Thanksgiving on The Cascades 13 years ago
Posted in Updates on Thursday 22nd November 2012 at 11:26pm
It's fair to say that this site hasn't had much in the way of regular updates for a while. There are some valid, and happily very positive real life reasons for that - which are hinted at strongly in recent entries of course. But the simple truth is that a change in financial priorities has meant I've travelled far less in recent months. This leads me to consider why I've spent the last eight years on an obsessive mission to conquer the railways of the United Kingdom, and if this was really just diversionary activity? I'm thinking not - because, finding myself here on a surprisingly clear winters afternoon in the Pacific North West I'm almost childishly excited to be boarding Amtrak's Cascades service from Seattle to Portland. Again, it's also fair to say that there are lots of reasons aside from the rail trip to be enthusiastic about this journey. Not least its very impossibility just a few short weeks ago. Having crossed the Atlantic twice in quick succession, I find myself oddly, and almost disconcertingly comfortable here in Washington. The pace of city life in Seattle is a gentle ramping up from my norms rather than the dramatic shock which my early visits to the US entailed. Setting out yesterday morning on foot I didn't feel edged out of the city like non-vehicular traffic can so often be here, instead I took a tentative walk on the shining sidewalks of Pike Street, crossing the interstate and heading down into the city just emerging after a bout of rain. Puget Sound shimmered in the middle distance, beyond the landmark sign for the market. For a while I inhabited that wholly liminal position of being neither native nor tourist. I was here, unusually in my travels, with a purpose and an intent - but I was still exploring and discovering the city. On the corner near City Target, I encountered a yelling mob - which was no more than an over-enthusiastic conversation lifted direct from a Jerry Springer universe. But it demonstrated the tight zoning of the compact core of Seattle - this corner feels mildly menacing, a little edgier than the cross-streets which intersect. But it's at the heart of the retail area which bustles with European style energy. I press on to my target in the business district - the heights of an office tower which affords me unparalleled views over the cityscape. It's hard not to love this place for many reasons - and it's hard to leave for many more.
The train to Portland is a new experience - fusing the frustration of air travel with the familiarity of railways. We check in and get assigned a seat, then wait in the booking hall which only hints at the grand opulence of the under-reconstruction King Street Station. When called we shuffle out to the train - a strikingly modern Talgo set hauled by an EMD locomotive which yings just like their products do here in the UK. It's a comforting sound in some ways, and reminds me I'm about to hit the rails for the first time in this vast continent. Sure, I've done light rail systems all over the place, but this is my first intercity journey. It's a strange sensation at first to be travelling on the 'wrong' side of the formation - but I'm soon distracted by the novelty of double-height containers in stockyards, endlessly long trains of soy bean hoppers, and more immediately the luxury of settling into my seat in company - something which has almost never been a feature of my travels. Certainly, it's never been like this - and I don't want the journey to end. The route turns west to call at Tacoma, then hugs the coastline of the Sound under the Tacoma Narrows Bridge - veteran of science documentaries about harmonics, the iconic image of it swinging and bucking now replaced with a sense of awe at its fragile grace in the half-light. As we approach Olympia we retire to the Dining Car to sip beer and look at the water shimmering under the silver sky. Rakes of evergreens march up the hillsides away from the tracks, as we turn south again and head inland.
Between here and the Columbia river is something of a haze of warm, comfortable travel in rare company. It seems all too soon that we're clattering over the gridirons and bridges which dominate the northern flank of Portland, passing into previously uncharted Oregon in the process. It's early evening - a little before six - but it's dark and the city twinkles invitingly beyond the illuminated tower of Union Station. Crossing the tracks to enter the building, we're the last passengers to leave because we've been taking photographs. The grand hall of the station is a surprise - a marbled palace of generous proportions, with remarkable similarities to some of the stations back at home. We head out into the chilly, dark evening and line up for a cab to the almost painfully hip but cleverly decorated Ace Hotel - and what will be my first ever Thanksgiving. I can't help but think our way of celebrating, a long way from everything which is usually associated with this resolutely un-British occasion, will be far from traditional. As we shudder our stop-start progress through the traffic lights of Burnside and Stark, and catch the first sight of the exterior of the old hotel I recall reading that it was once The Clyde. I'm never far from Glasgow, even when I'm truly a long way off. I can't help but hope that we get to cross the other Clyde very, very soon indeed.
