Hidden, but not Lost - The Roding Valley 10 years ago
Posted in London on Saturday 11th June 2016 at 11:06pm
As the Central Line train howled and screeched along the interminably long section between Stratford and Leytonstone, I mused on my hasty plans for today. Again I'd be drawn to the north-eastern fringe of London - to the area where pale green and white expanses fill those pages of the A-Z with no continuity markers at their edges. My musing on the comfortable hamlets on the edge of Essex a month or so back had brought me back to the map to consider their alignment. This in turn drew my eye along the next sliver of green to the east - the Roding Valley. Of course I'd encountered the Roding before almost exactly a year ago, at its estuary where Barking Creek tumbles into the Thames. The reek of sewage and industry seemed very far indeed from this twisting green ribbon, opportunistically squatted by the sinuous M11 and its feeders, which invited a visit. A year ago at the edge of the Creek I'd resolved to add the river to my list of walks - but it's passage seemed distant and less important then. Today though, still spinning from the confusion of a testing week at work, it felt like a perfect target. It seemed a simple walk on the map too...
The Central Line in West Essex is a curious, twisting railway formed from a mixture of extensions to the original Central London Railway and the annexing of former Great Eastern Railway branches. Far from the centre of anything, a strange, post-war feel lingers around the stations on the line's extremities: enamel roundels resolutely remain on platforms and white painted canopies still run the length of the tidy, red brick stations. Only the presence of ticket gates and Oyster readers shoehorned unforgivingly into ticket halls reminds me that I'm in the 21st century here. Debden is no exception. A tiny station on the very fringe of the capital conurbation, the last stop before the Central Line flings out east to Theydon Bois and Epping. To the west of the station the commuter village straggles along the road out of town, but to the east there's nothing but countryside and motorway. This is where I'll start walking - here on the edge of things. The road is marked for Epping and Ongar - five and ten miles away respectively. Ahead of me the carriageway dips to pass under the M11 and then onwards into the rolling hills of Essex. The view couldn't be more English - a concrete slash through a green undulation. A little before the motorway crossing I turn south, a farm gate beside a battered sign for the Roding Valley Way leads onto a track which soon disappears into tall grass. The narrowest of ways worn in previous seasons, slowly growing over. I plunge in, realising I'm really not prepared for this walk in some ways. The noise of the motorway is still present, but muffled by the greenery. A distinctive chimney-sweeper moth flits across the path. Despite the line of tiled rooftops in the near distance indicating Loughton, I'm alone. It's been difficult to relax this week - sometimes painfully so - and the quiet hum of grassland swishes and chitters is remarkably soothing. The regular thrash as I beat through the grass, following the indistinct trail is satisfying too. My walks have taken me to the very edge of the city on plenty of occasions - but this is by far the most rural location yet. Glimpsing the shallow but broad stream of the Roding for the first time, I'm struck how clear the water is - and how the riverbed is mostly free of human detritus. The river bucks and curves in a wide, flat valley here - perfect for railway and motorway building - and they both flank its course along the north-eastern edge of London, hemming in the valley, but oddly protecting it too - making the narrow, irregular belt of green difficult to develop. Instead it is a ribbon of municipal playing fields, sports clubs, public parks and allotments - and sometimes just a rough scramble of grass and earth, tall reads and water-meadows. This is really somewhere rather special.
