It felt good to be on the move again. Despite my committed trainspotter status, I've begun to relax into our road trips and to appreciate the opportunity to see familiar places from a new angle. This time was a little special, and I was childishly excited to be setting off having spent a night in the curious hotel I'd walked by just last month. Our night on the fringe of Essex was surprisingly quiet and relaxing - waking to a misty view over Epping Forest and taking an early train journey into the yawning and stretching city, the fog slowly lifting to reveal a weak, wintery sunshine. We'd set off early and grabbed a coffee in the rather quaint surroundings of Buckhurst Hill - a little village centre in the midst of the suburbs. People came and went, their Sunday morning ritual observed. We lingered before setting off along the High Road and intersecting with another of my recent walking routes. It felt strange to be driving the route I'd walked, joining the North Circular at Waterworks Corner near the spot where my route had come to a slithering, muddy halt just short weeks ago. On a Sunday morning the A406 was still a river of traffic, but it flowed steadily and easily. I'd crossed and recrossed the route so often in this quadrant that unlikely landmarks suggested themselves: footbridges, sliproads and underpasses that had figured in my wanderings were oddly familiar - but striking seen from another angle. The road curved south, dropping into the Roding Valley and stalking the line of electricity pylons which had shadowed my walk through Ilford into an unexpected monsoon. The flyover buckled over the road into town, striding ahead on stilts to meet the A13 at Barking Creek while Tate and Lyle's works at Silvertown glinted in a patch of distant sunlight. As we cruised down the ramp onto this road of which I'd made a particular study and had walked beside for miles, the dust and accumulated detritus whipped against the railings: "there's so much trash!". The A13 was a rollercoaster to the sea - bridges leaping and twisting between the edges of industry and the broad marshes. Over the Roding, over the strangely makeshift construction at Lodge Avenue, turning south and east to amble over Rainham Marsh. Still so much drifting plastic rubbish, so much dust and burned earth. The aroma of the waste reclamation site hung heavy over the brooding marshland.

From some miles away we'd seen the Queen Elizabeth II Bridge arcing over the estuary, with speck-like vehicles hurrying over it's bowstrung deck. As we closed in, sliding effortlessly over the marshes which I'd walked with sore feet counting each step, the bridge felt unreal and fragile. Joining the lines of traffic climbing to its apex, all I could see ahead were the towers set against the pale estuarine skies. Beside us, the brown churn of the Thames was still and waveless. Lights winked from the tops of towering cranes at London Gateway, and to the west there was a smudge of silver-grey where the towers of Docklands stood. The nose of the car was down now, pointing at the green earth of Kent. We turned east again, the river visible here and there as Dartford slipped into Gravesend, before we disappeared into a chalk gorge with the High Speed railway line beside us. Suddenly we burst into an open vista of rolling, green woodland. The road marched ahead on a broad viaduct, with the sprawling Medway valley beneath us. There was surprisingly little trash to be found lining this route. South of the river is a different world, even out here it seems.

At Medway Services, a relic from the early 1960s which bridges the road offering a view back west as traffic crests the hill and zooms underneath M&S and Costa, we paused for coffee. We were nearing our destination for the remainder of our weekend, and needed to review the complex instructions for accessing the Canterbury Cathedral Lodge. The experience was pitched somewhere between a red carpet celebrity arrival and an East Berlin checkpoint: after navigating the ring road around the city walls, we entered an otherwise restricted road and turned a sharp right to a gated entrance. Our name was enough to lift the barrier. Permitted to enter only long enough to deposit our bags and collect a parking permit, we were soon to learn that rules and regulations were the engine of this place. Waking on our first morning I took my customary stroll. The sky was a dull pink-grey, the sun just beginning it's ascent. I gazed up at the butter-yellow stone of the Cathedral as I walked towards the gate, so impressively close to our lodgings. I was brought up sharply by a voice asking me to stop. The uniformed Catherdral Constables protected the precinct outside public hours with a grim determination: "How did you get in here?". I showed the pass card the hotel had issued - but that wasn't enough. ID was required - but I had none. Not being a driver, and not customarily carrying a passport in my home country, I wasn't able to support my pass with the correct credentials. "What are we going to do now?" the Constable asked sarcastically. My suggestion didn't help at all - "Find a real policeman?". Eventually they decided that a fistful of bank cards and suchlike bearing the same name would do, and let me out into the streets of the city. It felt oddly liberating to be among the tumbling old buildings and hidden alleyways of this ancient place. I headed for the River Stour and sat for a while in the quiet of Abbot's Mill Garden, the water cascading through a tangle of channels which once fed the wheels.