Once again I decided to take advantage of the early connection to London this morning. The variety of diversions and bus substitutions dogging the routes north just made things awkward, and with tours to the north-west coming up in the near future, it made sense to focus my efforts elsewhere. Over the past couple of months I've been drawn again to the south eastern corner of the country. The various little corners and curves are slowly being inked in, and I get to explore the suburbs of London into the bargain. So today's route took me to Dover. I've been here before, once many years ago for a visit and several times passing through the station. However, I've never arrived from the Canterbury direction - and this was the goal. I also got to exercise my strange recent fascination with London bus routes too, as the Circle Line was once again out of action. So after doing the customary 2M06/1A06 route into Paddington before 09:00, I emerged onto Praed Street and made my way to the bus stop which I remembered from my trip in July 2005 in very different circumstances. Soon onboard a No. 436 heading for Victoria arriving in surprisingly good time and making my way to the platform for the 09:33 via the coffee stall - beating my planned schedule by an hour as I'd budgeted for a longer bus trip. Alone in the small First Class compartment, I speculated on my earliest trips to Dover and Canterbury which had been in slam-door units which seemed like they'd be around for ever. Progress of course has it's ups and downs, and I was content to zip over the south London rooftops and into the Kent countryside once again as far as Faversham, where the train divided with the front coaches heading for Ramsgate. We however turned inland and headed for Canterbury, continuing my own strange pilgrimage.
Once through Canterbury East I was on new track. A little winter sunshine and a long time without coffee had left me feeling a little sleepy, as we curved through the unseasonably green foliage and headed for the south coast. A series of tunnels, with strange gothic arched portals which I recalled from earlier trips signalled arrival into Dover Priory, the only remaining station in this town which once teemed with railway activity on account of the ferry port. Being early, I had options here, as my planned escape route was the fast service to Charing Cross which ran hourly. So with time to spare, I decided to walk into town and see what I remembered of the place. Strangely, it was very little at all - and I wonder if I'd spent less time here than I recalled, or whether a decade or so and the success of the Channel Tunnel had really changed the place beyond recognition? Trudged down the slope towards the town with a chill wind whipping around me. Oddly, the street was strewn with old pages from newspapers and magazines - all trimmed perfectly and kept flat, but now whirling around my ankles as I walked. A few I stepped over looked unusual - the typeface reminded me of how papers looked when I was younger. Sure enough they were dated 1987. As I walked and stomped over more of the debris I noted they were all from roughly the same time - at most a two-month window during 1987-88. I imagined some local library with a hole in the roof, archivists running around trying to catch the flying exhibits in a maelstrom of newsprint. Or perhaps some eccentric hoarder had thrown his collection out into the winter wind in some sort of financially motivated despair? I toyed with the idea of collecting some of the pages to study them for links or connections, but the reaction of the locals when I took out my camera to snap the brooding castle high on the cliffs convinced me that I'd probably be lynched for scrabbling around for litter in the street. Walked on, feeling unwelcome and bewildered.
The town was to get stranger too. Once over the almost deserted ring road via a poorly timed pedestrian crossing and into the town, I recalled nothing of the place. Like many UK towns, the street could have been anywhere - the same stores in the same order. But there were no distinguishing features, no hooks to remind me of prior visits. I weaved through the small crowds moving along the street and found myself in a near deserted market square which had been regenerated to the point it was almost unrecognisable. The only life in the square was in the form of groups of howling teenagers, fighting and screaming as they ran back and forth between rival covens of black clad emo kids and sprawling, wide-trousered, spitting chavs. In fact, everyone in Dover seemed to be shouting. Friends saw each other across the street and yelled raucous, uncouth greeting, people screamed at others to move out of the way or bayed for service in queues. I made it to the point where a pedestrian underpass lead to the waterfront. The street had become a valley of decrepit shopfronts, empty except for the occasional discount emporium or amusement arcades. Feral, angry groups lined the railings and I'm ashamed to say I lost my nerve and stepped up my pace back to the station. Not even a nod to Matthew Arnold, though perhaps I heard enough of the "confused alarms of struggle and flight" in Dover's strange town centre.
