Welshpool

Birmingham News Street station isn’t an appealing place at the best of times. With half the lights switched off thanks to an electrical fault, the resulting gloom does nothing to improve it’s appeal.

More of a worry that as well the escalators, the electrical mishap had closed all the concessions on the concourse, apart from a dimply lit branch of WH Smith. While this might have been a minor inconvenience for those in the magazine rack reading library, for me it could have been disastrous as my favourite muffin supplier was out of action. I was facing a long train journey at the mercy of the onboard catering trolley.

A quick dash up to the shopping centre above the station and a bit of hammering on the counter sorted things out as I purchased the last double-chocolate muffin in the place. Even better, it was so freshly baked the choccy chips were gooey as I sat and ate it three-quarters of an hour later.

My trip to Welshpool was a spur of the moment decision. Faced with a department meeting which didn’t concern me but promised to be limb-gnawingly dull and held in some out of the way centre that I suspected would tax my limited ability to navigate the roads of Coventry, I decided that a day off and a nice train ride was in order. The destination was one I’d promised to myself a couple of times looking out of carriage windows from passing trains. The weather was threatened to be superb, what was stopping me ?

Birmingham to Welshpool is served by a surprisingly long train that was unsurprisingly low of passengers. In my carriage there were no more than half a dozen of us. A couple of seats in from sat a sharply dressed man in a pale grey suit that contrasted with his Virgin Media t-shirt. When the guard arrived to check tickets he surprised me by pulling out an old-fashioned roll of cash rather than a piece of plastic to pay up – more Dell Boy than Gordon Gecko.

Some say that England is disappearing under concrete. I disagree as the gaps between towns are still huge when viewed from the train. “They” may need to revise there opinions however as the latest thing seems to be to cover fields in plastic sheet. Long, shiny strips of the stuff are laid in neat rows covering and protecting (I assume) the precious seedlings. For anyone who complains about bright yellow fields of oilseed rape, the sight of striped grown visible from miles away should have them prepareing to fire off a missive to the Daily Telegraph.

At Telford the sharp dressed man left and was replaced by two very clean cut men in identical suits and ties who sat facing each other around a table. On the lapel of the one facing me was a large black badge on which I could read the words “Elder O’Brien” and “Jesus Christ”. I’d guess that it was Mr O’Brien on the train and not his boss, although if I’m wrong then the journey was surprisingly uneventful – no water into wine, raising the dead or that sort of thing. Closer inspection later allowed me to read the full text showed him to be a representative of the Church of Jesus Christ and the laterday saints – more commonly called a Mormon. Followers of this faith often carry out 18 months to 2 years full-time missionary work around the world apparently (OK, I looked it up on Wikipedia). It would appear that Elder O’Brien and his colleague were off to the wild lands of deepest Wales to print religion to an area where strange people spoke a funny language...

To be frank, the scenery on this trip isn’t much to write home, or even a blog post, about. It’s green and pleasant enough but rarely diverted me from my book, a slightly turgid tomb on the history of Radio 4. When we reached Shrewsbury the keen observer would notice some slight changes. The railway signals are the old-fashioned semaphore type rather than traffic lights.

The station entrance is guarded by a huge signal box and the multiple platforms speak of a town of considerable importance. The platforms are graced with a brace of train-spotters, the first I’ve seen. Where once would have been displayed adverts there is now an art show by the Shrewsbury Youth Project. Each arch on a wall is home to a large canvas that has been decorated in a style the cognoscenti would call “Street Art” and others “Graffiti”. I suppose it ads a splash of colour to the scene and keeps the kids off the streets where they might choose to paint surfaces that can’t be easily replaced. You have to wonder if the architects and builders of the station ever envisaged that we’d be less interested in repairing the canopies than hanging up aerosol cartoons of people on bikes by “Shaz”.

The hills arrive as we approach journeys end. I could tell that I was in Wales thanks to the local speed camera van having something unpronounceable written in big letters on the side. Presumably “Safety Camera Partnership” or similar doesn’t translate naturally but you don’t want to annoy someone who has just been nicked for racing his Ford Escort down a windy road built for sheep by imposing law from a blatantly English vehicle”. Business looked slow as the only powered transport other than the train was a distant tractor.

Welshpool has several stations but the one travellers arrive at is a single platform affair with a bus stop shelter and connections to the town on both sides via a straggly metal footbridge. In an effort to completely avoid any steps and the straddle the neighbouring bypass the designer produced a structure looking like an enormous daddy-longlegs that someone painted in pale, municipal, grey. Contrasted against this were several fluorescent jackets belonging to one of the largest Police presences I’d seen for a long while.

Exiting the giant insect I wandered over to the Old Station. It was this building that caught my eye as I’d travelled past previously. A magnificent bring building obviously intended as a show-off gesture by a confident railway company. Now separated from the platforms by the main road, it has been turned into a sort of shopping centre where women buy clothes inspired by the countryside, rather than the sort of thing real country people wear which is mostly wellingtons and baler twine, for themselves and their husbands. For the gentleman there is a golf shop and surprisingly a small room full of Hornby trains and Scalextric cars. For the tourists, Welsh fudge and rock plus all manner of lovely souvenirs were on offer for that last minute present buying spree. While poking around and realising that even I was too fashionable for the garments on offer, I asked why the local constabulary were out in force.

“The Queen has come by train to open the new livestock market” was the reply. This explained it, when the monarch arrives then every copper locally is expected to polish his or her boots and keep the local population under control. Judging by the numbers on duty, it would have been a field day for burglars in the surrounding areas. Even though there was no sign of the royal train, every exit on the footbridge was guarded and a small group sat on borrowed chairs by the end of the station building.

Now the livestock market appeared to be on the other side of the tracks to the town in an industrial area. On that basis I didn’t expect to see HRH during my visit. How wrong I was. At the end of the short walk into town were streets bedecked with bunting and crowds filling the pavements – only prevented from encroaching on the road by cattle barriers and even more burly coppers. In the distance were some official looking cars and in front of these were some armed forces cadets, a lady in mayoral garb, lots of press wielding cameras and in the middle of the scrum, a very short lady dressed in blue.

To my right was the Royal Hotel, obviously the destination for the party and outside there more official types who were presumably wishing her maj had stayed in the car and ignored the crowds so they could have something to eat. Instead she was making her way down one side of the street talking and collecting bouquets from the public. On the other side of the road, Prince Phillip performed the same function although you get the feeling that those there felt they had got Wise and not Morecombe – good but you wanted to meet the bigger star.

Eventually the Queen got as far as me to the sound of cameras and mobile phones snapping away. A spontaneous burst of applause rang out – presumably clapping to congratulate her on being Queen or something. The general feeling was “Isn’t she tiny” and “Doesn’t she look lovely” followed by “Thank God she’s got here, now we can have something to eat” from those by the hotel.

Even then the entertainment was not finished. The BBC correspondent Andrew Marr was doing a piece to camera, presumably desperate to link the new market into some election farming story. “Hello Mr Andrew Marr” shouted someone close to me although he received no acknowledgement. Possibly Marr had already discovered that the big political story of the day was happening elsewhere...

With the Queen in the hotel feasting on the best this part of Wales can offer, the crowd dispersed. I headed off down a side street – fighting up the main road wasn’t an option as everyone had decided they needed to be somewhere they weren’t. Feeling a bit peckish myself I found a fish and chip shop with attached café and ordered fish (unspecified and no options were offered) chip and peas (mushy, again, not options). I’d picked up the local paper to read as it had a suitably apocalyptic story on the front page regarding the recent Icelandic Volcano. The editor had obviously decided that this was a bandwagon not to be missed and leapt on it with aplomb - “Volcano wreaks havoc in Powys” - which translates into “bowls players held up abroad thanks to lack of flights” . The food was very hot and very tasty. If I'm being picky, the peas and chips got a bit mixed up on the plate but who cares ? Not the local population as the place was filling up nicely as I finished munching. You could hardly hear “Loose Women” playing on the large screen telly opposite the serving counter.