It soon becomes pretty clear that this walk will follow the course of the valley floor rather than hugging the bank of the river. The path casts me westward, out of the grassland and into a neat playing field. The ubiquitous joggers pad by and dog walkers watch their animals capering in the water. Near a cricket club I spot a tiny bridge arcing over the river, dedicated to a local politician - I take a picture but continue to walk the western bank. Oddly, this bridge could have saved me from a diversion and kept me near the water - but instead I follow the path, hoping that the gap in the line on the map is an omission. It seems to be at first - plunging me along a well-worn track between the river and a lake. I'm confronted suddenly by a fisherman barking into his mobile as he strides back and forth: "I had to drop the boy off at Heathrow.... Nah, three hours before departure now..... Can you facking be-lieve that?". I emerge into another playing field and skirt the edge, following a clearly beaten path to its south-eastern corner. I trust the faintly worn desire-line here, leaping a little ditch and ending up on a rough track where the Roding passes under a lane bearing its name. There's no way through, and no way onto the lane. I follow the track to another frustratingly locked gateway before retracing my steps over the ditch. I finally resort to thrashing out of a tiny but well-trodden gap in a hedgerow onto a beautifully manicured cricket pitch. Interception seems likely - so while I edge around the boundary rope I rehearse arguments about the inadequacy of the map. Checking later I noted that there was another bridge which would have taken me into the environs of a nearby health club - but ultimately further away from the water. My wish to walk as close to the river as possible was, it seemed, drawing me away from it.
After establishing that there was no immediate continuation of the path, I struck out west, into Buckhurst Hill. I broke into a sweat on the gradual rise, realising that it was in fact getting hot despite the grey skies. I decided to pause and apply sun-cream at some point to avoid the strange stealth-tans I seem adept at picking up. Before I reached the main London-bound road I turned aside into suburbia, following Alfred Road and the wonderfully riverine Cascade Road until a tiny public footpath took me back towards the river. Hemmed in between overgrown allotment gardens and the river, it was cool and pleasant - and I hoped I could at least follow the course for a while. The trees soon opened to reveal the great brick archways carrying the quiet Hainault Loop of the Central Line over the valley. The red arc above me felt solid and surprisingly broad for a two-track railway serving the quiet settlements of the valley. I passed under the arch and immediately faced a choice - turning east and crossing the river, scrambling up a slope beside the bridge, or pushing on through an overgrown track between waist-high nettle beds. I was determined to stick to the west bank - more by instinct than judgement - and because the eastern route appeared on paper at least to meander out of the footprint of the river and motorway which had drawn me this way. A few metres and a sharp turn into my daring jungle mission I admitted defeat and turned back. The nettles were waving around my ears now, and the path becomes less distinct the further I go. There was no clear view of how far ahead I might find a way out of this, so it was back to the viaduct. I emerged, covered in seeds and pollen, sneezing and frustrated. The only sensible way - it seemed to me - was up the bank. I scrambled up, my boots doing fine work in keeping me vertical until the very last few steps when I felt like I was about to slither back to the foot of the bank on my belly. My hands grasped pointlessly at strands of reedy grass in some sort of strange faith that just grabbing a hold would stop my tumble. Instead, instinct kicked in and I pitched my not inconsiderable bulk forward with an unseemly grunt. Using momentum to carry me over the brim of the slope, I stumbled ungracefully into yet another private sports ground. The rugby pitches of Bancroft RFC were being manicured and primped, posts re-cemented. A tractor puttered along the southern fringe trimming tall grass. Unsure if I should be here I took courage from a lone dog walker circuiting the pitch and press on along the northern edge, heading diagonally across an unkempt patch of ground to reach the driveway and to escape without being apprehended. Once back out on the street I started to feel frustrated - could I have pushed on and found a way through? Should I just have accepted the eastern bank was more walkable despite the diversions and meanders away from the river? After all - here I was, once again in a pleasantly dull, suburban street with the river already some way behind me. I turned south and trudged on. The mix of interwar council housing and the larger detached properties were comfortingly monotonous. The occasional "Vote LEAVE" posted reminded me of the demographic of this edge of Essex territory. Streets were closed for a Queen's Birthday street party, bunting dangling from the 'temporary closure' notices. At the end of Oxford Road there appeared to be a pathway which led to a bridge which would get me to what appeared to be a much better kept path on the eastern bank, and which seemed to continue much further without interruption. I was back on course...
