(1) A large freight locomotive, probably a New England (34E) 'WD' 2-8-0, is being thrashed hard along the GNR main line at Langley Junction. There is a ringing clang on two distinct notes from the worn big-ends on either side. It syncopates rapidly, indicating just how fast the small, 4 ft 8-1/2 in wheels are turning. Yet the train is probably only travelling at 30 mph. I read that a Britannia once towed a 'WD' 2-8-0 from March to Stratford at 50 mph. The crew of the latter stepped down at the end of the journey white-faced and trembling, muttering about "sparks coming out of the motion"....
(2) From Valley Way, Stevenage, outer suburban tank engines are visible outlined against the backdrop of the low Knebworth hills, running up the 1 in 200 gradient towards Woolmer Green and Welwyn. As they exert themselves against the gradient, the matt black of their dirt-covered paintwork contrasts with the white plumes of steam, which extend the length of their trains. They are L-1 tanks, based at Hitchin 34D depot, and they pull double Gresley 'quad-art' (quadruple articulated) sets of carriages, which make a distinctive sound on the rail joints of the poorly aligned local roads. The verdant background is particularly strinking against a passing '9F' 2-10-0, for the sheer massive bulk of these locomotives and the empty space beneath the boiler, which is pitched as high as possible so that the firebox can clear the rear pair of 5 ft driving wheels. Perhaps this is why they are nicknamed 'spaceships'.
(3) Standing on Knebworth station, accessed by platform ticket, on a Saturday afternoon around 1959. The trains from the north come out of the cutting like bullets from a gun, roll sonorously over the crossing at the down end of the platform and hurtle through the station with a gush of smoke. I am only six years old and hide in terror behind the waiting room. One of the locomotives is different to the others: it has black livery, a strongly tapered boiler and a curved name-plate over the central driving wheel splasher, with the name picked out in crimson. It is travelling so fast I am unable to see the name. I presume it was an ex-LMSR 'Jubilee', but what was it doing on an express into Kings Cross?
(4) Standing on the down side of the line at Langley Junction on a cool, humid Saturday afternoon. In front is a substantial rivetted plate-steel girder bridge and the much newer concrete dual-carriageway bridge to the industrial area on the Langley side. Opposite is the water-softening plant for Langley troughs, constructed by the GNR in 1919. Between the road and the line is an old GNR cast-iron sign warning that "Trespassers will be prosecuted". Titanium white letters on dark paint that has faded to Wedgwood blue. Along comes the 1.45 p.m. to Harrogate. It is headed by a '9F' 2-10-0, which is being run flat out down the 1 in 200. A whirlwind, from rail level deeply impressive: the flailing motion and long row of 5ft-diameter driving wheels--90mph?
(5) A New England '9F' bowls past at a steady 30 mph on the down slow. Behind it, 98 coal wagons chatter and groan along like something out of a Rev. W. Awdry tale. They are of many kinds, steel and wooden, rusted and repainted, grey, brown and russet, high-sided and low-sided. Later in the day a '9F' on another long train of coal empties comes to a halt outside the old GNR box with the home signal set against it. When the board is pulled off it starts with a jerk, as they so often did, and a wave of movement runs briskly down the long train of loose-coupled wagons until it slams the guard's van viciously back and forth.
(6) In the signalbox, ting, long pause, ting-ting-ting, short pause, ting: the local train is due. The weather is warm and the wooden sleepers give off a smell of creosote. Now come the slide and decisive clang of the signalman's lever, the metallic rustling of the wire and dry squeak of the small wheels which support it where it runs along beside the line, the soft grating sound of the signal board as it rises, swivelling on its pole. A short wait, and then ting-ting--the train enters section. Here it is: a grubby 'B1', lime incrustations on smokebox and cylinder covers are tell-tale signs of priming. It hauls a rake of Gresley coaches repainted in BR maroon. The rumble of the driving wheels and rhythmic clank of worn-down motion that has acquired too much tolerance. Steel on steel, polishing the surfaces bright. The echoing pulse of the carriage wheels as they clatter noisily over the rail joints, the swaying coach bodies.
(7) A two-cylinder locomotive starts away from the station with a snatch and a rhythmic series of tugs that eventually merge into a steady pull as it gets up speed. The couplings between the carriages grunt and the corridor connection between each pair of coaches grinds as they sway. The maroon plush of the seats is as hard as sandpaper. A layer of grime covers everything and darkens the corners and windowsills. The tables between the bench seats have a reptilian grey surface with scaly brown varnish at their rounded wooden edges. Screwed in over the head-rests there are tarnished mirrors and faded prints of Richmond Castle in Yorkshire. Loopy nets of brown string dangle from the luggage rack above. Outside, the trails of white steam appear to float past the window like a series of streamers waving around in the wind. Every so often they obscure the view, especially when compressed beneath the soot-blackened brick arches of overbridges. The telegraph poles with their rows of horizontal battens appear at the window one after another, and between them the great parallel burden of wires loops down and up, down and up. The sequence is mesmerizing: pole-loop-pole-loop-pole-loop, on and on. Descending the 1 in 200 bank from Woolmer Green to Langley Junction the train sways and rattles. The permanent way is well made on the main, but poor on the local: di-dum di-dum, pause, di-dum di-dum, pause, di-dum di-dum, pause--and so on.