After this I took a gentle stroll up the high street. For pudding I tried a shortbread biscuit, which was disgusting, and then a chocolate covered ring doughnut from a different shop which wasn't that much better. Handy diet hint: only eat food that you throw away before the second bite.

The town hall has been turned into a rather nice indoor market. Lots of local food on offer plus hardware, second hand books and two stalls of “stuff”, those weird gift like things involving far too many fairies and elves plus added dream catchers. How do they make a living ? Also, perhaps I was being unfair but on seeing another bakers stall, I decided against more cake attempts in that direction even though the comestibles on offer looked tempting and home made in a good way.

Over the top of the hill is the third station which belongs to the Welshpool and Llanfair Light Railway which although it closed in 1956, lives on in the hands of enthusiasts who run steam engines on days when I'm not there leaving me with a view not much better than that available from Google Streetview.

Never mind, I wasn't there to look at steam trains. Even if I'd wanted to I didn't have time. Besides, the canal museum spotted on the way into town looked very interesting with an unusually shaped warehouse. Back in town the Queen had started to move so the straight route was blocked but some nifty navigation past the chip shop circumnavigated her. It's at that point my luck ran out – for future notice, the museum is shut on Wednesdays. Still, there were some nice wooden sculptures outside to look at, if you like giant handbags and fake birds anyway.

Back at the station the royal train was parked in the platform looking very nice and purple. Wale's best were blocking all entrances to the footbridge just in case anyone tried to find a seat on-board. A few people hung around but by this point she was ensconced in the travelling throne so there was nothing to see. Eventually the train pulled out and the plebs were allowed to wait for their own rather less grand conveyance.

Sitting on the platform a concrete mixer drove past with a fantastic claim, “Longest concrete conveyor in the world” . What a claim and what a way to finish up the day.

In summary: Welshpool, lovely town but give it a miss on Wednesday and try to avoid your visit clashing with the Queen.

See more photos on Flickr

Chester

Exactly a year ago I set myself a challenge. The plan was to visit every town on my NRM Railway posters Calendar. Those who know me won't be that surprised that I failed. By the 30th of December I had visited exactly none of the places. So with one day to go, I made a dash for Chester.

The trip involved 35 quid and 2 changes of train but at least I'd have achieved one goal. That and I've been off work between Christmas and New Year so I needed to get out and about a bit to ease the effects of close proximity to chocolate. Even the weather seemed to be on my side.

First stop was Birmingham which is easy enough. A quick walk from Moor Street to New Street and on the departure board leaving in under 5 minutes was a train to Crewe, my next stop. This left me with a dilemma, I could make progress or catch the next train while purchasing my preferred travelling fare, vis a muffin from the Millie Cookies beside the ticket barrier and some soft drink. (Note: Other muffin outlets are available but for some strange reason they just don't seem to taste as good). Abstemiousness won and a few minutes later, after a search for the mysterious hidden platform 4C, I was on an electric train that made noises last heard emanating from the BBC Radiographic workshop in the 1960's.

Fear not dear reader, I did not starve. On the train I was able to fill up on a chocolate orange muffin notable for it's unworldly colour. To be honest if you sat in front of it for long enough you'd get a suntan. I own an orange colour car and even that isn't this orange. It probably doesn't taste as nice as this did either.

The trolley operator was surprised when I purchased my food. She'd obviously spent the day dragging the thing up and down a quiet train and from the look of the stock my travelling companions weren't hungry. Mind you, the only other people in the coach were a couple who seemed to be studying closely the Daily Mail which was proclaiming that dissatisfaction with rubbish collections was resulting in 3 attacks on bin men every day. Presumably the writers of the paper though this was a good thing as they sat in a warm office in front of a computer having arrived at their desk some time after 9am. Later the couple turned to the Telegraph and the husband took great delight in reading items from the letters page agreeing with the Chinese Governments deployment of the death penalty.

Crewe is a station with a small town attached. Until 1831 it was a village with only 70 residents, then the Grand Junction Railway decided that it would be a nice spot for an engine works and station. Even today the station is impressive in a ramshackle kind of way. The low winter sun made for some spectacular photographic possibilities and I think I took what is possibly my best railway photo ever.



Of course Crewe station is home to the much maligned train spotter. Even on a cold New Years Eve there will still a dozen of so men in their late middle age and hearty outdoor clothing hanging around the platform ends watching trains. I feel a bit sorry for them - not only does the general population and mass media stigmatise their hobby as being worse than terrorism and mass murder, the railway have let them down. Once upon a time trains were made up of coaches with a locomotive at the front. Nowadays the coaches have engines and all look the same. On this one day though, with the sun shining, the trainspotters got a gift - into platform 10 (I think, Crewe is a bit of a maze) came 3 engines, being moved around for something technical to happen. 3 in one train ! You could see the faces light up.

More photos of Crewe.

I seemed to be one of the few heading to Chester. The train was quiet again although at one end of the coach there was a lady with one of those wheely suitcases who insisted on standing up with it in the aisle rather than availing herself of the many comfy seats available. From the way she clung on grimly to her luggage I assume that she was moving the crown jewels...

Chester starts with a huge railway station. The frontage is enormous - it's far too wide for my camera and even a decent panoramic outfit would struggle. The signposts point two ways into the city centre and I took the one that lead over the canal and past the slightly over restored Steam Mill. Once this will have made something useful but now it's a multipurpose nightclub and small business venue with what appears to be a greenhouse placed very tastefully on to. It's a very handsome building and rather more industrial than I'd expected to find in a historic Roman town.

Once into the city centre there was another surprise. It shouldn't have been of course as even the most cursory research (or looking things up on Wikipedia) would have forewarned me about the Rows. Chester's shops are a curious and unique design with two floors of frontage. The top row is set slightly back from the front and has a walkway along it. Therefore to see any street properly you need to make 4 passes, 2 at ground level and 2 at the first floor. On a rainy day I can see the upper levels doing good business as people shelter from the weather. Even those buildings that have been re-built maintain the design. Most of the structures are black and white wooden but there are a few that date from the 1960's and later yet have been incorporated into the frontage sympathetically.



Another rarity are the city walls. For the casual visitor a quick nip along them allows you to loop from one area of town to another without retracing your steps. They afford excellent views of the cathedral and surrounding area. Some bookshops have even taken up residence along side them. In fact one of the joys is wandering as there are so many side streets and little alleyways to explore. Knowing I was tight for time I didn't had to pass many of these by but a weekend would be more appropriate to do the place justice. A complete circumnavigation by walking the walls ought to take a couple of hours, although this isn't possible at present due to a collapse earlier this year. At present repairs are being made but the archaeologists are taking the opportunity to find out more about the construction while access is available. Things should be back to normal by summer 2010 though.

Chester doesn't stand still though. A major re-working of the town cetre is planned, in fact the tower cranes are already looming. One casualty would appear to be the indoor market. Always a fan of these, this isn't one of the best but it has atmosphere, a lot of variety and a Christmas display that left the song "Rudolph the Red Nose Raindeer" rattling around my head for the next couple of hours...

My train home left in a different direction from the way I'd arrived which was exciting as that means a trip through Wales via Wrexham, Ruabon and Gobowen. This last stop is somewhere I've been before. For the leisure train traveller it represents the furthest west you can go on a West Midlands ranger ticket - any further and the network is Welsh (Gobowen is in Shropshire) and you'll need a different ticket sir. Sadly although the station is intact, the enormous coal conveyer and sorting system that delighted those of a mechanical bent is long gone and replaced by an icy puddle of a car park.

On the train, half the passengers were Arriva trains staff who told "war stories" to each other. One recent tale involved a passenger who was unhappy that people kept checking her ticket. She refused to show it to the guard on the grounds that he'd seen it several times already. As told the man said, "The more she protested, the more determined I was to see this ticket" and his comrades nodded in ageement, doubtless all with simialr stores to tell. Not all end quite the same way though. Eventually the woman reaslised that she hadn't show this guard her ticket after all because, "The last person I showed it to was a female." and promtly produced said item.

The trip through Wales was beautiful, or at least world have been if Arriva ever cleaned thier trains. If you are going to paint the coaches silver, get a system to wash them as they look terrible when covered in muck. Worse, from the effect from inside of a glorious sunset over snow topped hills was slightly lessened by all the mud on the windows.