For a while, at least - the pathway was clearly marked Roding Valley Way and after an unpromising dog-leg around a sports ground, gave way onto a pleasant public park. I could see my route ahead disappearing into the trees fringing the river, so I decided to rest a while and apply sunblock. The dull ache of the clouds was breaking and I sensed a warm afternoon ahead. It felt portentous and stormy. I watched a huge, muscled black guy conducting what appeared to be an endearingly tender conversation via mobile while his slavering Bull Terrier worried him to throw a ball despite its apparent inability to stumble along at more than a few inches per second. Finally I decided it was time to press on, and headed for the bridge - only to find it gated and locked. There seemed to be no reason - it was in good repair, and the path on the opposite bank of the river was in use. I turned back again, passed the drooling dog waiting for its next low-speed chase and headed into the park. As I followed the long driveway from the strangely serrated roof of the visitors centre to the street, a police car edged along ahead of me before spotting a suspicious rough-sleeper in the hedge and peeling off across the grass to investigate. A little crowd assembled - but I headed for the exit. This stretch of the walk had been frustrating and I wanted to escape the suburbs. I turned onto the wonderfully named Snakes Lane East just as the Police car left the park and passed me, having left the rough-sleeper to his own devices. As I waited to cross the street, a car reversed out of a driveway at ludicrous speed, sending a cyclist lurching across the street almost into the Police car's path. The driver seemed oblivious to the near-miss and stopped, signalling the Police car to pass by. The officer shook his head and motioned him back into his drive, turning to follow him. By the time I passed the scene the driver was already yelling about it being "racist" to stop him - at which point a surprisingly imposing Asian Metropolitan Police officer began to unfold himself from the tiny car, much to the surprise of the driver. I left them discussing his motoring skills as I turned onto the busy dual carriageway of Chigwell Road - noting that among a row of tiny suburban shopfronts, next to a self-declared Washing Machine Repair Specialist, was a firearm dealer. The incongruity of the trade in ammunition and weapons with the mock-tudor frontage and the suburban location immediately played into the Essex tradition of low grade gangsters and tooled-up small-time criminals. I struck out for the Esso station - expecting at least to get an expensive refill of my water bottle and an ill-advised snack. As I approached, I noted that nestled between the filling station and the motel-like Broadmead Baptist Church was a narrow pathway with a carved Roding Valley Way arch. So, once equipped with terrifyingly expensive provisions, I edged rather carefully into the dogshit strewn channel between high razor-topped fences, which swiftly opened up into a narrow bridge over the still clear-running Roding waters. It was good to be back with the river, even if my path was going to run a little way from it for a while longer. Ahead of me were the dividing lanes of the M11 with the tiny stubs of the never-built M12 between them. The first carriageway was burrowed-under by way of a pitch dark underpass with the second soaring above me on high posts, leaving a dusty concrete plain beneath. This was as close as I'd get to a picnic spot, so I took the opportunity to eat and review my options under the shrill trauma of traffic desperately slowing for the end of the motorway, or accelerating out of the city's gravity.
I was in the midst of the turmoil here - in a widening apron of negative space on the map left by an incomplete road scheme. The Abercrombie plan for London came to a halt above me in concrete reality. This spreading triangle of land should have seen the carriageways of the M11 continue south - heading for the Inner Motorway Box at Hackney Wick. Instead, the flyovers describe a series of graceful but unnecessarily complex arcs, piling through-traffic onto the North Circular while city-bound travellers are deposited onto Charlie Brown's Roundabout. Named for a pub which was demolished in 1972 to accommodate the enlarged roundabout and tangle of sliproads, this provided a neat historical arc linking me back to my other walks. Charlie Brown's original pub was in West India Dock Road during the heyday of Limehouse as a churning confusion of day-paid dockers, furloughed sailors and ungoverned immigration which would curl the toes of Farage and company. A few years after the original Charlie Brown - the 'Uncrowned King of Limehouse' - died in 1932 his son upped sticks and headed for Essex like all east-enders made good, relocating to the pub in South Woodford but retaining the historical name. In a cruel twist of fate, the original building survived this new venue, but was finally claimed by another road scheme being demolished for the building of the Limehouse Link tunnel. Opened in 1993, until recent times this was the most expensive stretch of road ever built in Britain. In the same period, improvements were being hawked which included the much compromised M11 Link Road - which, when finally built, settled the sorry tale of the south end of the motorway with massive demolition and destruction of long-standing communities in Leyton. It also signalled the start of a series of organised anti-road protests which have dogged road schemes ever since. These strange sequences of events - the cycle of blight and destruction, of inheritance and self-improvement - seem to sum up this part of the world for me.