Coffee and a bite to eat back at Priory Station soon revived me, and I watched trains until my express service arrived for a swift run back into London, arriving at Charing Cross - perhaps one of my least used termini. Still an hour ahead of schedule, I decided to return to the buses in the absence of the usual routes around the city. Set out into the city, dodging tourists and weaving through Theatreland in search of inspiration. I wanted to head east, into the territory which had been intriguing me recently. Eventually spotted a No. 38 which appeared to have come from Clapton Pond and set about finding it's counterpart heading back east. The buses were diverted however, and it took some walking to find a stop in use which found me not far from Bloomsbury Square and my old haunts. Hopped on board a thankfully warm bus after a short wait, and watched the city crawl by, turning north and passing The Angel and crossing into less familiar lands. Despite keeping one eye on my map, I lost track of the route as we zig-zagged towards Hackney, passing through ragged, overhung Dalston Junction and then bursting unexpectedly into busy Mare Street. Time was pressing now, as the tube back to Paddington was out and I needed to plot a way back to the station in time for my service home. So, having tried to figure out the various routes back into town via the buses we'd passed and having not really settling on a plan, I decided to unravel an earlier walk by alighting at Hackney Central station and stepping it out to Hackney Downs along Amhurst Road. Only a few minutes until the next train to Liverpool Street and then the 205 back to Paddington cresting Penton Mound in the early wintry darkness. Repeated my now regular route home on the 17:00 from Paddington with crowds of day trippers and Christmas shoppers dashing for the platform as I stumbled sleepily into the quiet coach for a thoughtful journey back to Bristol.
A long, varied and rather strange day which kept me guessing. I find myself drawn to London again, lately perhaps more than ever. Maybe it's seasonal - with the winter suiting the city with its pale sunshine and crisp, perfect walking weather?
South Coast and City Rambles 22 years ago
Posted in Railways on Saturday 22nd November 2003 at 9:02pm
Very early start. Out of Weston on the 0640. Pretty sleepy - even managed to doze part of the way to Paddington. The westbound Circle Line was in a mess due to signal failures at Tower Hill, so crept around to Victoria via Earls Court. Onto a slam-door unit (I never know how to figure out what kind, shamefully enough) for Hastings. Long slow journey due to line closure between Haywards Heath and Brighton which seemed to be causing some congestion around Three Bridges.
Once onto the coast, things ran a little smoother, but the weather was deteriorating. On arriving in Hastings at midday, it had barely managed to get light. What of hastings? Not unlike Weston in some ways - a little run down, a busy centre, the oft-repeated seaside town fault of making the main esplanade a primary route. Wandered a little, shopped for the new Belle & Sebastian single, tried in vain to find food - but found beer instead.
Headed back to the station, which was in a pretty awful mess, being half way through a reconstruction. Finally found my way to the platform for the 1333 to Charing Cross - a 375 unit. Very speedy run through ever darkening Kent countryside.
Hopped off at a drenched London Bridge. Explored Southwark Cathedral a little, and wandered around Borough Market. No sign of rain stopping, so headed over London Bridge and into the City. Got thoroughly soaked wandering to St. Stephen Walbrook, along London Wall to All Saints, and finally to Smithfield and a well-earned coffee in Cowcross Street. Circle still in chaos, so onto the Hammersmith & City at Farringdon, and hence to Paddington and home.
Long, wet and tiring day. Wandered around Weston a little, later on. Need to resist the urge to disappear again tomorrow...
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.