More Chester Photos.

So I made one destination and thoroughly enjoyed it. Let's hope 2010 works better !

Stourbridge

Stourbridge has never made on to any list of places to see before you die to my knowledge. It's not glamorous, exciting or picturesque. It's just another midlands town. To be honest, I only went there to deliver a model I'd built.

Perhaps there is an appeal for the transport enthusiast. According to Wikipedia (so it must be true) the town sits at the end of the shortest branch line in Europe. With the journey only taking 3 minutes I can well believe this is true. Add to that the easiest and most boring train driving job in the world and it's a real find.

This would be to denigrate an rather nice little town. The shopping centre isn't huge but it is largely free of the larger chain stores. They all live in nearby Merry Hill shopping centre leaving High Street free for the local shops. Quite a mix of them too - how often do you find a Post Office that also sells Indian food ? Sadly this modern innovation leaves the original attractive building one of the few boarded up in the road but I suspect this won't last long.

Indoor Market spotters will be pleased to find a 60's version on the edge of town, just past the entrance to the town hall and library which jut out from the back of the building into a shopping precinct. Sadly there are only 2 business operating in the market - a busy baker and quiet cosmetic shop. The signs are that this is to be renovated, it deserves it.

In the middle of the precinct there is a tall automaton - a clock which on the hour has a rotating display of statues. The "Stourbridge Lion", the first steam engine to be operating in the USA and manufactured locally, is followed by three fey fellows who spin around carrying glasses and flowers. Not sure what they represent buy the Lion is a very fine representation. It's a pity that the audience is limited to a couple of OAPs who are just sitting there waiting for nothing in particular.

Back on the high street and feeling hungry, a local chain baker (Firkins) supplied a contender for the most disgusting (in a good way) cake ever. Imagine the bun from an iced bun, generously covered with yellow icing and filled with lemon curd and cream. "That looks disgusting", I said to the lady behind the counter, "I'll have one". "I know, but they are lovely", she replied with the air of someone letting me in on a secret. She wasn't wrong either. The slightly savoury (OK, not sweet) dough of the bun provides a welcome counterpoint to the sickliness of the topping while the cream softens the tartness of the curd. I think one a day is plenty through...

More pics on Flickr

Oxford and Headington - In search of Lord Elton

“Take your jacket off”, hissed the lady to her husband as we all sat on the top deck of the bus, “it's warm”.

She was right too. The weather gods finally remembered that it was summer and produced a cracking day with blue sky, fluffy clouds and no rain. Mind you, I suspect that it might have been a sight of a workman wandering around wearing his hi-vis jacket as a belt that made her realise that perhaps winter clothes could be dispensed with as much as the sunshine blazing through the glass.

My trip to Oxford came about because of a book bought in Douglas indoor market. “It Occurs to me” is a compilation of three series of broadcast talks made by Lord Elton in the late 1930's on the radio. I have a thing for books of essays and these are particularly good and very readable. Like all good writers he dwells on the minutiae of life but often refers to his time in the World War 1 where he spent years as a guest of the Turkish army as a prisoner of war. Read today there is a strong, unintended, poignancy to the words as we all know what happened a couple of years after publication.

Born Godfrey Elton, the historian was elevated to become Lord Elton of Headington in 1934 (see his Wikipedia entry for a little more information). Having enjoyed the book I felt the need to have a mooch around Headington itself. Once a separate town to the north of Oxford, the two have largely joined but a thriving centre still exists and I've been through it many times on my way to a rather good model shop just outside the main shopping area.

My objective was to try and track down some more books by Elton, especially his autobiography “Among Others”. A trawl of second hand bookshops would surely turn something up ? Well no - there are no bookshops in Headington. In fact around a third of the shops are run by charities. Still, I'm told by experts in the field charity shops in posh areas are often worth a browse thanks to a better quality of donations. Oxfam seemed to have cornered the market in anything other than trashy paperback and unsurprisingly they didn't have anything – I suppose I need to resort to Amazon's famous long tail after all.

The shopping centre looks to have been largely rebuilt in the 1930's with what must have been some quite attractive buildings. Years of terrible planning and modern alterations haven't done them any favours but the echoes are still there. A modern development for “key workers” (those who work in locksmiths ?) stands out but not in a bad way. Presumably someone had made the architect put some effort in rather than lob up another grey box. The 1960's underpass is probably the brightest thing on the high street, decorated by kids (or painters with very limited artistic skill) showing a dream high street on the pebble-dashed walls. I assume getting “da kiz” to paint the walls officially persuades them no to do it under their own steam at night. How well this will work is debatable. At least one family are doing their best to raise the next generation of delinquents – challenged in a charity shop as to why one of the kids wasn't at school (and running around the shop) they replied, “Well, we er, got started a bit behind this morning”. The Daily Mail (no you don't get a web link, do you think I really want to sully my blog with one) would have had a field day and for once I'm not sure I'd blame them. At one point I thought they were following me as the tribe (2 parents, 1 spawn, 1 in-line double buggy) seemed appear about 20 seconds after I entered any shop.

Oxford will always be home to Inspector Morse for me. It's one of the few TV shows I can actually watch repeatedly, in fact it's the only TV series box-set I own. As an aside, is there a major ecological crisis looming with box sets of Friends and Ali McBeal on VHS ? Every second hand store has at least one and in desperation it usually has a price ticket of 50p on it. And dust. Will processing plants have to be built to deal with this menace ? Perhaps they could be brought together in one place so astronauts have something other than the Great Wall of China to look at...

Anyway, the Oxford to Headington road seemed to be one of the favoured locations in Morse. It's straight, not too busy and green. Ideal conditions for a vintage Jaguar obviously. Just into the city another location pops up and seemed worth a visit – Waterfields Booksellers. The sort of proper shop that sells antiquarian books rather than second hand ones. I'm too scared to go in these sort of place most of the time. My reading tastes tend not to suit their stock nor their prices. This time though my hunt was for a real author. The owner started with a check in Debrets (every home should have a copy) to get Lord Eltons details (I had forgotten his first name) and then checked the history section. Two volumes appeared, both heavy scholarly works which seemed suspiciously late to me as they covered history up to 1968. A quick flick through revealed them to be deadly dull pieces of academe rather than a text for the casual reader so I passed.

From my vantage point on the top deck as we passed into the city I'd spotted a photograph that cried out to be taken of some punts tied up on the river. It was only a couple of minutes stroll back from the shop. The shot was grabbed before some oiks (nice word, sadly out of use) in a posh pedalo entered the frame. From there though a short stroll would bring me to an old model shop that I'd passed on the bus but hadn't intended to visit. There were a couple of interesting things in the window and I could grab a picture to feature on my other blog, and the weather was still nice, and on the way back there would be a chance of an ice cream by the river.

Oxford Models is what I call a proper model shop - open for 35 year and it shows. The window is full of goodies to tempt the passer by. Entering the shop aeroplanes and helicopters hung from the ceiling. Stock sat higgledy piggledy on the shelves. Little sign of organisation was apparent so rooting around like a pig for a truffle was the only option. Magic.

When I entered the shop the owner was chatting to a sales rep. I dug through boxes and shelves for a while then remembered something I needed for a model (don't worry, no technical stuff here, don your anorak and go to the other blog for that) so once they finished I asked since my exploration hadn't unearthed anything useful. Sadly the shop specialised in aircraft rather than boat parts and I was unlucky. Still we got talking.

And talking.

The phone went and after he'd finished we carried on talking.

A French student and his American girlfriend came in carrying tennis equipment. He was interested in building plastic kits of aircraft and the conversation meandered through subjects as diverse as Lockerbie, metal fatigue in Comet airliners and local sports landmarks – the first 4 minute mile was run close by. The French guy, who is learning to fly, tried to buy an altimeter sat on the shelf behind the counter but discovered £15 wasn't a good starting point for negotiations on a WW2 flight instrument. However I learned why you have two of them in a plane so I suppose it was useful. They left without buying anything but this didn't seem to matter.

We chatted more.

