Moving from being a Chief Inspector to a civilian in the same post within the space of 24 hours was a one-off opportunity. Once I left the organisation I would be on my own with no easy way back to the life of meetings about meetings and deceiving the Home Office. Despite the presence of Wainwright I still felt unnerved at the thought of walking away from a secure future into one that could lead to me having to stack supermarket shelves in order to support my youngest son at college, my daughter at university, my ageing father, my ageing dog and a garden gnome. I settled upon a plan of testing the water. I would undertake a small adventure to test both my and Wainwright’s mettle for around the world voyaging.
Whilst I am not an ‘enthusiast’ I do love to travel by train. It encourages a special level of laziness that is normally reserved for Christmas and bank holidays. I often buy a cheap ticket to London for a day out visiting the art galleries, walking by the river or mooching around Greenwich. On a good day the journey takes less than 3 hours and by the time I’ve switched between trips to the buffet bar, reading and gazing out of the window whilst plugged into my iPod the journey seems to be over much too soon.
The world has some truly lengthy train journeys to offer – the Indian Pacific across Australia, the Re-Unification Express up and down Vietnam and the Rocky Mountaineer through Canada, to name but a few. All of these interested me as potential gap year journeys. There is nothing to match these trips for distance in Great Britain, but there are plenty of iconic rail journeys to be found.
A bit of web surfing put me in touch with West Coast Railways and I booked Wainwright and me onto a full day trip that would take us on the most scenic railway line in England.
Our journey began at Whitby railway station, one cold Saturday morning in early June. Sadly, the locomotive that pulled us along was an old diesel and not the steam train I would have preferred for complete perfection. Once on board Wainwright posed for pictures in the deep seated luxury of the Pullman carriage. I had opted to treat myself to the First Class Dining Experience to ease myself gently into the world of long distance rail travel.
As the train left the station at 7.14 am prompt there were just two other people sharing our carriage. I soon learned that they are a married couple celebrating a 60th birthday by treating themselves to this special day out.
Slowly the train eased its way out of Whitby and along the track of the North York Moors Railway, a stretch of railway that is operated by a bunch of enthusiasts who lovingly maintain the track between Whitby and Pickering and the ancient and noble locomotives and carriages that glide along it. More passengers joined us at every stop until the whole train was alive with excited and animated people.
Wainwright and I were joined at our table by Anne, Mark and Clive, who were also celebrating a birthday. Sitting in close proximity to someone for the length of rail journey is a hit and miss affair with the potential to make or mar the pleasure. My companions definitely added to the whole experience with their good humour and extensive knowledge of trains, the route, history and just about everything else of interest. Clive, the nephew of Anne and Mark was the real railway buff of the trio.
Apart from Wainwright, my other companion on this journey was the excellent and apposite Eleven Minutes Late, by Matthew Engel. It is a book that describes the author’s journey along the length of the British railway system from Penzance to Thurso and at the same time delves into the deep, and sometimes confusing, history of our national rail network.
‘That cover is wrong,’ said Clive with authority.
I stared at the book cover in question. It is a pleasing watercolour that depicts the idyllic scene of a well dressed couple and a young child waiting on a railway platform circa 1950. A blue suited guard has his red flag aloft and his whistle to his mouth as a steam train makes its way majestically into the station.
‘Is it?’ I said, unable to spot anything wrong with the scene before me.
‘The train is on the wrong track,’ continued Clive. ‘A passenger train always approaches a station so that its left hand side is presented to the platform.’
For the remainder of the day I seek verification of Clive’s statement and he proves to be spot on. I discover later that Matthew Engel himself acknowledges the point in the book, pleading for the reader’s indulgence in a little artistic licence in an effort to avoid a deluge of hate mail from vengeful railway enthusiasts.
Piping hot coffee and buttered Arbroath kippers made for a leisurely start to the morning as our outward route took us through the Esk valley to Middlesbrough. A few weeks earlier both Middlesbrough FC and Newcastle United had been relegated from the Premiership after tense battles for survival. The Riverside Stadium was wearing a black arm-band. I didn't approve of Wainwright singing: 'Down with the Geordies, you've gone down with the Geordies’, as we passed it.
Next time - the journey to Carlisle
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