My own engagement with Charlie Brown's roundabout was to carefully pick a safe route around its edge, finally finding myself above the Roding again as I turned south briefly onto the continuation of Chigwell Road. Somehow, beneath the stacked layers of flyover and roundabout, the winding river kept flowing - only a little battle-scarred by rainbows of fuel and run-off in the process. Finding a tiny gateway, I turned aside and once again found myself on the western bank, the path edging around the sliproad carrying eastbound traffic onto the North Circular. The little cliff caused by the curve of the stream encountering a sloping panel of supporting concrete made a strangely attractive prospect under the brutal weight of road above. A line of pylons marched into the valley here - and would accompany me on this stretch of the walk like a guard of honour. From here I was walking west of the river but east of the road, in a narrow channel of green which gave occasional glimpses either down into the deep, lushly weed filled valley where the river ran, or up onto the nearby carriageway of the A406. The path tracked the road, used only by me and a small band of squirrels which blithely zig-zagged in front of me. It was cool and, despite the drone of road noise, curiously peaceful here. On the opposite bank a disused pumping station stood on the otherwise surprisingly undeveloped bank, gleaming yellow London brick in Spring sunshine.
I finally passed under the A406 a little north of Redbridge Roundabout, by way of a strange concrete bridge carrying both the sluggish river, its towpath, and a broad roadway which was presumably above the flood level. Here I made some grave navigational errors - emerging from the underpass at the roundabout and confidently trudging along the edge of Royston Gardens, I lost my nerve at the entrance to allotments with a "no unauthorised visitors" sign. I think I was mostly just convinced that a way through just wasn't possible. Instead I backtracked, at first to try to access the park via Royston Gardens - which seemed impossible, and then to review my map: only two routes sprang out as potentially possible I elected to pass back under Redbridge Roundabout and exit via Wanstead Park Road which runs parallel to the North Circular - not quite so long, but seemingly offering a link back to the river. Sure enough, after trudging the long, quiet street and navigating the chain of off-duty cabs and the dumped remains of beds and freezers, I found a curving bridge over the main road which deposited me on a network of paths in the green space running along the rivers' edge. I was soon back in the cool, mossy tunnel between bushes and riverbank. A little way along, beside a sign announcing the entrance to Epping Forest, I met a Polish family and had a good-natured but strange chat about whether any large dogs were up ahead. Their tiny mutt capered around, clearly not up for much of a scrap this time. Underway again, I found myself sandwiched between allotments packed with glittering makeshift bird-scarers and the edge of the City of London Cemetery. A strange fluttering noise above alerted me to the beginnings of a rain-storm, the canopy of mature trees providing shelter and preventing the drops from reaching me. The river was parting company now, heading south-eastward into Ilford while the Aldersbrook accompanied me south. Rather unexpectedly, the brick viaduct carrying the railway to Liverpool Street loomed ahead, with a long underpass allowing access south of the tracks. As I left the tunnel I felt great spots of rain begin to fall. By the time I reached Romford Road, the sky was black and the rain was stinging my face. I put up an umbrella which fended off the worst of the tumult, but soon seemed to be letting water in too. The rain continued. The gutters filled and motorists took turns to accidentally - or in some cases not so - spray waiting pedestrians. Busses slowing for the stop kicked up a huge wave in the roadside gullies. I thought about moving on - heading for Ilford - but it was horribly wet still, and worse once out of the lee of the buildings. I waited it out under a brolly. Others had been luckier, finding telephone kiosks or spots under shop awnings. By the time I considered the torrent had abated enough to move on, my lower legs were drenched, as was my back and rucksack. I slurped away through a tide of water running on the pavement - there was no way I could walk on to Barking now with the weather still uncertain and the way not fully clear. I cursed both the weather and my ill-preparedness for it. As I slogged the final few yards up Ilford Hill I noticed people wearing sunglasses, dripping shorts and skin-like wet t-shirts heading my way. We'd all been caught unawares it seemed.