Another customer came in for balsa cement and left satisfied having been persuaded that the foreign version is better than that sold in the UK. The later has had all the cellulose removed for safety and consequently doesn't stick or smell properly.

Yet more chat. The shops oldest customer joined us for a while. He wasn't looking for anything, it's the sort of place you can just drop in for a chinwag as I was discovering.
Finally two more guys wandered in looking for serious model helicopters. Rather then push on with the hard sell the conversation started on motorbikes as, unless they both had a leather and helmets fetish, that's how they had arrived. A motorcyclist and owner of several vintage machines our host happily chatted about them. After 20 minutes of this I wandered out again, nearly three hours after I went in. Oh and a steamboat kit better off or over a hundred quid worse off depending on how you view it.

With little of the afternoon left I wandered back into town, eschewing the ice cream I'd planned on, and headed for the covered market. Once upon a time this would have been a real indoor market selling food to the local population. Nowadays the food tends toward the delicatessen, although at Christmas it is the place to go for your giant turkey, goose, deer or ostrich. Most of the shops are aimed fairly and squarely at the tourist market of high class shoppers. As such the whole thing has become a bit too gentrified and is better viewed as a shopping centre with bags of atmosphere. Oh, and it has appeared in a Morse or two as well TV fans.

No sign of Lord Elton though.

More pics in Flickr

Borough Market

Proper travellers roam the great cities of the world and always seem to pitch up at just the right time to take part in the local festival. I'm no good at this - the posters are either telling me something great is about to happen, or their remains tell me it was a week ago.

London is full of markets. Many of you reading this will be familiar with them and probably regularly drop into Portobello to pick up some ancient nik-naks or similar. When I go to Portebello all I see is empty stalls and litter - smoked salmon and pommes frites wrappers, that sort of thing.

Anyway, for a change I bumped into Borough Market when it was open. And it is amazing. At first I thought this was a quaint local thing under the railway near the Thames. A few minutes later I realised my mistake - it's bloody enormous. Still takes place under the railway though...

London is a global city and this is it's global fruit and veg market. If you can eat it, then it's probably here. Many of the traders have travelled serious distances to sell organic mushrooms and weird cheese. I suppose the locals are workers in the centre of London and are either minted, or are looking at foods from home. Whatever, they aren't likely to look at the products and ask for directions to the nearest branch of Farm Foods.

Actually, the mix of stalls is odd. Most are selling delli items but a few do the proper piles of veg. Now I can see the point of picking up a few soupcons of cheese or mushroom, maybe a French style bread or Portuguese poncycake but 5 pounds of King Edwards ? There aren't that many people for whom this is the local market are there ?

My money stayed firmly in my pocket as the moment I started spending I knew a backpack full of posh cakes would be the result. Then I'd walk around transferring the weight from my back to my middle. What I did do was try every free sample offered to me, which staved off the hunger pangs for a while. I was a good boy and didn't go round for a second go at the chocolate brownies even though it was tempting.

Borough Market Website.

Hereford & Worcester

The weatherman said it was going to be wet. Very wet. Very, very wet, all down the centre of the country. So I decided to head west to Hereford. It's a nice journey with plenty of time to read a book and that's what I was in the mood for.

Conveniently the trip can be broken up so there is the chance to mooch around three different places in a day. First up is Birmingham where the shopper is presented with the chance to stock their wardrobe with the products of a hundred sweat shops - not ethical, but cheap. To be fair if the first train had arrived five minutes earlier I wouldn't have had the time to kill. As it was after asking the helpful Virgin Trains employee on the concourse, tried the travel centre (too busy but with only 4 customers) and then the Customer Reception I realised that my next train ran in about 2 hours. Fortunately as a service to Worcester left in 45 minutes there wasn't too long to wait.

The train leaves the city following one of the many canals (more than Venice TM) and past the university with it's bizarre central clock spire. I'd have been interested to go to the meeting that discussed that, "We need to put a pointy tower in the middle of the campus with a clock on it in case the students can't remember to wear a watch.". Canals used to be seen as liabilities with adjoining buildings facing away from the water. This has changed, now the houses along this stretch had all built their gardens down to the back with various decking arrangements so the occupants can sip their drinks watching the boats sail by.

On arrival at the station I managed to remember (for a change) to check the time of my next connection. I'm not sure who is running the Travel Centre there but I assume they won't be remaining in post for much longer. For some reason they seem to think that their job is to encourage rail travel. The place is stacked out with leaflets that I'd not seen before - Cornish rail based real ale trails, wildlife watching by train, touring Wales - what is going on ? How come none of this stuff is stocked in the much larger Birmingham centre ?

Worcester is a lovely city with loads of little side roads to explore. The small shop hasn't been banished, even if they aren't found on the main shopping drag. Fans of the indoor market will be please to find a small one with 2 floors. Downstairs you buy cheese and large electrical items, upstairs second hand books, records, juggling equipment and clothes for Goths (What, nothing in pastel shades ?) - nice mix. I tripped over a couple of model shops and a really excellent old fashioned sweet shop. Why is it that buying sweets from jars is fun ? And how come these places didn't all die off when they had to start selling 100g instead of "a quarter" as the anti-metric brigade told us they would ?

My packet of mis-shapes stayed firmly shut for nearly an hour. Then on the train for the next leg I realised that on a hot day the unwrapped chocolates needed to regularly sampled for quality purposes. My initial experiments were satisfactory but you can't be too careful and the experiment was repeated as required. It's this sort of commitment that has made British science what it is today.

Hereford arrived after more lush green rolling hills. The size of the station gives a good indication of the cities importance locally. Once there, was a very imposing goods shed, which has now been turned into a ten pin bowling centre. At least this means that have to look after the fabric of the building which is in reasonable condition.

The station is on the edge of the city and you have to cut through a supermarket car park and walk for five minutes to get there. I'll be honest and say this isn't my first visit but after paying a visit to the excellent model shop and a brief wander in the shopping centre I've usually headed back. This time I had the luxury of proper exploring time which was handy as it's a bit of a maze.

Ticking the second box on my list of things that make towns great we get a proper indoor market. The entrance to the Buttermarket is impressive but leads on to a bit of a corridor. This opens out to a proper halls stalls that get extra points for looking like that have been open since the 50's. OK so there is a mobile phone seller but its mainly people whose stand can be best described as "indeterminate" with a few electrical bits, some haberdashery, gifts, bit of stationery etc. All good stuff to the connoisseur. The cafe wasn't properly greasy spoon perhaps but not bad.

More by luck than judgement I found myself at the Cathedral - and realised why its famous. Back in the 1980's the people in charge decided that to raise funds (don't say publicity stunt) they would sell the Mappa Mundi. Of course there was an outcry as Johnny Foreigner might get his filthy hands on one of the country's greatest treasures apparently. Cash was found and the map was "saved". I'd taken little notice of this at the time but since I was there it seemed churlish not to go and see the thing. To be honest had it not been combined with the chained library the £4.50 admission charge might have put me off...

Having parted with my cash I read every bit of the display that covers the two attractions. To be fair there has been a lot of effort put in with translations of the map and explanations of why it matters and how it was created. The library gets similar treatment and you even see a couple of book cases with the contents chained up. All of this means that once you get to the end of the museum and see the real thing, it's a bit of an anticlimax.

When I saw the map the first thing it brought to mid was the Mona Lisa. Both are a lot more brown than you would expect, the later because it's displayed behind the lens from a pair of sunglasses to stop the Americans photographing it, the former because goats skin is not the best material for maps. The room the map is housed in is dark for obvious reasons and the map only dimly lit but you can tell it is old well away from sparkling condition. Without the previous explanations the document would make no sense at all. Even with them I can't help feeling that it's main claim to fame is not having been thrown away rather than the content. I'd stick to Ordinance Survey if I wanted to navigate.

The library is worse though. Having seen a couple of shelves all you get is a few rows of the same. The room they are housed in is made of stone but modern stone. Crucially, for me at least, any atmosphere and context has been wrenched away by the decision to move them from the room they were intended to be in.

