Somewhere in the chaos and confusion of elections, referenda, terrorist attacks and transatlantic tumult in the last several years, HS2 has all but disappeared from the debate. This emblem of a modern Britain dragging itself towards the future was to scythe across green and pleasant England, linking London and Birmingham in hitherto unimaginably short journey times. Despite being a tiny country, we would finally reap the benefits of High Speed rail as a way of linking the metropolis of London with first the rapidly gentrifying Midlands, then the Northern Powerhouse. Eventually, it might even reach Scotland - still in the political sin bin for daring to dream of independence. For a long time, HS2 dominated debate - and in an odd precursor of Brexit it wasn't entirely cut along party political lines either. An MPs proximity to the line or its potential termini was a far better predictor of their view than rosette colour. The massive task of taking a project like HS2 through public enquiries, select committees and detailed planning hearings began in earnest and as the detail came into mind-numbing focus, the big picture disappeared entirely. The hearings and enquiries were utterly public and transparent processes, but the cloak of technical complexity is always much more effective than outright secrecy. Objectors became well-versed in environmental impact assessment, cost benefit analysis and property law while the rest of us just had to decide if it all sounded like a 'good idea'. I confess I was broadly in favour at the outset: I love trains, I'm a committed user of public transport, and I enjoy seeing technology advance. But the zones through which the line would pass, once it left Greater London in particular were a near blank for me. It was easy to dismiss as cartographic whitespace.

Finding an urge to colour in these gaps, Tom Jeffreys achieves something quite remarkable in Signal Failure: bringing the massive complexity of HS2 back to a human scale. He sets out to walk the route, scribed in lurid highlighter strokes across Ordnance Survey maps as a not-entirely-inaccurate approximation of how the line's critics imagine the line was planned. It should take him ten days, involve some camping out in the wild and bring him into contact with all kinds of characters who sit on the frontline of the debate along the way. It ends up being a far more complex proposition which examines the very nature of walking itself before Jeffreys finally reaches the Bull Ring.

Jeffreys is by trade a writer on art, and brings with him from that world two absolute gifts: an eye for beautiful descriptive detail which makes the waste incinerator at Calvert sound a sublime almost-equal to any view across the Chilterns, and genuine erudition which underpins his writing with detail and research. This is a surprisingly hefty book, and in the early passages where the nature of walking writers - and writing walkers - is examined, I started to feel concerned that this had backed things into a niche. However, these reflective essays are punctured by reality - errant horses, the hardships of camping, the treacherous nature of industrial cartography - which anchors them in a quest. A quest which Jeffreys self-deprecatingly feels he ultimately fails to achieve - but in unravelling the journey he introduces people who's experiences take HS2 from a conceptual diagram towards a future reality. There are the couple who didn't realise how desperate and suicidal the prospect of the line made each of them feel until they were interviewed on camera together, there is a naturalist who stands to see preciously guarded habitat riven by rails, and there is a cheesemaker who has been through this before: embracing change, diversifying to survive, revisiting the business model. Jeffreys' encounters with the wider public are perhaps more like my own when walking: suspicious, confused, somehow irritated that someone is stepping outside the normal boundaries. The walking writer is a figure of deep apprehension these days, and sometimes perhaps deservedly so.

Throughout the book, Jeffreys wonders about what he is writing - glancing off psychogeography but landing squarely between travel and nature writing on the shelf. The debate that squirms at the core of the book about nature, wilderness and human intervention finds its feet in the examination of these genre politics and I found myself genuinely intrigued by the history of older, extremely white men batting the future of the planet back and forth at length. It's important to remember to that these are, in principle at least, the people who agree we should act swiftly to save the planet! For his own part Jeffreys is, rather like me, not the kind of person who can name our flora or fauna, or who knows what's good to eat and what will kill you out there in the wilds - but his engagement with the kind of spaces we all experience, every day is challenging and inspiring.

Signal Failure is an impressive achievement - taking the walk and exploring not just the landscape and its people, but the theoretical underpinnings of grand projects like HS2 and their human and natural impact - but in a way which places us in a landscape from which we don't fully understand what we'll lose.