I failed to dry out on the bus to Barking, or on the diverted C2C service into Liverpool Street which I'd caught just to cover an uncommon bit of railway line. I even stayed damp after an extended coffee-layover at the station, my trouser-legs flapping moistly around my ankles in a strange and uncomfortable fashion. By the time I walked up to the ticket gate at Paddington some three hours later, there was still a tide-mark of damp on my shins, my shirt still clung to me. I passed a badly mangled ticket, rescued from my soaked bag, apologetically offering "I'm sorry....the rain, you see....". The gateline operative glanced oddly at me and muttered as he passed me through the gate "RAIN? But we ain't had any here!". I wearily settled into my seat, feeling a tingle of the strange and pervasive British guilt that such interactions often carry - where I'm not at all to fault but feel a need to fix things. I'd last seen the Roding as I walked to the bus stop in Ilford - passing under the roadway, its sluggish meander now a surprising torrent of water. But for today, it had thrown me off the scent once again. The Roding is assuredly not one of London's mythologised 'lost rivers' - although it's often hidden, sometimes in plain sight under a pile of stacked motorways, or behind a screen of suburban villas. Today it refused to give up its secrets easily.
You can find a gallery of images from the walk here.
My relationship with the West Somerset Railway is a troubled one. Despite it being my local preservation group, and a fairly successful one at that - I've not got along with the way it's run lately. My obvious beef is that Diesel doesn't get a look in very often on the WSR, and when it does it plays second fiddle. This is despite a fairly ambitious group based at Williton who do a fine job, only to see their charges rusting unused for a great deal of the time. Add to this the slavish drive for authenticity which seems to effectively bar anything in Rail Blue and certainly most things English Electric in origin, and I suppose we're just not going to agree. So, today was the first time I've been to the West Somerset in it's own right for nearly six years. In the interim I've attended a couple of beer festivals and the odd family event with my nephews, but in terms of spending my hard earned cash on the railway, it's been a long while. The occasion was their "Mixed Traffic Weekend". It's a mealy-mouthed attempt to hide the diesel gala from the turn-up-and-go punters who want steam. I'm not sure why they do this because at several points today I was asked by clearly disgruntled normals "What does Mixed Traffic mean then?". Notably the Severn Valley and South Devon railways throw a steam diagram into their timetable for normals, which is mostly understood and tolerated by the cranks - so this policy feels a bit strange on the WSR's part.
Another attraction of this weekend's event was the special shuttle service operated by First Great Western. I've covered the track a couple of times before - not least the first time it was used after reopening, but the idea of an easy way to access the gala was appealing. Instead of keeping it simple, I decided to head to Bristol where the first shuttle of the day started. A non-stop run to Taunton, followed by a slow crossing of all of the mainlines before curving onto the branch at Norton Fitzwarren. Arrived at a busy Bishops Lydeard with 59103 and 59001 at the head of a train on the opposite platform, ready to depart with a curious ensemble of horns and bells attached to the front!
Shrewd organisation meant that you had to be here practically every day of the weekend to cover all the locomotives, especially the 59s. However, it was the line's own hydraulics which seemed to be drawing the crowds - with a few rather uncalled for exchanges from people who felt the modern engines should be here. Frustrating really, as it seems it's novelties like this which draw in the breadth of enthusiasts, and these events would simply not run just on specific niche groups turning out. Having said that, after a double-back to Lydeard using D1661 - a renumbered and repainted shade of the former 'North Star', we had a run with D832 which was running in all-over grey primer.