The cathedral itself is very impressive. Like most is is overly ornate and the stained glass is fabulous. Even the floor is worth a look and uses early swastikas in some places - a reminder that the symbol was appropriated rather than designed. In fact I think the floor was more interesting that the vaulted ceiling, a reversal of the norm for religious buildings. Perhaps the good people of Hereford spent more time looking down than up ?

Back outside I found the best thing about Hereford Cathedral - the ice cream stand. The 99 is large and comes with the best raspberry sauce I've ever had. It's so tangy and flavoursome that there have clearly been no raspberries involved in the production. And while I chomped and slurped the was entertainment watching the stone masons carving. I'm assuming that they are a permanent team on the job as the rate you can carve stone must be slower than the weather can erode it. I was also pleased to see a modern Type 2 van. The radiator for the evil water-cooled engine doesn't do the looks any favours but I suppose that is progress for you. Nice van otherwise, I wouldn't mind the drivers seats for mine.



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Scotland – Day 5 – Aberdeen

Leaving Inverness for Aberdeen the countryside was much lusher than had been the case in the north. Although there were still mountains on the horizon the foreground was much like that nearer home. Cattle largely replaced sheep and the typical Scottish stone farmhouses have the sort of tin sheds that you find everywhere else added to the plot.

Arriving in Aberdeen the first impression is that there station is quieter than Inverness. Wanting to drop off my rucksack I hunted down the left luggage office. The surprisingly French porter didn't seem to know where it was and after wandering around the concourse for a while I gave up and headed out. The office is outside. Ignore the signs, it's on the station frontage nowhere near where you'd expect to find it. 2 quid and a search of the bag later and I was heading toward the docks.

The city is built around it's docks like no other I've visited. A couple of minutes stroll from the station and I'm looking at ships. My first impression was “B****y hell those are big !” (I really do think in asterisks to avoid offending myself). What I'd found were at least 5 stories high and that was above the decks. They were so tightly packed in the dock that you couldn't actually see the water. The decks were nearly level with the quayside and you could step on if the high metal fence around the site didn't prevent you getting in.

Having found the docks I quickly found the maritime museum which is excellent. The displays centre around a huge model of an oil rig. With the city economy running with the stuff it's not surprising the museum majors on it. However there is also a health dose of fishing history too, The quality of displays are excellent and I found them really interesting. OK so there weren't that many people in so getting at exhibits wasn't hard. I did manage to get in trouble though when I took a photo of a diving suit having missed the tiny notice at the entrance that said you weren't to take pictures. I really don't know why as you aren't doing any harm and none of the exhibits can hold an intellectual property issues. And if you are going to ban people from pictures, sell more postcards so we don't need to bother. There are some lovely paintings of ships on show and only 2 reproductions are available.

Leaving the museum and heading to get some boat pictures I was shooting through the fence when one of the workers let me in to work a bit more clearly. We chatted boats for a bit, he confirmed my guess that the vessels in dock were oil rig support ships. Despite dwarfing everything close by it was pointed out that they in turn would look tiny beside the platforms at sea. From the model in the museum it's obvious how huge these structures must be. Watching a film explaining the training required for those heading out there I think that I'll not be checking them personally.

Times have changed and the city is still catching up. Around the docks there are dozens of pubs. Proper dives that you can imaging your 1950's sailor or stevedore spending his wages in. The sort of place where Para Handy would have enjoyed a quick dram or two. He'd have noticed that there were a number of business opportunities if you fancy running one or two or more. In fact the whole area looks like it's due for reinvention as the grey warehouses are standing derelict too crying out for conversion into des-res flats. Mind you they won't be too keen if they want to be close to the centre. I took ages to find it. On the way I tripped over the indoor market which is properly scruffy and run down and as vibrant as the best of the, Plenty of haberdashery, mobile phones and a cafe selling Mince & tatties with free tea.

One exit takes you to the main shopping centre but I didn't find this and wandered around for a while, eventually I made it and it's not bad. The best feature by miles is the Disney Cinderella's castle at one end of the street. Not sure why it's there or why they built it from the same grey stone as everything else rather than pixie dust, but it's a nice touch and certainly stands out. The art gallery is pretty nice too. Like the maritime museum it's free to go in, which is always good. Unlike most galleries it's full of modern sculpture. Most of is pretentious rubbish but in amongst the arty stuff there are some really impressive ones. I just can't get excited when an artist has an idea and then someone skilled does the work but gets none of the credit. Some of the work was by local silversmiths – my favourite was the teapot and sugar bowl fitted with wheels. Great cartoony stuff with real humour so often missing in the art world.

My plan was to head off to Edinburgh and I back at the station I caught the train to Kings Cross which was nice an quiet. That could be because it was a proper HST with lots of coaches. Despite being over 25 years old it was still the most comfortable ride I've had all week. That tells you something about modern design and the requirements of operating companies (Thank you John Major).

Out of Edinburgh we passed swathes of what looked like council houses. No stone here, just lots of prefab structure which I don't think will a last quite as long as the older stone ones, but then they were doubtless cheaper to build.

The line hugs the coast for miles and with the perfect weather we could watch the boats heading off to the rigs. Even from a distance they are pretty impressive. Plenty more beach for those who can brave the cold and don't mind black seaweed.

The highlights of the trip involved bridges. On the approach to Edinburgh we crossed the Forth Bridge which is as impressive as it was before. However I think the Tay bridge is pretty good competition. One of the problems with the Forth crossing is that the bridge looks great when you see it from the bank but travelling across apart from the hight there isn't much to see apart from supports blocking the view. On the Tay you are up high and over water but the trip lasts a lot longer. A lot longer. In fact you can't believe how long this bridge is as it seems to go on forever. I managed to forget all about the disaster a hundred years ago too. Nearly.

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Scotland – Day 2 – Edinburgh to Inverness

Nothing beats a good breakfast on holiday. To make things better, the owner of the hotel offered to give me a shout when the spawns of Satan (TM) had finished throwing food at each other. There is no need for decent people to be stuck in a room full of kids and I'm sure the teachers will appreciate the lack of witnesses while they controlled them. Besides, breakfast means sharp objects will be to hand and it would be such a shame to get blood in the fruit juice.

Anyway the food was good and well cooked, the tea was nice and I got Frosties as cereal. Let's face it, it's not food for grown-ups but sometimes you have to live a little. For a real rush there were even sugar cubes complete with proper tongs - how posh is that ! For the mechanically minded there was even a dumb waiter device added its clunks, groans and flashing lights to the morning atmosphere.

With time to kill before the train I walked along Princess street window shopping. Being used to Midlands townscapes the solidity of the imposing stone built shops with carved names is a startling contrast. How they manage when the business changes I don't know as those signs are there for centuries. Mind you some of the shops appear to have been there since William Wallace so perhaps it doesn't matter. There is an air of permenance an an attitute that says these things are just so. After all, the Queen might drop in at any minute and you would want her to feel at home wouldn't you ?

At the other end of the street, in more ways than one, there are the souvenir shops. None of these seem to employ anyone who looks that Scottish. I especially liked one owners tartan turban along with his Chinese assistants mini-kilt and biker boot combo. Quite how I resisted buying a set of mini bagpipes is something I don't understand but something my neighbors will be eternally grateful for.

Back at the station I arrived early and bagged a seat next to the bike rack on board. This might not sound like a winning move but it is a seat on its own, had space for my rucksack beside it and best of all gave me two whole windows free of passengers heads to see the view.

Soon after we set off the train appeared to be flying. How we had managed to get up so high over water confused me until I spotted a bridge on my right. We were on the Forth Rail bridge and it is fantastic. Although the image is iconic you simply don't realise how high or long the structure is. On one side we had the suspension bridge carrying the road crossing, on the other a pair of huge ocean going tugboats looked like models. Had the train stopped at Queensferry station I would have been very tempted to get out and have yet another look. As it was a quick glimpse appeared as we rounded the bay at Burntislast. Sadly this was too quick for me to get a photo and even if I had, the covers for the legendary painting obscured some of the massive pillars which didn't help the view.