A long time ago I thought about creating a site focused on where I lived, keeping my identity secret. Not because I had anything particularly controversial to say, but because ultimately I wanted the freedom to cut through the politics and frustration inherent in living in Highbridge. Instead I figured I'd have the courage of my convinctions, and conceived the only half tongue-in-cheek Highbridge Psychogeographical Association as a vehicle for my ramblings. I've not used this part of the blog quite as frequently, or even exactly how I intended - real life, a dabbling in politics and other writing about things a world away from here all taking their toll on my drive to write about home. But just now, things aren't altogether great here. In short, there is a huge stunt being pulled somewhere and there are plenty of people who are working hard to dust over the tracks of those involved. Yes, this will sound like the paranoid ramblings of some sort of local lefty - but in this case at least, it's genuinely not. Some of these people who are content to have the public entirely excluded from this process selected me as their candidate a year or two back, because they knew damn well I understood localism and community development better than they did. I can only say I'm glad that circumstances conspired to prevent me standing for them.

The whole situation hinges on the wretched, unloved Highbridge Hotel once again. It's become an unwelcome bargaining chip in a bigger game which stretches right from the River Parrett shoreline to the meadows which sit alongside the River Brue. In a nutshell, the Planning Committee is being asked to consider an application for parts of the former boatyard site on the basis that the developer will provide flood defence improvements which will unlock the ability to build on the other sites. This huge commitment of cash will effectively exempt them from any Section 106 contribution for the more traditional issues such as schools, transport and so on. So, the Planning Committee is being asked to take a 'double or quits' style gamble. Give the go ahead to the Boatyard, get the sea defences for free, and bank on the 'unlocked' development sites providing the infrastructure for the whole set of separately developed sites. We now enter a sort of quantum world of chicken-and-egg causality. The defences are needed because of the development, but the development can't be built without them. The relationship of the defences to the rest of the site is far less clear, and indeed there is no easy way of considering them together. Right in the centre of this maelstrom sits the Hotel. Still collapsing, still shaming our sister town up the road, still echoing a community's growing disconnection from the democracy which represents it.

For starters this breaches all sorts of rules and regulations, and is technically illegal. When the Committee considers an application it is required to do so on the individual merits of the case, with some consideration of how it fits with the strategic plan for the area. And that is captured in the Local Development Framework. This captures how the Council thinks the whole district should develop over the coming years, and has been subject to a ton of expensive consultation too. But its been largely discarded in this case. So, we've got a bunch of officers who are reluctant to talk to the public because they fear reprisals for their inaction, a group of councillors who (save for a notable couple) are intent on getting the deal through to rid them of an issue and cement relationships with developers, and a population which - although divided on what should happen, are increasingly alarmed by what actually is (or indeed isn't) happening on the ground.

Sometime last week, the graffiti above appeared on the hotel, complete with painted jubilee bunting. Its innocent, childlike curves beg for an answer from those who have it in their power to offer it. Is a once proud build making a pathetic bid for it's own survival? Can you put a value on collective memory and shared ideas of space when they're pretty much all a community has to use as foundations for it's future? This simple message speaks louder and clearer than most others who've considered the Hotel site in recent times - and certainly improves on the planned, heavily corporately influenced plan to put a mural on the boards. The fate of the hotel, of the last historic building standing in the old centre of the town lies in the hands of a political gamble.

I only wish I had some confidence in the steadfastness of the players...

I woke up to the icy blast of the air-conditioning and after a few seconds of orientation realised I was in a hotel high above Temple Meads station. Today was, in comparison to recent early starts something of a lie-in, as the timings once they'd finally landed gave an 07:10 start. It would in fact have been possible to make the tour from the early train from home - but given that 07:00 requested starts usually translate into 05:30 actual departures, the hotel room was a bit of insurance. Despite feeling groggy from early morning hayfever, had the presence of mind to grab the camera as the sound of 59202 running around the recently arrived stock drifted through the window. I'd only been up a few minutes and I knew I was going to scratch at least one engine today. Not a bad start. Packed and made the short walk over to the station, with the relatively late start providing time to get coffee and some shots of 59202 before boarding. It was already a warm morning, and promised to be hotter later. I settled in for the trip, feeling rather sleepy already...

