Throughout my adult life I've encountered fairly little serious prejudice, for which I'm absolutely grateful. However there are a couple of low-grade issues which seem, oddly enough, to exercise people - my hatred of cheese and my lack of a driving license. Somehow these matters, when first learned by a new acquaintance and - as we all naturally do - projected on themselves, seem to incur a shudder of distress. Imagining life without parmesan and parking fines is, it seems, almost too much to contemplate for most. However, some people just can't leave it there and assume that this is some sort of handicap. Hopefully, the travels I've recounted here will dispel that. With some forethought and planning - which are never bad things anyway - there are few places I can't get to. That said, some places are just not easy at all... Yeovil. Clinging to the southeastern boundary of Somerset, and probably not more than forty miles from home. This little corner of my home county doesn't offer much in terms of attraction, and hasn't ever been much of a draw despite its official website proclaiming that its attractions could "fill several days of a holiday". Its probably been the same for much of the rest of the population over the years too - the road network doesn't facilitate easy journeys to that area, and the railway from Taunton was erased in the sweeping closures of the 1960s. Now it's either a painfully long swing around via Bristol and Bath on the train, or a multiple bus trip. Today, we had to head for Yeovil and I wasn't optimistic. After three solid weeks of torrential rain, the Somerset Levels are a glassy sea of water. As we arrived at Weston station, a further lashing of rain was being hurled at the metal roof. It didn't feel like a good sign. The aim was to mode-shift - first to Taunton by rail for speed and convenience, then to switch to bus to get into town and pick up a No.54 out to Yeovil. A long convoluted turn through central Somerset would follow, and we'd arrive in Yeovil just before the appointed hour of 10am. As we sheltered at Taunton station, it all felt tenuous and unlikely, and I began to get why people shuddered at my carless lifestyle. That said, they'd have been up just as early given traffic onto the M5, and wouldn't probably be much ahead of us right now. But of course they'd be warm, basking in the illusion of control and listening to....
Well, listening to Billy Joel if the coffee shop we stopped into was any guide. We sipped oddly acidic, weak beverages before heading back to the bus station and onto the bus which would take us to Yeovil via Langport, Somerton and Ilchester. Some of these towns were just names on a map, or timing points on the railway which no longer had stations. Having spent my early life poring over maps of Somerset, this was something of an adventure for me. We set off, and once we'd escaped the urban sprawl of Taunton and the motorway hugging Blackbrook business area, the true scale of the flooding became evident. The bus hoved into the middle of the carriageway to plough through churning lakes of uncertain depth which lay on the road. The fields around us were a silvery mirror of water, with distant church towers rising like lighthouses. I'd seen the Sedgemoor part of the levels like this of course, the tiny roads like causeways - but the lower levels were a broader, emptier sweep of land, and thus were breathtakingly strange to see like this.
The little towns we passed through were interesting and merited mental notes to come back. Langport saw us meet the road from Bridgwater not far from where the swollen River Parrett passed under the road. It was also our first encounter with the London to Taunton railway line which really ought to have stations in these growing, prosperous spots. We met it again at pretty Somerton, an ancient capital of the Kingdom of Wessex, all sandstone buildings and market town charm. Turning south we trailed the wide floodplain of the River Cary, denied an exit to the sea by the canalised King Sedgemoor Drain, it wreaked havoc here on the valley floor instead, spilling crazily into fields and moorland. Despite the stormy start, the day was shaping up to be bright and cold. The views across waterlogged fields stretched as far as the eye could see. Finally we crossed the mighty A303, swinging beneath us and aiming directly for Stonehenge and London, before curving through tiny Ilchester and into the gravity of Yeovil.