On the train we all settled into our seats. Simon our “catering host” turned up with his trolley to sell us drinks. He was so tall he had to duck down through each doorway he passed through. I suspect that catering hosting isn't his dream job due to the slight air of embarrassment that followed him as he navigated the bags littering the aisles but he did OK and had a better success rate than many others I've seen doing this job.

The scenery defies description. Streams with wide stoney beaches where the water has meandered over time, scrubby hills with gorse and the odd cow, waves of pine trees, we had the lot. Isolated houses popped up occasionaly and I wondered who would chose to live so far from any form of civilisation. Often there was little in the way of farm building on the plot either. In May I was really surprised to see so much snow on the hills too. Not enough for skiing perhaps but more than we see in central England most winters.

If I thought the houses were isolated, we passed the most remote chicken farm in the world as well. It suddenly appeared from behind some trees looking for all the world like a wartime prison camp in miniature. Those who have seen the film "Chicken Run" will have an idea what I mean. The owner or carer for the birds was a mystery though as we were miles from anywhere. Mind you, I didn't see any chickens either so perhaps they had dug a tunnel and escaped already...

The stations are lovely and almost Alpine in design. Signs in English and Gaelic which is nearly as tough to read as Welsh. Aviemore is oddball though. On one side there was a pleasant enough building, on the other a set of run-down structures with faded paint (antiques people would call this patina) that belong to the Strathspey Steam Railway. Judging by the amount of un-restored rolling stock they own it's a young line and one that can't reply on many local volunteers either. A steam engine (BR liveried J94 for gricers) was outside the brick built shed and being readied for use. The weirdest feature though, was the buffet on the proper station. Who deiced that somewhere this remote was the place for Roosleap, the down under eating experience ?

To entertain us on the run, we had a toilet. Not that exciting you might think, but far from easy for most of the users who waited outside for the door to open or looked for a door closing button once they had finished. One girl even tried to haul the door back into position, thinking perhaps that the designer meant this to be the way things worked. I'll be honest and admit that I got tired of trying to explain the door to people very quickly and just let them get on with it. Since most were elderley Americans with weak bladders practice soon made perfect.

My companions at the entertaining end of the coach were Cameron who was heading up to see family and Heidi taking here incredibly well behaved 6 month old son to see Grandad. We chatted away every so often and Cameron advised me that his sister runs a B&B in Inverness and then backtracked as I misunderstood thinking that he was trying to sell me accommodation !

On arrival my plan had been to head straight to the guesthouse but the Victorian Market diverted me. It turned out not to be an indoor market but an odd shopping centre with souvenir shops rubbing doorways with a purveyor of vacuum cleaner spares.

Inverness isn't a very big city, in fact it's smaller than many large towns. The Winston Guest House is about 5 minutes from the station and that includes crossing the river Ness (no sign of the monster). I haven't seen the inside much yet as my bedroom is at the bottom of the garden. Not a shed but a little building with 4 or 5 rooms all nicely appointed. The owner showed me around and probably didn't need to tell me that he'd had the floor in the bathroom replaced a few days ago. I will tread carefully.

As usual, more pictures in Flickr.

Bridgenorth via Kidderminster and the Severn Valley Railway

It's probably fair to say that Kidderminster isn't high on most peoples lists of dream holiday locations. I have wandered through the town centre in the past and it's no more interesting than any other downbeat Midlands town whose industrial base has largely deserted it. However there is one attraction that many of the competitors would love to have, Kidderminster is home to the Severn Valley Railway. Perhaps it is a peculiarly British eccentricity, or an example of “people power”, but when railway lines were closing in the 1950s and 60s, enthusiasts started banding together to buy and re-open them. Up and down the country railways that the powers that be decided were unnecessary have found a new lease of life providing entertainment for both travellers and operators.

My trip started with a run through central Birmingham past endless amounts of industry both live and dead. The highlight was probably West Bromwich Albion's football ground which appears to be a giant marque – the sort of thing you see trade stands in at outdoor events but on a much larger scale. I'm assuming some football goes on in there but since I don't follow the beautiful game I'm not sure.

I sat towards the back of the train and through the door that lead to the drivers cab I could see the track we had just travelled over. Quite why this view is so appealing when there are perfectly good windows in the side is something I accept but don't understand. Perhaps it's the fact that it's so often denied to us that matters. As a bit of an enthusiast I suppose I like to see the equipment that makes the railway work, for a while anyway, a bit like seeing behind the scenes in a theatre.

A mystery appeared on the skyline at Rowley Regis – two large communications towers on the horizon. Thanks to the haze they were a little indistinct but I'd certainly like to know more. A dig around on Google Maps hasn't enlightened me. Since we are talking about pretty substantial structures I would have thought they would be obvious on the satellite view but no.

Passing through Old Hill there is a golf course. Nothing special except it appears to be in a back garden. It is complete with rough, fairway, green and flag, all the builder needed to add was a bunker or two and the job would be complete. Perhaps this is a new idea – separate holes at different locations. To play a round you catch a bus and get off at different stops to tee off for each hole. Taking a different bus could give a different course effectively each time. Perhaps I should patent that idea ?

From Stourbridge Junction the landscape changes from buildings, via a burst of red sandstone in a cutting to rolling countryside. One minute you are in Birmingham and its environs, the next to the sound of choirs singing “Jerusalem”, the English country with hills and trees and everything.

Kidderminsters' proper station is a couple of platforms with a building picked from an uninspiring catalogue. Next door is the Severn Valley's much more imposing attempt. Brick built with towers, a sweeping approach and a proper ticket office you'd not be blamed for thinking it had always been there. The effect is helped because it is surrounded by buildings that are a lot older. The town was a big producer of carpets and also hosted the weekly livestock market so goods facilities were important and these buildings survived. One warehouse houses a railway museum full of signs and memorabilia. Admittedly on a weekday out of the holiday period I was the only visitor and the lady looking after the café wasn't doing great business but it's free and well worth the visit.

Being out of season there are only four departures to Bridgenorth, my intended destination. I'd missed the first but after half an hour the next train puffed into the station. Enthusiasts will want to know it was pulled by a GWR 0-6-0 Pannier Tank locomotive. Everyone else will just say it was a steam train. A line like this is staffed mainly by volunteers. Not being paid seems to affect their pride in the job as the coaches were taken away and washed before we were allowed to board. That care and attention plus the well presented uniforms that everyone wore spoke of a pride that has long since been beaten out of public life in other sectors.

Now when you take a traditional steam train ride in Britain you expect to see many things from the window – hills, sheep, cows, abandoned cars etc. More of a surprise was the sight of water buffalo followed by elephants. It is possible that some farmer had decided that cattle were too much trouble and wanted something with more meat on its bones but more likely that that section of line runs past West Midlands Safari park. I had to look this up which indicates someone is missing a trick with the advertising – a banner on the fence might get them a few more visitors.

Puttering through he countryside this way is very restful. The gentle sway of the coach, the noise from the engine and the clickety-clack of the wheels is enough to lull the passenger to sleep which is a pity as the view are not spectacular but pleasant in a very English way. The railway manages to do more than simply re-create the technical aspects of the line, it also recreates the atmosphere of the 1930s. Each station is immaculately presented with “set dressing” of luggage and ephemera. Some might see this as a Disneyfication of the past but I like to think it's more than this. The timetable is adhered to but in an unhurried and unpressured way. Post was being sent up the line by handing it to the guard and all the staff talk to each other like old friends, which of course many of them will be.

On reaching Bridgenorth everyone piles off the train and heads across a modern and surprisingly high footbridge which dumps you at a roadside. I followed the signs to the cliff railway as most of these trips seem to involve one so why break the habit ?

The town is on a very steep hill hence the funicular, one of the few not at a seaside. The line is crammed in between buildings and would be easy to miss if you weren't looking for it. The ride is quick and not in the least bit scary. I love the design of the cars which are bubble like rather than the Victorian boxes found elsewhere. 90 pence buys a return to the town, which considered the other option seems a bargain. Tickets come out of a proper machine set in the office desk. The only problem is that they are torn in half for each section of the trip so you don't get a souvenir !