After a bite to eat in Minehead, and with the rain mostly holding off, we managed a couple of quick switchbacks via Blue Anchor - rather like at the 2005 gala in fact. This meant a couple of journeys behind Hymek D7017, before picking up 59001 and 59103 for the long trek back to Bishops Lydeard. Along the way we passed the Western, having failed on an earlier run being pulled into Williton. However, despite this setback things seemed to be running to time - and as we arrived to catch the last shuttle back to Taunton, D7523 was dropping on to the stock to make the run back in lieu of the Western.
Given it was a pleasant night, and because I wanted to ponder a little, I decided to do the final shuttle all the way back to Bristol again non-stop. Time for a coffee in the late evening sun before catching a train back home, retracing my steps. When this turned up at Temple Meads, I noted it was the curious and mysterious hybrid unit 153399 - made up of half of the fire-damaged 150221 and a stray Class 153, and so number to avoid it being sent where these single-car units aren't allowed to go. It had been a pleasant day of decent engines, good beer and fairly fine weather. Sometimes you don't have to travel miles to find these things...
Its probably around twenty years since I tried to write about music in any sensible way. Scary numbers indeed, and even scarier to think how simple it all seemed then. I had a belief and a passion in what I was listening to which in some ways I find terribly embarrassing now - however, I miss it terribly too. So, finding myself so strangely energised about new music now, all this time later is both wonderfully exciting but also just a little bit frightening. I can't keep laughing it off as a mid-life crisis though - I need to tackle it head on and start to express some of these ideas before I go truly insane with the effort of suppressing the urge to yell at someone "you have to hear this!".
The cause of my excitement, and the reason I find myself writing again, is very much the Glasgow PodcART. My visits to Glasgow over the past decade or so have provided opportunities to see live music, and to find little nuggets of information on band's which I just don't find locally. This isn't meant to sound disparaging - it's just how things have worked out. Perhaps the distinction is best summed up by Halina Rifai's intentional use of the term 'network' rather than 'scene' to describe the situation north of the border. There is a genuine collaborative spirit in Scotland that is missing here just now. Back home it's still about old rivalries and genre dynamics, which stifles new musical enterprise in it's most formative stages. There are notable exceptions, but they struggle to thrive in a culture without the support, the venues, the outlets for their work. As at best a non-musician I've tried to offer my support in other ways to fill this gap, but in a difficult situation it's generally the messenger who gets shot. In my case, I often pulled the trigger myself - so a quiet life as a public servant beckoned, and music remained only as a guilty pleasure.
Of course the other thing which has always genuinely excited me about Scottish music is the use of the native accent and vernacular - that access to a tradition which isn't shameful or cliched like my own, and the blurring of boundaries which make the inevitable 'sounds like' review redundant. My fundamental attachment to place also comes into play here of course - I firmly believe that creative endeavours arise in some cities which just simply couldn't exist elsewhere. Musicians flourish when they find the right place to create, and that's a story which is repeated throughout the canon which I'd love to try to explain someday. The title of this confused little ramble is, like many of my attempts to express myself, also entirely stolen. This time though, from a HM Treasury strategic document. I was, of course, always going to click with an initiative called 'Total Place'.
So how am I going to grapple with this need to write, from a distance, about something which is becoming very precious to me and therefore on which I'm losing all objectivity? I think I'll take a band each week, and I'll write about them from my unique perspective. I'll try to avoid genre-terrorism, pigeonholing and lazy comparison. Ultimately, anyone who troubles to read my ramblings on a regular basis will know exactly what will come of this more intricate and evasive twaddle about me! In the sense that music is an intense and personal thing for many of us, that seems like a good place to start.