Not much had changed from my hazy memories of twenty-odd years back. The town is still approached by a series of roundabouts and a ring road which carves unpleasantly into the town itself, betraying the forlorn backs of shops and businesses to the visitor. Beyond that I didn't remember much - a family visit and one evening for a gig on Heavenly's 'Crap Towns' tour - hadn't left me with much material to work with. So arrival at The Borough, in the middle of a fine little street of shops was a pleasant surprise. St. John's church loomed, squat and yellow in the winter sun, and was surrounded by pleasant small stores and restaurants. The place bustled in a way I hadn't remembered. In fact, my memory was of racial disharmony - attacks on take-away owners - and of anti-social behaviour. I remember us standing in a small knot at the edge of that Heavenly gig, while the local youth went wild. Not to the music. Just because they did that all the time. It was hard to settle that with the first impression today. I headed to a recently opened branch of my favourite local coffee chain and settled in to eat, drink and read - the place thrummed with a pleasant energy and was never empty. I saw out a brief rainstorm and headed onto the High Street under a rainbow. The top of the hill echoed the first impression - good old buildings, used wisely by decent stores, with the ancient street layout defining the townscape. As I slogged down hill though, things changed. Firstly The Quedam.... My father and I would joke about this - our former local radio station, Orchard FM, would advertise this shopping centre four or more times every half-hour, with an absurdly optimistic recession-defying jingle. It was looking a little tired and betraying it's late-1980s heritage. The descending curve of a street parallel to the High Street was lined with a jumble of heritage bungalow storefronts. The haphazardness was carefully planned to resemble the shopping street this may once have been, the name appropriated from the town's Roman history. The Quedam was a sham - the side of the street which abutted the High Street was mainly a series of back entrances to the stores which had their main windows looking onto the established shopping thoroughfare. There were a fair number of empty units, and few folks around on a January Tuesday. At the end of The Quedam, there was a fork in the path - a turn onto the High Street to face a despairingly ugly 1970s block, with an impossibly large discount store at its foot - or a turn into Glover's Walk. This was an earlier experiment in shopping, and linked the town to it's bus station via a brief, tiled precinct. A favourite flourish of developers thirty or so years back. Now it was a gloomy, empty walkway lined by sorry looking market stalls. A promising but beleaguered craft store solidered on, and near the Bus Station The Gorge cafe was prosperous despite it's dated red vinyl and gloomy dark wood interior.
I retraced my steps to The Borough, marvelling at how many strata of retail developments could co-exist in such a small town. Here, where the historic town market would have assembled, it was hard to envisage how a walk down the hill would become more and more depressing. I sipped coffee, relaxed and waited by the 'phone for my escape route from the town. The bus, as it left, took us a circuit of the ring road, the service lanes to the shopping centres carving off into the knot of the Town Centre, the sun glinting off the roof of the pretty church. Yeovil is a part-charming, part-horrifying mess of a town. In some ways my former conceptions were challenged, and in others confirmed. It's hard to imagine a reason to come back here for almost the same amount of time - despite the curiosity of bus routes deeper into the hinterland and the interest of it's railway heritage. Well over ten years ago, I restarted my long campaign to travel every possible railway line with an attempt to avoid Yeovil entirely, an opportunity which will be repeated soon when the lines locally are closed. It's strange how I've always felt this way about the place, despite the changes I saw today.
The year has started uneasily, and I found myself looking forward almost desperately to this trip - a chance to escape and not have to consider some of the really pretty irritating things which have been going on just lately. My injured foot ached, and wearing brand new boots probably wasn't a smart move either, but as I dragged my sorry self to the station I knew that it was imperative I got moving. Today was a bit of a random gluing together of several imperatives - some visits I'd not realised I was going to make, some revisitations of old territory and some familiar and comfortable trips to soothe the soul. I started out as early as possible, making the switch to the London train at Weston. Oddly, some late running on the first Down service meant the stock hadn't arrived, so had the novelty of watching the ECS terminate before boarding, getting breakfast and dozing and reading my way to sunrise. This happened somewhere around Didcot, a golden and clear morning. This is one of the best reasons to leave so early.
