I had feared we’d be barely out of the Park carpark before someone started on their packed lunch. As it happened, most people simply had a poke about, resisting temptation. Contained within each brown paper package, with handles, was a bottle of our water, a can of red wine and a miniature, two rounds of sandwiches (one beef, one cheese) and of course, an apple.
I was most impressed with the coach, its sleek curved lines, manufactured with detail and care in the nineteen fifties. The thought given to offering real support to the seating, real visibility out of the windows. The two-tone paint job was pleasing to the eye too, but nonetheless it was the same design, though then in plainer colours, which had taken all kinds of passengers on cross country journeys for many years. It was simply a more civilised way to travel than what was to follow. It did however, demand more of the driver, but then that was no bad thing. I was brought out of my reverie by Mrs Walpole’s voice behind me. ‘Don’t you find the country so much more romantic than the city Walpole?’
‘Yes, it still has dirt and grime. Cities are so hygienic these days.’
‘Oh, really!’
Before we were allowed off the coach at the bus station opposite the steam railway, Cat as ‘teacher in charge’ gave us detailed instructions regarding the itinerary, especially where we were to be picked-up again by the coach at the end of the day.
As we dismounted, I said; ‘Cat, I think I’ve spotted the flaw in your plan.’
‘Oh, I say! Really?’
‘We’re to be picked-up at the main bus stop, which is next door to the most famous hotel stroke pub, south of the Moor. Both of which, along with the river on which we will have arrived are at the bottom of the hill. And yet, you expect us all to take a hike up to the top of the town, before entering the castle. I doubt many will get beyond the pub.’
‘But surely Charlotte will have you taking the exercise?’ So said the lady from number forty-two.
‘Oh, absolutely.’
‘Alistair has promised to explain to me, why there was a need to have two beacon hills.’
‘Oh really! You’ve been brushing up on our local history then Cat?’
Getting to the train involved leaving the bus station, crossing a busy road, walking alongside the entrance to the conventional railway station, crossing over it at the level crossing, all before entering the space on the far side of the tracks dedicated to the steam railway. We must have resembled a co-educational school ‘crocodile’ by the end of it. Walpole commented; ‘Brutal, isn’t it. Worse than the Berlin Wall.’
‘You are aware of the story Harry?’
‘Oh, indeed. Everyone just calls me Walpole by the way. British Railways was really quite hostile to the preservation movement.’
‘My husband spent many years going on circuit. He used to enjoy the days of Brown Windsor soup.’
‘Yes, I was first introduced to that way of life by my old pupil master...’
‘That and the railway claret.’ She added.
‘Oh, really. Helene! No, BR, rather than cooperate with the enthusiasts, who of course were in large part ex-railway employees, divided the station in two, and sold off the accompanying land, all the way down the line, to the relevant local authorities, and in the process destroyed any possibility of a faithful preservation.’
‘What truly bothered me as a young lad, was the fakery of the rolling stock, again quite unnecessary.’
‘Thank goodness they’ve given us a coach rather than that “chocolate and cream” observation car, which should really be in southern region green and given to another railway altogether!’
‘It dates from that period when the Atlantic Coast Express tried to make it’s buffet cars look like pubs, doesn’t it?’
‘You’re far too young to remember them!’
‘Every inch of film has gone onto DVD, and now is mostly online too.’
‘Yes of course, so much easier to be an enthusiast these days.’
‘Just a lot less to be enthusiastic about!’
Our reserved carriage, was a mark one British Railways coach, an open second as it happened, which any self-respecting train spotter would recognise. None of them had gone into service before nineteen fifty-one, either in a maroon, or a ‘blood and custard’ livery, yet we were confronted with one painted in traditional Great Western Railway ‘chocolate and cream’ and with an ascribed name!
‘Come on, it’s the seat that counts.’ Said Walpole.
We were quick enough to grab a double table, but were disappointed as our bottoms sunk to an uneven halt. ‘Damn it! You’d have thought they’d have the courtesy to stuff them properly once in a while.’
‘Really Walpole, are you going to find fault with everything. They are volunteers after all.’
I tried to be conciliatory; ‘Well, we won’t be travelling at more than twenty-five miles an hour.’
‘Now there’s another thing. I put to you members of the jury, that throughout its life as part of the GWR, this was a main line - the Bay Express left Paddington daily - it had to be, it carried thousands of navy cadets to the Royal Naval College. It may be a single track from here on but the terminus was designed to take the largest trains and maintain the largest locomotives. Why both Princess Elisabeth and Phillip Mountbatten travelled this way before the war...’
‘Oh, do be quiet Walpole! It’s not your job to make speeches anymore.’
‘In that case I shall make a start on my can of wine.’
‘Dare one mention Agatha Christie? She was most certainly a regular traveller on this line.’ I asserted as we cantered along between beach and countryside.
‘Oh, I do like a good Christie, do you Anthony? Walpole disagrees, as usual.’
Harry had his can open, so I continued whilst I had the chance. ‘I think she improved a lot over the years; indeed, I think her final Miss Marple novels were her best. A character not that different from herself.’
‘I wonder if these crime writers would actually be any good at solving real life crimes?’ Asked Charlie.
‘Ah! Now you’ve put your finger on the bull point, young Charlotte.’ Asserted Walpole. ‘I must say this wine is real quite acceptable Anthony, better than the crude Bordeaux type usually available to an Old Bailey hack. No, I doubt very much whether any of the so-called crime writers would make a good detective.’
‘Oh, come now Walpole, the only fiction you every read is Sherlock Holmes!’
‘Yes, but Mrs Walpole,’ I interceded; ‘Conan Doyle knows he’s not a great detective, he’s tried his best to be a student of Dr Bell at Edinburgh, but he knows his limits as a diagnostician, part of the reason he’s turned to writing.’
‘Thank you, Anthony. My point entirely.’ Then the train came to a gentle, but unexpected standstill in the middle of nowhere.
After a minute or so Walpole opened the window; ‘We’ve not arrived at Adlestrop by any chance?’
‘I hate the way literary types go on about Adlestrop. They quite fail to realise the location was irrelevant, that what Thomas was describing was an experience known and understood by millions.’
‘Absolutely.’ Replied Walpole.
‘What experience is this?’ Asked Charlotte.
‘Riding an Express, you suddenly feel the driver take the power off in the middle of nowhere, the train slowly slows down, clearly not an emergency, he lets it roll, hoping for a green signal so as to pick up speed again, trying to avoid stopping altogether because of the work and time that involves. But after a couple of minutes, he has no choice but to stop at a red signal. The noise and vibration cease, as the minutes tick by the passengers hearing adjusts, if a window isn’t open, someone opens one. The sounds of the countryside become the background, there is sense of peace and stillness within the train, however busy the world is outside. The fact that this happened to the poet at a halt on the mainline to Worcester in nineteen fifteen is just so much context, it’s only sixteen lines long as it is.’
‘Still worthy of inclusion in anyone’s edition of the Oxford Verse though.’ As Walpole spoke, we began to move again and proceeded without incident to the end of the line.
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