Despite the regime at the hotel which felt equally oppressive and challenging inside the building as out, we managed to relax and enjoy the city. Because of the atmosphere of a religious retreat inside, escaping the gates felt like an exhalation - and elsewhere in Canterbury we found friendly service, excellent food and very little of the bleak Protestant disapproval which the Lodge seemed to be founded on. Oddly, inside the Cathedral building too, the atmosphere was immediately different - charged with significance and history, the sheer burden of time crushed the fusty rules and deferred all to a higher authority. The vast nave stretched into the distance, rising to form Trinity Chapel where St. Thomas Becket's bones lay until disturbed by Henry VIII. He didn't prevail entirely here - this by far the most colourful, most Catholic of Anglican churches - right here at the heart of the diluted, English faith. Much of British history wound back to this place but it was far from an inert shrine for display purposes only: as we shuffled along the wall of remarkable monuments a funeral was beginning in the Quire. All too soon it was time to begin the trip home, but there was a further stop to make first. After a winding journey along country roads, tailgated by white vans and nearly side-swiped by throbbing BMWs, we turned a corner to witness the stark towers of the ruins at Reculver. I'd seen this uncanny, sublime view from the train window many times but close at hand, on it's clifftop roost, the scale of the proud, surviving towers was impressive. We walked the path to the towers, the flat field beside them covering the remains of a roman fortress. This spot had defended the coast for centuries - and the towers had served as a waymark for boats using the long disappeared Wantsum Channel and a navigation aid for the treacherous Thames estuary. Looking out across the water I could see distant ranks of wind turbines, and between them the eerily animate shadows of the Maunsell Forts at Shivering Sands. Beyond lay distant Essex, where this journey had started - and where I had further ground to cover, more business with this estuary. Lately, I'd been reading and thinking much about Charles Olson, and his words suddenly fell perfectly into step with the view across the water:

It is undone business
I speak of, this morning,
with the sea
stretching out
from my feet

Charles Olson, Maximus To Himself, 1960

We headed back to the car to make the long drive west. Once again, Kent had surprised me with it's ability to ensnare me in it's history and to make me want to return. The haunting views at Reculver needed to be considered further, their stories unravelled in detail. We followed the taillights back towards London, and home.

There is a small gallery of pictures from the trip here.

Inspired by last weeks' successful dash around Cornwall and the availability of a fairly new Day Ranger ticket, we decided to repeat the experiment in the Thames Valley area today. There was no new track - in fact, these branches had featured early on in my return to track bashing back in 2004 - but it promised to be a decent day weather-wise, and this offered a sociable and fairly low-stress day out. At least, that's how it was meant to work out...

Set out early in the time-honoured fashion. To Weston, then sleepily onto the early London train. Diverted via Hawkeridge Junction once again, so a quiet and uneventful run up the B&H to get to Reading. The station here was beginning to wake up, and with the all-important coffee supply secured, we headed for the booking office to buy our Thames Branches Day Ranger tickets. In truth, I have bad memories of booking rover tickets - the confusion, denial, reluctance and final acquiescence of a legion of ticket office clerks being a well-worn routine. Mostly, it takes time - almost as if procrastination will lead to you changing your mind and saying 'don't bother, give me a return to Pewsey' instead. However, I've got to admit this was impressive - quick, knowledgeable and presented with a smile! As a result decided to go for a slightly earlier train than planned to Ealing Broadway. This meant a little time to take some pictures of the passing traffic - something the winter light has prevented for what seems like months now.

From Ealing, the first target was the Greenford branch. None of us needed this in it's entirety, but the link to the bay platform was new to those who'd done the line on Virgin's 'blockade buster' trains which used the link to the Chiltern line here. A quick trip up and back in now brilliant sunshine. Took the return service back as far as Paddington, enjoying the unusual opportunity to see the passing scenery from the slow lines! Time for more coffee, before heading back west to Maidenhead for the next branch. It's probably clear that we hadn't done these branches in any sort of logical order. The plan was to keep moving, get some miles under our belts, and ultimately end up at Windsor for a brief run on the Southern as a bonus. A quick change of platform at Maidenhead and on to a waiting 165131 in the Marlow platform. A bit of a scoop, since according to my records I needed this unit for sight. I doubt it personally given the number of trips I've done up and down here, but nevertheless now it was in the book. It wasn't however, destined to be a lucky unit for me. All started out well enough, with a sunny stagger up the branch through Furze Platt and Cookham - remembered from a childhood boating holiday as well as a more recent visit by rail. We reached Bourne End, and waited while the preparations were made for the reversing manoeuvre. We waited quite a while in fact...