The first target was Liverpool Street. With C2C services running out of the station due to work at Fenchurch Street, this meant the novelty of the Woodgrange Park section, and the flyover at Barking. Nothing new, but it had been a while. My objective was Tilbury Town. I'd been reading about Tilbury and wanted to square my image with the reality. After a slow journey, padded with excess delay minutes to mop up any issues on the diversion, we sped up over the flat empty marshes at Purfleet before pulling into the rather grim station at Tilbury Town. To the south, the dock wall blocked any view at all, and to the north the boarded up facade of Dock Road. A range of deleted and closed businesses, shutters down. The Post Office closed - unclear if it was forever - it's former pub status proclaimed by the "Toby Stout" tiling above the doors. A pawnbroker nearby had lost two of the balls from the traditional emblem, just a single pendulum hanging outside the shop - one of the few still open. Pressing into the side streets soon indicated that this short parade was Tilbury. There was nothing behind the facade. So, I moved east toward the junction with Calcutta Road and a Metropolitan Water Trough celebrating the founding of Tilbury Town in 1912. One hundred years later, there was little left. Across the street was Rourke's Drift - a boarded up guest house of terrifying aspect, beside a yard also belonging to the mysterious Rourke. Uncomfortable with the empty streets and the attention of the Dock Police car which was now tailing me as I pointed my 'phone camera at things, I returned to the station and to the relative comfort of London, much earlier than planned.
With some time on my hands, I made a slow circuit to Marylebone, using one of the new S-Stock underground trains. These subsurface only units are proving troublesome and deliveries have been halted, but the ones in operation on the Metropolitan Line seem pretty reasonable to me. Air-conditioned, and open plan so that passengers can pass along the train through wide gangways like the Class 378s on the overground, they feel safe, light, open and spacious. The short hop to Baker Street was an enjoyable enough ride. Wandered to Marylebone via Dorset Square, hoping to sit and read away some of my spare time, but the private garden was locked. Noted a plaque unveiled to celebrate the first MCC match being played on Dorset Fields, before heading into the station and finding a spot to watch activity while I waited. It was a fairly quiet time, the midst of the afternoon lull in the rather beautiful old station. I don't use this place enough I decided, and I noted I'd still not tried the new 'mainline' locomotive-hauled services on weekdays. Today's traction was a Class 168. It was comfortable, not too crowded and had Wi-Fi and power sockets. It takes a few minutes longer by this route than using Virgin from Euston, but the route is a pleasure to travel - rolling Chiltern countryside and graceful old Great Western stations are the order of the day. Even Banbury's 1960's concrete cavern has a certain charm, if only in the period typography around the station. The sun set over the M40 as we sped north west, a relaxing and calm trip despite a precocious child demanding attention a few seats away. Headphones on and tuned into the countryside and the rails rather than the passengers, the time sped by. This trip cost the princely sum of £5 by advance ticket. I'd promote this more, but I want it to stay a secret.
Leaving the splendid GWR terminus at Birmingham Moor Street, I walked the few feet into the centre and found a chaotic Saturday still winding down. No room to sit and contemplate coffee, so wandered back to New Street via a strange encounter with a rather well-to-do, middle class Irish woman. She stopped me, very specifically and asked if I had any change because she was recently homeless. I looked at her and wondered - who knew if mental health issues, domestic abuse or some sort of relationship breakdown had put her onto the street? Given that no-one else appeared to be stopping for her I delved into my pocket and grabbed a fistful of copper and silver. "It's just pence" I said, "but you're welcome to it". She looked a little scornfully at me and said "it doesn't matter". Trying to read this situation, I played for time with a rather silly "are you sure?". Was she upset because it wasn't enough, or was this some sort of test to see if I'd stop? If so, had I passed by stopping - or had I proved that people give indiscriminately to those why don't need it. She flapped her hands at me, irritated "go, no it's fine". I left, feeling confused and foolish.
I mulled over this encounter with coffee as I waited for the familiar 1V65 home. It made little sense, and I'd been very tempted to go back to find her to demand some sort of explanation. I had no right of course, and it was very unlikely she'd be there. I even checked my pockets and bag, imagining it had been some sort of distraction technique. I put it out of my mind, boarding the refreshingly quiet train and heading home in the dark, head buried in a book. It had been just the distracting, diverting day I needed.
Manchester, So Much to Answer For 20 years ago
Posted in Railways on Saturday 7th January 2006 at 8:19pm
Having picked up a stomach bug somewhere during the week and needing to retire hurt from work yesterday lunchtime, today's trip was uncertain right up to this morning. Crawled out of bed a little after five, feeling acceptable but not really tip top. Put that down to the unsociable hour and set out for the station in cold but dry conditions. The plan was simple enough - up the West Coast Main Line to Warrington, over to Manchester and then to Liverpool for a Pendolino trip most of the way home. The way back was to be in First Class simply because that's the only reduced rate ticket I could get hold of.
