Junction - but this might well have been because of it's condition - certainly the opposite loop was very rusty indeed.

Back through Cardiff and Newport, taking the Bishton Flyover to maintain the relief lines, though this was ascertained mostly by instinct and inquiry, as it was now very dark indeed. Sadly we were around 35 late now - just late enough to make my preferred move at Cheltenham a little less robust. So, no quiet run home on 1V65 for me tonight, instead bidding folks goodbye and bailing at Bristol Parkway, via a curious dash through the train due to being stopped short on the platform. A comfortable connection into a slightly late 1V63, a decent coffee at last in Temple Meads, and then home an hour earlier than planned. Despite not touching dry land all day, and as is becoming worryingly common, not having a single photograph of the trip, a very good day out. Almost everything planned was covered, and once the seating situation had been resolved it became a very sociable occasion. Lets hope that next week's rare track excursion is just as successful...

With another complete month of weekend closures down here looming, January has become a time to get out and explore as much as possible before frustration and replacement bus bashing become the order of the day. Accordingly, I've been living on thetrainline.com awaiting availability of cheap tickets. This week it was a case of going back to the North West, since feeling pretty awful last week meant I didn't take advantage of the chance to do much in terms of new track. So, nothing complicated planned for this week - a swift run up to Wigan, over to Manchester for a circuit around Rochdale, and back via Stoke-on-Trent. Lots of miles for not too much money.

Out on 2M02 as is now customary. Slight delay at Weston waiting for 1M42 - previously the Glasgow train, now cut back to Birmingham for some reason. Not a problem, as I had an hour at New Street and we made good time throughout. Slightly concerned regarding the hot food provision made by Virgin on this service with only four bacon rolls put on board at Bristol, but managed to get one of them for breakfast by a whisker. A dull wait at New Street followed, highlight being a fruitless search around WH Smiths for a blue highlighter pen! Remarkably the coffee stall had run out of coffee - a theme seemed to be developing for the day! The Preston bound Pendolino arrived early, and was not particularly heavily loaded. Found a prime seat, but soon realised I was across the carriage from a fare-dodger who disappeared into the toilet for extended periods whenever the Train Manager appeared to be near by. Tipped off the TM on his next trip through, and was met with a noncommital 'that doesn't surprise me'. Mentally composed an email to Virgin claiming free travel to Crewe since the TM sanctioned it for this passenger!

Off at the rather bleak and windswept Wigan North Western, and a short trek up the street to the imposing frontage of Wallgate station. Descended to platform level and found a busy 142 awaiting departure for Victoria. It was a little earlier than planned, but with a tip off on connections from the guard, decided to wing it. Slight diversion from my planned route, as we went via Westhoughton and Bolton missing quite a bit of the track I was trying to cover, but it was new track nonetheless. Over the bridge at Victoria and onto one of the few remaining 155s for the short trip to Rochdale.

With a little over thirty minutes, wandered out of the station. Pretty uninspiring place in many ways, but found refreshment nonetheless, and headed back to catch a service back to Victoria via Oldham. Strangely, the informative and helpful guard from the Wigan service popped his head out of the 150 waiting to depart and tried to persuade me to go back the way I came because it was quicker. Declined, and completed my circuit the long way around. Back at Victoria, explored a bit more. I remember first coming here a good few years back just to visit, and marvelling at the tiled map of the Lancashire & Yorkshire Railway on the wall. Noticed that Victoria seems to have become a meeting place for young goths. Not a problem as such, and they seem a pretty placid bunch. Just curious why it should be so?

Caught the tram to Piccadilly and had a good long browse in the Ian Allen Bookshop. Realised there was quite an important football match going on soon after arriving at the station, mainly due to heavy police presence. Kept a low profile until departure on the 15:17 Pendolino for Birmingham. Quick platform swap at New Street for the 17:12 back to Weston. Much confusion as the service disappeared from the screens moments before its apparently 'On Time' arrival. Platform staff just as confused as passengers. It was finally called for the adjacent platform and left only a couple of minutes down. We made up time by Cheltenham and Gloucester, and ran smoothly as far as Temple Meads. Slowed to a crawl moments after leaving and stopped on a red at Bedminster. Police were attending a preceeding service at Parson Street. Realised this was my connection from Weston, but thought little more of it. Heard from our TM that BTP had called for reinforcements to deal with football fans, and that things weren't moving until they arrived. Finally got underway about 28 late, but running on the tail of the Wessex unit lost us more time. Lots of people getting hot under the collar about connections into Cornwall. Bailed at Weston to find more drunken goons on the platform awaiting the unit, now around 45 late. It finally appeared, with a visibly shaken Wessex guard and a couple of BTP officers aboard.

Strange to think that a Manchester local derby can happen without incident, but an unremarkable match in Bristol can cause so much trouble.

Sometimes things seem to work out - a short-notice day off work approved and a Virgin Value ticket available. So, set out on the 0832 Voyager from Weston, which was predictably very busy indeed. Crowds thinned out at Bristol, and whilst we waited for the road at Temple Meads I noted 60048 and 56051 beside us in the middle road having just arrived from Eastleigh. A good omen perhaps?

Changed at Birmingham New Street for a short hop to Rugby, arriving in reasonable weather - if a little chilly. Explored the station, which was surprisingly busy with fellow enthusiasts. Three Freightliner 66s stabled, along with a Virgin Thunderbird as expected. Also noted Network Rail 86901 and 86902 in the yard. Settled in at the North end of Platform 2 to see what developed.

Lots and lots of Pendolinos zipped by - sometimes only seconds apart it seemed. Not a major problem for me, as they remain something of a novelty. Clearly not interesting to the locals however! Chatted briefly with some of them about what was due - an interesting variety of freights, including another rarity for me - a DRS class 66. Things seemed to get a little busier after lunch - and I was pleased to note several class 87 hauled services passing at speed, including 87002 and 87004 on an up ECS working.


The promised freight soon began to appear, with all four freight companies represented during the day. 66060 wandered around the station after arriving with an engineers working, and two class 90 hauled Freightliners passed (although this appears unusual as pairs of class 86s normally work these I'm told). Two GBRf class 66 hauled workings passed, and finally a little later than predicted the DRS hauled 'Malcolm' train appeared heading south.




As planned, stayed until a little after 4pm when the clouds began to close in, and the sky darkened. Realised exactly how cold and tired I was. Dragged creaking bones onto a Birmingham-bound 321 and almost dozed off. Came to my senses just as we entered New Street, and noted 220034 'Yorkshire Voyager' passing by. Finally spotted this one after months of chasing it around the country!

Voyager back to Bristol again busy. Settled in to a relaxing read. An interesting and unexpected day out. Good to wander to off my usual tracks.