The trip from Kidderminster is just over 16 miles but you might as well be in another world when you reach the centre of town. Yes there are a couple of chain stores, the ubiquitous WH Smith & Woolworths, the rest are the local shops beloved of tourists if not townspeople. The centre is dominated by the town hall which hosts markets in the arched area underneath. At one end of town a castellated gate provides a traffic obstruction. Quite how these survived the 1960's rush for road building I don't know, but I suspect the tourist office is glad they did. It's this sort of thing that give a destination like this atmosphere and makes it worth coming. There isn't a town square as such, just a wide main street with the market hall and lots of parking in the space that would once have been home to cattle on sales days.

Regular readers of this blog will be pleased to know that there is a small indoor market. The highlight is undoubtedly the second hand book stall which is huge and home to a wide variety of titles, not just pulp fiction but proper books you would be really pleased to track down. The rest of the market appears more like a down market department store with each area owned by someone else. With so little space to play with I doubt that they could do anything else. Mind you, the butchers selling local delicacies at the front was very tempting...

Under the side of the town gate I found one of the most unexpected shops I've found ever – an importer of weird American foodstuffs called Americalicious. Without teh Interweb I seriously doubt that the owner would stay open for more than a week but when I went in he was busy parcelling up goodies to dispatch around the country. Most of the display seemed to consist of Hershey products but as anyone brought up on a diet of Cadbury products knows they are an abomination. I settled for a packet of Jell-o and some Kelloggs Fruit Loops. Reading the nutritional information on the side explains so much about the size of America today – the main ingredient of each product appears to be calories.

After taking in both model shops (three if you count the one that specialises in die-cast collectibles) and an antique centre that used to be a garage, I decided I needed food before the return trip. Since I hadn't picked up a newspaper I headed to Smiths, the only newsagent as far as I could tell, and then to the Swan pub on the other side of the road.
Waiting at the bar to order the landlord was saying farewell to someone. He explained that the lady had worked in the pub for 28 years and the previous day had been her last with them. I asked what she did and he said, “She was the chef”. Now that's not a good thing to hear when you are about to order lunch but apparently they had a replacement and everything would be fine. Sadly the traditional toad in the hole had sold out and I didn't know what the next two over enthusiastically offered options were so I plumped for a mixed-grill affair. This arrived after about 25 minutes and looked OK. However I suspect the new cook is still finding his feet. The chips were both hot and not cooked properly, the bacon seared but surprisingly pink. The beer was nice though even if it wasn't a local brew.

After this I had to waddle back to the station fairly quickly to catch the train. I made it with ten minutes to spare and settled down in a compartment coach. These have long since disappeared from the real railway and I for one miss them. I understand that people could get up to mischief when hidden away but if you were in a quiet one, it meant a peaceful journey as noise and trouble didn't travel. Neither did heat though and the other passenger sharing it with me decided to go and find an open coach as this was too hot – vintage coaches offer no air conditioning !

A couple of stops down the line I was joined by two of the volunteer “explainers” from the Engine House museum on the line. This is a new attraction which aims to showcase some of the lines locomotives and put them in context. This all sounds very worthy and I wonder how many of the tourists will care when someone tries to explain why an exhibit matters when all they want is for their kids to use it as a climbing frame. Anyway, the volunteers were talking about a recent diesel gala. Apparently they find that not all enthusiasts are equal, even amongst the “anoraks” some are weirder than others. People sniffing in diesel fumes and sighing in the same way a wine taster does are definitely considered to be on the lunatic fringe !

Neither seemed to know why an ITV outside broadcast van was parked up in Arley station but we were all impressed when the dish unfolded itself from the roof, spun around and started hunting for a signal. The high-tech contrasted with it's surroundings and the coal powered train we were riding on. That coal made its appearance as we trundled through a long tunnel later on in the form of sparks flying by the windows. You don't see them in the sunlight but would certainly notice it if they hit some dry undergrowth nearby.

We made it back to Kidderminster in time to find crowds of kids being disgorged from the main line stations doors as the returned from school. Fighting my way through the crowds I made it on to the a train that turned out to be running straight through to Leamington. As we rumbled off it was interesting to compare the two trains – I was in a carriage that rattle because of the engine under the floor. All around were plastics and metal. The seat was comfortable but not luxurious. The journey would be punctual but impersonal. By contrast my steam trip had seem me wallow in seats surrounded by wood and fittings that were certainly not vandal-proof. The windows opened so I could stick my head out. It was a different age.

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Aberystwyth

Wales is a foreign country whose people there speak a strange, scrabble-defying language.

My experience of the natives has, along with many other English people's, not been all that positive. Several years ago I stayed a few nights in Builth Wells for a training course. Walking down the main street on the Sunday evening I had abuse (I think) shouted at me in Welsh just because I looked English. Unfortunately there are some very pretty bits of country and a lot of interest in this dark land and as I want to take my VeeDub there in a couple of months I thought it would be a good idea to have a day trip to Wales to acclimatise myself.

Playing around with the ever unfriendly Network Rail Journey planner, I worked out that in a day it is possible to travel to Aberystwyth and back in a day. That's about as far west as you go in Britain without getting wet feet. Better still, if I bought my ticket in Birmingham the price dropped from a whopping 48 quid to around half that – even allowing for the trip to Brum. More research in a handy edition of the Lonely Planet guide to Great Britain showed that the town had a cliff tramway and pier. That's enough for me, I was sold.

The train out of Birmingham New Street was interesting. Announcements before we started were telling us that it would split during the journey with the rear half going where I wanted and the front travelling up the Cambrian Coast line to Tywyn. As a bit of an anorak I realised that the end that had been the front to New Street would be the back when it left, unlike half the other passengers to general confusion and panicy scampering along the aisles and back again.

The journey starts unremarkable enough heading out through Wolverhampton and Shrewsbury. I enjoy the Black Country scenery of canals and derelict factory buildings in a macabre sort of way. It's interesting to speculate what they once produced and imagine the proud owners standing in front of gleaming new premises. For some reason my mental picture has the owner dressed in tweeds and everyone wearing bowler hats with workers in flat caps. I knew I was on the way to Wales though - the guard called me “bach” when returning my ticket after checking it. We were heading for holiday territory too, the carriage carpet was from the traditional B&B section of the catalogue judging by it’s lurid design.

I settled down to enjoy the journey. Birmingham New Street to Abber takes around 3 hours, plenty of time to struggle with the crossword and read a book. To make the experience complete I picked up a muffin from the baker next to New Street’s ticket barrier. Like a good boy I eschewed the double chocolate option, plumping for the much healthier Banana and Toffee version. This surely counts as one of my “five a day” doesn’t it ?

Along the way there are sights to be seen. I was amused to see that when we pulled up in Wellington station, over the top of the building there was a Boots sign visible !

Welshpool station is a mystery too. The old station is on the other side of a main road from the railway. I’m assuming that years ago the line was rationalised and the station site reduced allowing space for the road. I’m sure the local council approved wholeheartedly. As it is the building is still in fine shape and now operates as a shop. Apparently it sells Hornby model railways amongst other things.

Normally I like to spend a long train trip stuffing my face, listening to music and reading a good book. The reading had to stop after Newtown though - the scenery was simply too good to ignore. We travelled through valleys between brooding mountains and across fast flowing rivers. The weather was kind - soft sunlight with just a hint of cloud to cast ever moving shadows in the hillsides.

After an hour of hillsides the scenery opened out at Dovey Junction. Here the line splits with track heading off up the Cambrian Coast line. At this point the view out of the window becomes completely compelling. You simply can’t take your eyes off it and my book was completely forgotten.

All good things have to come to an end. In this case that means Borth. Borth is a seaside town whose popularity is obvious due to the huge number of mobile homes that seem to cover the entire town. Those covering the hills looked like a giant wave with the white roofs glittering in the sun. What is it about the British holidaymaker that wants to visit a place where every building has wheels yet never moves ? One thing a rail user doesn’t get to see though is the real sea. You are far too inland for that even if there caravan infestation didn’t get in the way.