Our train began it's journey north via an unusual route, heading for the Midlands via a dash along the Great Western Main Line before turning towards Oxford and Banbury. The 59 made good time, and we were never more than a few minutes adrift as we made regular pick-ups along the route. Granted, there was some slack in the timings - and a longer stop at Banbury to let CrossCountry and Wrexham & Shropshire services pass provided time for a photostop in the strong morning sunshine. Despite having a couple of pick-ups left, the train didn't seem too full, so it's good to see that it ran as there have been one of two instances of cancellations for Pathfinder in similar circumstances. What was rather strange was the demographic of the passengers. This was marketed as an enthusiast trip - lots of festering in yards, changes of traction, some rare track and not really going anywhere as such. However, there were a fair number of the - well, lets say 'older' passengers who seemed to have dominated recent trips. There is a surprising shift going on at the moment in the market, and while some seem to have grasped it I'm not sure everyone has. Thought about this as we headed further north, through Kenilworth and Coventry to Birmingham International. Here we changed loco for the first time and I took advantage of being at the front of the set to get into a fairly unobstructed position as a large crowd swelled behind me on the platform. As predicted at some point, 92017 came hazily into view as the 59 detached and headed for Bescot. What I'd not remembered was that 92017 was now in Stobart Rail branding and had been named "Bart the Engine". I couldn't help thinking the policies for naming locos have drifted a little too far from the cities, counties and castles of old now. Still, another line in the book for sure, and a brief blast of 92 haulage to look forward to. These fine machines have never let me down yet, and they've always managed a fairly quick run too.

But before this one could get going, it was booked a slight detour around a slow route through Bescot Yard. Indeed, once again we followed the edge of the yard via a through siding. I'd done this once before, as an unadvertised extra on the Industrious Trader and it was good to get back into this part of the complex. New track for a fair number of people on board too it seemed. As we crawled by the lines of stores locos and the surprising amount of active wagons and engines in the depot, there was hushed conversation, broken only by the quiet recitation of numbers. The old fashioned railway enthusiasts haven't disappeared, they just need to be reminded that things aren't as bleak as it's fashionable to paint them out there on the tracks...

Once through Bescot and back onto the mainline at Wolverhampton, the 92 began to stretch it's legs a little and we made very comfortable progress northwards. The crawl through the yard had cost us some time, but nothing major, and it was hard not to start dozing in the warm sunshine as we sped through Staffordshire and into Cheshire. A little south of Crewe we slowed to take the line into Basford Hall Yard. Cue more frenzied number taking, despite the ranks of wagons which got in the way and made life tricky! In particular, a pair of pristine new Class 70 locomotives were evident but couldn't be seen clearly. There was much excitement and a fair bit of frustration on board too. Then, with a thunderous noise, 37423 and 37607 appeared at the front of the train, and as 92017 slipped quietly past the stock the two much more vocal engines were attached to the stock. A bit more cranking followed as we took the once-rare Gresty Lane Curve, which now seems to feature in every possible railtour itinerary following the high-profile failure of a tour to deliver it some time ago. This also meant a fairly slow passage of DRS's Gresty Lane depot - where our pair of locomotives were generally stabled. Time to relax now as we progressed towards Shrewsbury over the flat Cheshire countryside. More dozing here I'm afraid, broken only as we slowed to a crawl at the various level crossings, only to erupt back into noisy life once clear of the road. At Shrewsbury we took the curve onto the Marches, then soon after turned west at Sutton Bridge Junction. It seemed strange to be here again just a week after my last jaunt - and indeed for a third time this year - but with the weather much better than during the last visit of course. We soon reached our first set-down at Welshpool, where an optional trip on the Welshpool and Llanfair Railway was available. The plan was to move those punters interested to Llanfair Caereinion by coach for a special train back to Welshpool, but this first meant that some of the fairly unsteady passengers needed to make the long walk up the ramp and over the long footbridge at the station. Welshpool station has moved - with a new road taking the old alignment, and the old station building now marooned a dual-carriageway apart from the lines and used as a shopping and visitor centre. This made for a long trudge and not an easy one for some it seemed. Once underway again with the train quieter, we made the final fifteen mile run to Newtown. The views over to the mountainous country beyond where last week's trip had taken us were impressive indeed as we slowed for the station.