Eventually, after several optimistic announcements, the train staff were forced to give in. The brakes wouldn't released and the set was a failure. Bourne End is not a good place to break down it seems, despite being a fairly substantial staffed station for such a small village, there is little in the way of local transport. The guard tried valiantly to secure some form of onward travel but was struggling. Control said no trains, and taxis and minibuses were some time away. In an effort to get back on track we allied ourselves with those going back to Maidenhead rather than pushing on to Marlow - which didn't quite work out as planned as efforts seemed to be focused on getting to Marlow and picking us up on the return of the minibus! Eventually found a bus stop with an hourly service to Maidenhead, paid up and trundled pleasantly enough through the countryside back into town. By the time we left Bourne End, no alternative transport had arrived - but the train had recovered enough to leave empty. After our pedestrian bus ride, we wandered back into the station to find 165131 sitting back in the bay platform waiting to work the next Marlow train! We decided not to let this annoy us too much - and to press on with our plan albeit without Marlow or Henley-on-Thames.

We squeezed onto the next London service as far as Slough, changing there for the short trip down the branch to Windsor and Eton Central. The station with its grand arcade was buzzing with people, and we tried to slip through as quickly as possible, taking a brief wrong turn as guided by an altered road sign. Once I'd regained my bearings we pushed on down the hill beside the castle, and soon found ourselves in the cool and calm of Riverside station. One of the high capacity refitted class 450 units ticked quietly in the platform. Rebooked as far as West Brompton and tried to decide which of the two independent coffee outlets on the station to choose from. Eventually stumped for the one staffed by a rather enigmatic young French barista. Not great coffee, but a fantastic accent! From Windsor, we made good progress through the south western suburbs of London as far as Clapham, where with a bit of a wait for the next Overground train to West Brompton, we watched 'Tangmere' shunting around the yard and station before working it's homeward tour. Lots of steam cranks appeared to be running from one end of the platform to the other as the engine moved around. Soon onto a wedged 313 to West Brompton, changing for the District Line back to Paddington. The trip home wasn't uneventful either, with a fair number of Bristol City fans boarding at Reading and proceeding to dismantle a toilet, harass a passenger or two and generally make the journey a little less than pleasant. The BTP descended pretty swiftly on arrival at Bristol, and I'm reliably informed that action is being taken by the club too.

A strange, disjointed but overall enjoyable day spent pottering around west of London. There will need to be another trip for those branches of course...

Today was a strange one. I set out for my customary weekend escape, this time intending to seek new track in West Wales. Set out from Weston on the replacement bus service to Temple Meads, and thence to Newport. At this point the full effect of the disruption due to a fatality at Paddington early this morning became clear, with everything going West very heavily delayed. I was unlikely to make any sort of reasonable connection to Milford Haven now, ill-served as it is at the best of times. I pressed on to Cardiff with no clear idea of quite what to do, in a 142 full of unhappy punters who I didn't even have the energy to stare disapprovingly at!

On arrival at Cardiff I'd decided that I'd be giving up and sending for a refund on this one. Decided to try to clear up the few remaining Valley Lines branches on a One Day Ranger. Set out first to get the City Line as far as Radyr, with a thought of 37's to Rhymney later. The guard on the Radyr train asked me if I was going to the 'naming at Merthyr?'. I'd read about this but utterly failed to connect it with today...37417 was being named "Richard Trevithick" in honour of the 200th anniversary of the Penydarren's first run today. Thanked the guard for the tip, and resolved to try to get to Merthyr.

On arriving at Radyr I was one of a small group of photographers and spectators freezing quietly on the platforms. The train was working push-pull with 37406 "The Saltire Society" leading up to Merthyr, and was running as the 11:56 service train. It was reported wedged leaving Cardiff, as it was reduced to three coaches (one full of dignitaries) to fit both 37's onto the short platforms at Merthyr. Hence, it was not calling at stations south of Pontypridd. A few minutes later through the hazy winter sunshine we saw 37406 thundering off the curve. The train stormed through Radyr and disappeared up the valley. Philosophically I accepted I wasn't getting those 37's today, and set about some more Vallery wanderings, with the help of a friendly driver who promised to 'take it slow round the shed' so I could see what was at Canton Depot. Nice people up here!

Arrived back at Queen Street in time to notice that 37417's return run was due in at any time...squeezed into the rear coach and got 0.75 miles behind 37417 into Central! Finished the day with a trip out to Maesteg and then to Penarth, meaning I've finally finished the valleys, with a little history thrown in for good measure!

End of a long and trying working week. Running to stand still in terms of workload, and lots of change on the way. Persuaded colleagues into a lunchtime pub visit. Lots dropped out, but we still had a pleasant few pints. Feel a little more comfortable in my team role, if a little bewildered by the goings on around me. Raymond Williams book arrives. Possible future housing disquiet on the horizon?