ALR07 Day Three - I'm From Further North Than You 19 years ago
Posted in Railways on Monday 11th June 2007 at 10:59pm
One of the pleasures of doing a First Class rover is that the long moves to the opposite end of the country become much more comfortable. Having resisted the urge to head directly for Scotland earlier in the week, it was necessary today to reposition myself - and get some value for money out of my ticket too. I was uneasy about morning trains from Norwich to Liverpool Street, so I'd selected an after 0900 arrival which I hoped wouldn't be too wedged with commuters. In the event, I woke early and checked out in time for the 0655. All seemed fairly quiet so I found a seat and settled in for a comfortable ride to London with excellent service. It began to fill up around Ipswich, and I noticed a few passengers without seats lurking in the vestibules by departure from Colchester, but it wasn't as bad as I'd imagined. An early arrival at Liverpool Street meant the chance to flag any really stupidly packed Underground trains. However, walked practically straight onto a Metropolitan train which whisked me to Euston Square in relative comfort.
At Euston, purchased coffee and found a spot to relax and watch the world go by. It was an unpleasantly sweaty day and my exertions in crossing London along with the humid atmosphere on the tube made it uncomfortable to do anything but stand still. I think I was still suffering a little with this unshakable cold too. Made myself presentable and did the dash to the platform for the 1038 to Glasgow, being I think almost the first passenger aboard! Secured my seat, and was pleased to find coffee and a newspaper delivered to me before we'd even started moving. I'll confess to settling back to enjoy this trip with little regard to what was passing the windows. I'd done this just over 400 mile outing once before, but certainly not in such style. After a very good breakfast, settled back into enjoying the scenery and watching the railway landscape change from hurrying commuter units to passing Freightliner workings. First stop Preston, going direct via the Trent Valley and a chance to see how TV4 - the project to provide four tracks throughout this busy section of the West Coast Mainline - was progressing. Also zipped through the remodelled Rugby with its new platform looking a little isolated from the station. Once off Preston, into familiar territory and the always exciting twisting route through the Lake District and into Scotland. Arrival over the Clyde was, as always, a special moment for me.
But there was no time to waste in reverie here - back in February I'd left a couple of key bits of track here undone. These were parts of the network where perhaps I'd not quite understood the pattern of service, or where there hadn't been a Sunday service available on the last day of my trip. A brisk walk to Queen Street and onto a service for Falkirk Grahamston via Springburn and Cumbernauld. This covered a fair stretch of line I needed, including the last bit of the knot of routes around Falkirk. Unexpected sunshine appeared somewhere along the way, and I lazily lounged at the station on my brief stopover, entirely missing the chance to photograph 66232 hauling aviation fuel tanks and 66407 on Tesco containers, which appeared unexpectedly within seconds of each other! Retraced my steps to Cumbernauld, and waited for the service to Motherwell to shunt over to our platform. A brief journey, but a chance to see what was in Motherwell Depot at last! At Motherwell, wandered a bit in an attempt to find the platform for the 1756 back to Whifflet with information screens all 'waiting for data'. Luckily, Scotrail had provided a huge gang of revenue protection staff who had nothing to do, and were happy to provide the information in a return for a stare at my 'weird ticket'. Only a small group of us waiting at the eerily quiet platform 4 at Motherwell for the increasingly delayed train, and as the minutes ticked by I thought I might have an extra half-hour to wait at Whifflet. From what I'd seen of the place on my pass through, this wasn't necessarily a pleasant idea. Finally onboard, and on arriving at Whifflet, saw the 156 which would form the next service still lurking in the sidings waiting for our unit to clear the line, so no chance to explore Whifflet and environs this time! Back to Central via Mount Vernon in still strong sunshine. And so all of the passenger track in Greater Glasgow is now inked over in 'Baker' along with much of the red stuff too.
With today's objectives achieved, set about celebration. Checked in at the station hotel, finding myself tucked away in an even more obscure corner of this cavernous building than before. Out into town for the excellent King's Lodge chinese buffet and then a walk to the 13th Note to people-watch and to enjoy a quiet read and a pint. Couldn't resist a quick stop in at the Horseshoe Bar on my walk back to the hotel. Obscenely early start tomorrow meant I couldn't stay out late. Felt better knowing I'd be in Glasgow again at the weekend.
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.