(8) The rhythmic beat of a locomotive exhaust suddenly fades away as the regulator is shut, but comes back as it is opened again. Wagons move slowly with a distinctive high-pitched creak, and the clashing buffers of a long string of loose-coupled 16-ton mineral wagons make a silvery cascade of sound. It starts slowly and accelerates until they have all been touched into motion in a long percussive surge. There is a much harsher wrenching noise as a loose-coupled goods train is abruptly started and wagons are suddenly slammed against one other.
(9) The magmatic hiss of a large express locomotive's safety valves blowing full blast reverberates off the cast iron and glass roof above. The air steadily becomes more humid. Conversation is impossible until it has finished. The sound penetrates the deepest recesses of one's ears, which ring for minutes afterwards. The pacific locomotives at the buffer stops radiate heat as they simmer quietly, elemental symbols of controlled power. The fireman is up on the tender guiding the leather bag of the water crane into the filler opening. Suddenly, behind a row of carriages, steam puffs up in a series of tiny clouds that progress towards the open end of the station: a locomotive, no longer penned in by its coaches, is going on shed.
(10) The Doric arch stands four-square as antiquated London taxis whizz under it one after another like peas out of a pea-shooter. Inside the booking hall, the cream paint peels and yellows high on the coffered ceiling. Shadows darken the arcade of the platforms, with their rows of cast iron columns. There are echoes of the long-departed LNWR. The 'Patriots' and 'Scots' with their big, curved smoke deflectors simmer at the buffer stops, waiting to go off to Camden shed.
(11) An outer suburban train from Baldock creeps through the dank blackness of Copenhagen and Gasworks tunnels and towards the terminus. The ancient gas lamps, long ago converted to electricity, give out a parsimonious glimmer of septic yellow light. They slide past the carriage window one after another, each illuminating a tiny area of damp, soot-blackened tunnel wall: another mesmerising rhythm. How imposing are the long, tall signal boxes and gantries of semaphore signals! Passengers trot across the wooden planks of the triangular extension to the suburban platform. At the end, two 'N7' condensing tanks stand next to one other, each attached to a rake of old LNER quad-art coach sets, with their rectangular observation windows protruding from the side of the guard's compartment and their ribbed coachwork, all beading and hinges.
(12) The booking office has a distinctive smell, a heady mixture of steam, coal, lubricating oil, coke, newsprint, pasteboard, floor polish and varnish. Layer upon layer of green, maroon or cream paint are chipped, faded and darkened by time and smoke. The ticket office has cut-glass partitions and pitch-pine divisions worn dark and smooth with decades of sliding. The tiny arched window where tickets are bought: the concealed features of the ticket clerk and the sound of his muffled voice behind the window. The deep clunk as a ticket is inserted into the date-stamping machine. The porter's trolley with its small iron wheels grating over stone thresholds or rumbling over floorboards. The distant thunder of coupled wheels and a quick whiff of smoke as an express train roars along the main-line through the station outside. Cast-iron spandrels, curly lamp brackets on fluted columns, fretted wooden canopies, navy-blue and white enamel signs.
(13) The fog is thick as soup and the quayside glistens, dankly. The train from Cambridge slides in beside the MV Arnhem. On deck the fittings are encrusted with layers of paint, once titanium white but now stained brown with blossoming carbuncles of rust. In the cabin there are slim blankets of oatmeal wool, sharp as sandpaper and such a strong reminder of the 1940s austerity years. A faded diamond LNER monogram is embroidered in the middle of each one and stamped on pillow cases of white hospital cotton, thin as tissue.
(14) Bolton MPD. Dawn has yet to break and the mouth of the shed is in pitch darkness. Black Fives are silhouetted against the weak gleam of the lamps that light the roads outside. An open firebox door paints the inside of the cab a Stanier '8F' a deep, flickering orange, and like a cloud of gold dust the colour reflects off the drifting steam that billows around it. A Black Five rumbles past, hissing rhythmically, its weight sending out tiny seismic shocks through the ballast underfoot as it traverses the poorly-bedded rails of the shed roads.
(15) Edale to Sheffield Midland on 21 August 1966 for 3/6d (17-1/2p) full fare. Most of these services were operated by DMUs but occasionally a Buxton 'Black Five' was used.
(16) August in Derbyshire, 1965. In the dormitory of Ilam Hall Youth Hostel. The window is open and the night air is still and heavy with the day's heat. It is long past midnight. The rhythmic beat of a locomotive exhaust suddenly fades away as the regulator is shut, but comes back as it is opened again. Wagons move slowly with a distinctive high-pitched creak, and the clashing buffers of a long string of loose-coupled 16-ton mineral wagons make a silvery cascade of sound. It starts slowly and accelerates until they have all been touched into motion in a long percussive surge. There is a much harsher wrenching noise as a loose-coupled goods train is abruptly started and wagons are suddenly slammed against one other. It turns into a symphony of sound as the locomotive, probably a Stanier '8F', tries to accelerate against the gradient and slips repeatedly. One can only imagine the battle that is going on in the dark, down in nearby Dovedale.
Edale to Sheffield Midland on 21 August 1966 for 3/6d (17-1/2p) full fare. Most of these services were operated by DMUs but occasionally a Buxton (9D) 'Black Five' was used, agile on the banks and clanking through the Peak District cuttings. No. 44851 was the last of these. The shed, roofless at the end, closed in March 1968.
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