Changed for the 07:02 off Weston and secured a warm seat in the Quiet Coach. Purchased refreshments and felt much better. Managed to doze a little between Bristol and Birmingham, having slept badly. The day started dingy and got wetter and darker as we progressed northwards. Just about light enough to spot a number of DRS 37s at Basford Hall and a clutch of four 60s at Crewe station. On time at Warrington, where 92037 was stabled. Arriva connecting service astonished me by being on time for the short run via Newton-le-Willows into Piccadilly.
Feeling a little grim now, so didn't stray far from the station. Grabbed some reading matter so I could just sit quietly somewhere for a bit. Heavy police presence meant that 'lurking' around the station was discouraged it seems. Rebooked and headed for a Liverpool train, which would give me more time to wander around there. Central's fast service was 22 down so settled for 150228 on a Northern Trains stopper. This unit had frankly seen better days. The 3+2 seating and livery did give me a brief and unpleasant recollection of how Wessex's 150s used to look. Some blessings to count I suppose!
Lime Street station hasn't changed much since I last visited. It's still a strange mix of busy local station and important mainline terminus. Not quite sure which it is, but acceptable at both. Stomach feeling much worse now, so attempted to walk it off by venturing into the city. Lots of the work on refreshing the centre of Liverpool was still ongoing when I last visited. In fairness, some of it still isn't finished - but the European Capital of Culture 2008 status seems to be moving things along. Despite feeling really awful, managed to detect the strange note of optimism which always strikes me here. Didn't wander far from Lime Street as I was concerned I wouldn't make it back! Ended up watching football and scrolling BBC news on a huge screen in the city centre - including a memorable story about a radio chat show caller who died on air. Strange the things which grab you when you're nursing a bellyache in a drizzly Merseyside shopping centre! Headed back to the station, and found a strange little second-hand book shop on the approach. It was incredibly cold inside, with the proprietor and his friend in huge anoraks and gloves, huddled around an electric heater and nursing mugs of tea. Browsed for a while before settling on an interesting volume entitled London in the Country - The Growth of Suburbia. I'm sure there were more treasures to be had, but I didn't feel up to the hunt.
Back to the station with a bit of time to kill before the 15:03 Pendolino, so got some tea and read for awhile. Being warm seemed to help a bit, so I boarded the train as soon as it was available. The concept of First Class being at the front in London is fine, except it means that at Lime Street its stuck out of the end of the recently refurbished roof, in the mouth of a damp tunnel and most of the way to Edge Hill. Got damp, but boarded safely. Alone in the front carriage of 390001, warm, comfortable and feeling a lot better. Smooth ride back to Stafford in the deepening gloom with only a slightly exaggerated tilt around Weaver Junction to stir up my stomach troubles!
Took my only photograph of the day at Stafford in failing light. Quick change onto the following Pendolino which was heading for New Street. Again, only a couple of people in the carriage. Managed to doze off on the seemingly endless stretch between Wolverhampton and New Street. On arrival a quick hop over to the Plymouth-bound Voyager which took me right back to Weston. First Class on the Voyager was a little busier but still comfortable and restful. Over the bridge at Weston and onto the 19:15 for home. Arrived feeling sleepy and pretty grim, but glad I'd done the trip despite my concerns. Time for some much earned sleep...
Hard to describe the sense of frustration I've experienced today. Not a good one at all. Can't quite pin down exactly why, because there were certainly good parts - even some quite amusing moments at work, which is rare enough to merit comment.
Lots of silly things seem to be taking on a magnitude inordiate to their importance. For example, my attempts to cook turned out to be misguided, which felt catastrophic today!
Looking forward to travelling to London on Saturday, and prior to that a rare chance to meet decent, normal people on Friday!
I've booked lots of time off in the coming months in an attempt to firstly use up my allocation, and secondly to get a decent break.
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.