Aberystwyth station is nice. It’s actually home to two railways. The Network Rail’s and The Vale of Rheidol. The later had the distinction of being home to British Rail’s last steam engines which ran into the late 1980s when the line was privatised. I’d managed to pick a day to visit between two operating days so there wasn’t anything much to see, but with only 4 hours to kill a ride would have been out of the question anyway. Exiting the station I notice that the prominent sign on the build proclaims it is a Wetherspoons Free House rather than where you get trains. Railway enthusiasts will also be amused by the presence of an hotel called Beechings opposite. Don’t ask, it’s not that funny.

The sea is a five minute stroll from the station. I’ll be honest and say lounging on the beach wasn’t what I’d come for - good thing too as it’s a combination of shingle and stones. No soft sand for the Welsh obviously.

I started with the cliff railway on Constitution Hill at the north end of the town. The ticket was issued at the office from an over complicated computerised system that smacked of someone in the councils IT department getting involved. Why does the guy in the office have to type in the number of passengers ? Surely a couple of rolls of tickets would be more authentic and reliable ?

Anyway, I clambered aboard the car which differs from other funiculars in that it is open and had tiered seating. After a short wait the ride to the top of the hill started and I began to regret my choice of seat. Sadly I’m not great with heights. Ladders defeat me but buildings are OK as long as I have something solid nearby. The view from the car was, disconcerting. There wasn’t anything between me and the view. For the first few minutes I sat very still in the seat. It didn’t help that once track became visible this didn’t look like it had been maintained since the line opened (H&S Note - I’m sure it is regularly checked and is fully in accordance with all appropriate rules and regs. That’s what I kept telling myself anyway.) which was, according to the other car as it rattled past, 1896. The ropes hauling us up didn’t look very thick ether. Still, the views were spectacular with a panorama of the town available to those with open eyes.

At the top of the hill there is a café, playroom, Frisbee golf (?) and camera obscura - the largest in the world and of course, shut. Looking along the coast makes you think the builders of the town weren’t very clever, there is proper tourist friendly sand on the beaches in the next bay. Thanks to the joys of mobile phones I also found out all about one persons brand new car in English and Welsh and the appointments of a woman who needed to understand she was on holiday. I suppose as offices go, this one at least had decent views.

Back in town, the pier is to be honest, rubbish. It’s not very long and contains a pub and amusement arcade. I tried a few machines and all I won nothing except some tickets which the office wouldn‘t redeem as I didn‘t have enough. Each was as valuable as cash in Zimbabwe at present. There didn’t seem to be a way out of the back of the building to see the sea either. I’m assuming a chunk fell off the back of the structure once, either that or the builders ran out of cash before getting very far. Where the obligatory theatre ?

While the pier disappoints, the harbour is much more appropriate to a seaside town. If you are around in the morning there will fresh fish aplenty. Judging by the number of pots, fresh lobster is on the menu too. Aberystwyth boat club does good business too judging by the number of sailing boats moored up. Not many relics either - I doubt there were more than half a dozen vessels that wouldn’t be seaworthy. Maybe they are hidden away somewhere. The lifeboat station houses an inshore boat so presumably the sailors manage to stay out trouble most of the time too.

To complete my joy I found an little indoor market when walking back past the attractive ruined castle. Not exactly busy, one of the stallholders was dozing behind her stand, I suspect this might be because the goodies on offer were best described as “stuff” - the sort of thing you might buy but wouldn’t miss if you left it behind in the hotel. Mind you, it is possible to have your laptop valeted, a service I’ve never seen offered before.

Presumably because of the extra trade provided by the local university, the shopping centre is pretty good. All the usual chains are there along with a few odd-balls. One street even has two model shops - more than there are in the whole of London. What it lacks is the traditional seaside tat shop with rubbish souvenirs. If anyone fancies a business opportunity then there it is. Judging from the number of guest houses there must be customers.

Fish and chips on the beach (OK, shelter on the prom) came courtesy of the dolphin café. A proper slightly run down establishment a million miles away from any homogenous chain outlet. The fish was good and crisp with nice batter, chips a bit soggy. Not enough vinegar either. Nice smell of seaweed from the shore though. That’s proper seaside.

Back at the station for the last train back to the midlands, the platform was pretty busy. My fellow passengers were mostly students heading away for the weekend. Our two coach train was 10 minutes late and once on board the crew announced it was playing up and so we’d have a new train waiting at Machynlleth and shouldn’t get too comfortable.

The scenery was just as amazing on the return trip. Just outside Dovey Junction we passed a man fishing from a rowing boat in the river. Rather than a rod he used a net in the same manner as a trawler. I assume a huge catch wasn’t planned or those oars were going to need some serious pulling. It didn’t seem fair to the fish either.

Machynlleth arrived and we disembarked for the new train. Despite the advice of the crew, the students were too stupid or lazy to walk far and crammed themselves on the first two coaches. The grown-ups walked further and spent the rest of the trip luxuriating in mostly empty coaches, most of us having a table to ourselves. If the beauty outside had been switched off I might have typed rather more of this on the train than I did. As it was, reading and watching the hills roll by seemed more appropriate.

The journey’s entertainment didn’t stop with a change however. Outside Telford we were held up by engineering works and it was announced the train would terminate at Wolverhampton and we’d need to change again for Birmingham. The lady behind me, who had been talking to the guard about her options for getting to Chipenham on the already delayed service sighed loudly. I commented that she would need to take up Ariva trains offer of a taxi ride mentioning that I was unlucky enough and all I was aiming for was Leamington Spa.

At this point the guy on the table opposite piped up. Next to him sat a large gentlemen obviously from eastern Europe. Apparently he was heading to Leamington too and needed some assistance. The visitor called Christian was in the country for a week laying concrete. His wife Erika lived in Leamington Spa and he was heading back from Shrewsbury to meet her.

I’ll be honest, being stuck with a Romanian with a poor grasp of English (better than my Romanian though) for the remainder of the journey on a rail network set to “messy” didn’t appeal that much but there wasn’t a lot I could do. Wolverhampton arrived we sprinted over the footbridge to a train into the city which was a good start. Once on board I checked the timetable and discovered that our train from Brum to Leamington left Snow Hill station at 10:15pm, 40 minutes after we arrived. The walk takes 5 minutes, so I was going to have to look after Christian for that time. It hardly seemed fair to just sit him in the waiting room if his visit wasn’t that long.

In Birmingham we wandered across to check the trains were running and there wasn’t the chance of an earlier one. The entire return journey was going to take 5.5 hours - 2 longer then the run out at this rate. Sadly my timetable work is excellent and we had time to kill. Christian needed a drink - “juice” he said - so I though we’d try the pub 2 minutes walk from the station. After all our visitor might as well see a traditional British Inn, even if it was a Wetherspoons. I walking in past the bouncers but they stopped my new friend for wearing a tracksuit. Sad really, it was in better condition than my grubby jeans, still, dress codes are dress codes and we wouldn’t want downmarket inner city pubs would we ?

There was a handy newsagent still open. It’s next to the bus stops and not the nicest area of town but Brum at night isn’t bad and Christian was built like a brick outhouse. He came out with Iron Bru - I didn’t like to say the only way that counts as juice is if RSJ’s are classed as fruit. Still you do get plenty or iron and I assured him it was a popular Scottish drink.

Back on the station the train had arrived early so I dived on and sat down. Looking back I’d lost Christian but I assumed he’d made a trip to the toilet so didn’t go hunting for him. A few minutes later he turns up with a women in tow - his sister-in-law who he’d bumped into heading for the same train ! She thanked me for looking after him and related his problems with the rail network, London to Shrewsbury accidentally via Sheffield had apparently been his introduction to our trains on his arrival in the country. They chatted away in Romainain and at some point also spoke to his wife to explain just why it was taking so long for them to be reunited.

We bade each other farewell at Leamington after what turned out to be a longer day than I had expected. Aberystwyth is a journey worth 28 pounds of anyone’s money if the weather is kind even if you don‘t get off the train. I know this country is home to some of the best scenery in the world and today I felt I had seen a chunk of it. The main thing I seemed to miss was Welsh people. I doubt if more than a third of the people I spoke to were native and those that were were friendly. Good news for my return trip later this year.

More pictures can be found on Flickr