The only question now was what to do with the couple of hours we had here. The first priority, and the reason I'd stayed on, was to get some pictures of the manoeuvres here. The locos ran around the train and, once one of the infrequent service trains had passed, propelled the stock out to the west. Then the stock crossed to the Up platform, and crept in a coach at a time while a mobile tanker watered each in turn. Watched the operations for a bit before wandering over to the shop to stock up on drinks and lunch. Thought seriously about one or two of the recommended pubs, but didn't fancy the idea of a drunken dash across town in the time available. Met a couple of well-known faces on my wanders, and chatter in the sunshine before heading back to the station. Found much needed coffee at the rather neat little Station Cafe, and lazed around the station in the sunshine until it was time to reboard the train for the journey home.

The route home was equally interesting, as we set off first via Telford to Wolverhampton and again slowed for Bescot Yard. This time we were booked to change engines on the Up & Down Goods line, but ended up in the Up Goods Loop. New track for me, but not what was expected if the confusion outside the train was anything to go by. Here, the noisy pair of 37s was detached and thundered by the train, before 59202 returned to the other end of the train. We departed northwards again, curving east to gain the Walsall route. There were clearly a couple of track bashers on board, but there was one gent who had very loudly proclaimed that he "was no crank!" who still managed to get excited as we headed into for him, uncharted waters. He could be heard saying "I'm doing new track" and "I'll have me some of this track" until it switched subtly from amusing to irritating in the overheating carriages. Switched off and half-dozed our way around the Sutton Park route - a strangely rural, leafy means of getting around the eastern edge of Birmingham. At Water Orton we turned east - going in almost the opposite direction to home in fact - joining the Nuneaton route. Then, via the curve to the West Coast Mainline at Abbey Junction and the line via Bedworth, we returned to Leamington Spa and the route home. Perhaps even more amazingly, we ran consistently early all the way, and crept into Temple Meads bang on time, following the customary check by Bristol panel.

Overall, this trip was a success. It combined a day trip with a crank excursion and managed to throw in new engines and varied routes too. I can only hope that Pathfinder found it rewarding enough to consider further such jaunts. The tour market, so busy during May and June, seems to be thinning out later in the summer, and a few of these trips which go 'somewhere' for the normals but get there via 'everywhere' for the cranks would, I'd hope, fill a few seats. For me? No track as such beyond the loop at Bescot - but two out of four winning engines and a relaxing - if a little sleepy - day out in the sunshine. Let's hope my 'Summer Tour' continues to produce this kind of successful day.

One day of my Wessex Rover left, and not much going on. Heard early that the Weymouth 31s were not out today - not entirely sure I could manage another hot, crowded slog down to the coast anyway. Also considered West Wales once again, hoping for a 37. Finally decided just to wander, and not to spend any money.

So, a swift run to Cardiff. Watched the Rhymney 37s for a bit, then to Bath. Tried to buy a new notebook from a stockist who I knew carried them, but found they didn't any longer. The city was heaving with tourists, who seemed to assume that everything had been deliberately made 'quaint' for their pleasure - including the hairdresser 'Nick Brain' - who's name they thought was some sort of clever pun. 31454 and 31128 passed ECS at speed - heard they later resumed the Weymouth diagram.

Back to Bristol - briefly running with pet HST powercar 43130. Up to Cheltenham, then to Newport. High-velocity wander around town, remembering locations of bookshops and watering holes from earlier visits. In the late afternoon heat, the place felt murderous - crowds of drunken Welshmen and even more frightening screaming women outside the winebars and cocktail lounges of Newport! Picked up a slim collection of Nicholas Moore poetry in a shop which now proudly boasted of a licensed 'Adult XXX' section upstairs! Back to Bristol once more...

Long fester waiting for traincrew delayed on a Severn Beach service, during which the Network Rail Measurment Train arrived.

Queues for Weston train full of pointless and factually incorrect complaining which was driving me nuts. A hot and bothersome end to a strange but entertaining day.