We switched south to York and then west through the Aire valley as we ventured towards the highlight of our journey.
Construction of the Settle to Carlisle railway line began in 1869 and took 7 gruelling years to complete. This was the age of the Navvies, the hardy labourers, mainly Irish, who carved out Britain’s railway and canal networks by brute force. Entire families lived in camps and small townships on the bleak Yorkshire moorside. Not only was the work dangerous but the conditions meant that the threat of diseases like smallpox was never far away. 6,000 navvies were used to build the 72 mile long route with its 14 tunnels and 20 viaducts. A total of 201 people died during construction and of these 110 were children.
The railway came under the threat of closure by Maggie Thatcher in the 1980’s. Fortunately the Minister for Transport of the day, Michael Portillo managed to persuade her not to axe the line. Mr Portillo, one of the few politicians that I actually admire, showed a great deal of foresight and since he saw off the threat in 1989 the line has gone from strength to strength. 750,000 now use the line annually, and not just day trippers like me, but a growing number of commuters too.
Our diesel locomotive made light work of the journey, keeping up a steady but sedate speed that enabled me to marvel at the verdant landscape outside my window as the rugged Yorkshire Dales gave way to the alluring fells of the Lake District. Had I travelled by steam train then the enginemen would have had their work cut out to keep up the same pace. The 16 mile climb from Settle to Blea Moor was known as ‘the long drag’ by train drivers, requiring them to shovel a constant supply of coal into the firebox for the steam locomotive to maintain speed up the near constant 1 in 100 incline.
No such effort for me, thankfully. Instead I got to graze on Elevenses as a world of poetic beauty slid by the window.
We arrived in Carlisle for a three hour stop-over in the early afternoon. I headed for the Tourist Information office full of intention to visit whatever tourist hotspots were on offer. It was a bright, sunny day so I decided to picnic in the park at the northern end of the city. After a filling tuna-mayo sandwich and lashings of ginger beer, the soporific effects of the train journey began to take effect and was not long before one man and his Hull City gnome were snoozing on the grass. So much for seeing the sights.
There was just enough time for Wainwright to pose for pictures in front of Carlisle Castle before we made our way back to the railway station. It was here that I made my first discovery of the Wainwright Effect.
I helped Wainwright to arrange himself into various positions around the waiting train whilst I snapped away with my camera. As I did so I noticed people stopping to stare at my small friend. Everyone smiled and was somehow gladdened by the sight of the Black and Amber diminutive footballer. Strangely though, no one paid me much attention.
Wainwright and I had never worked out the terms of our relationship, but this trip made it very clear. Wainwright is the star and I am merely his minder and personal assistant. It is a role that I am very comfortable with.
I decided to test Wainwright’s winning ways and took him to the diesel locomotive. I had to wait while a genuine enthusiast quizzed the drivers on something technical or maybe he just asked: ‘Can I have a go?’ When he sloped away, shoulders slumped, I took my chance and poked my head into the oily cabin.
The two drivers eyed me with all the enthusiasm of jaded rock stars, tired of constant attention. Jaded or not, my question was one which I am sure they had never been asked before:
‘Excuse me. Can my gnome have his picture taken in your cab?’
A moment of puzzlement gave way to broad smiles as Wainwright was enthusiastically lifted aboard. He even got to pose looking out of the window whilst ‘driving’ the train. I sensed a certain amount of reluctance as the wee feller was returned to me. I had the decency to wait until I was out of sight of the cab before I wiped the grubby fingerprints off the hitherto pristine gnome.
We returned via the Tyne valley, the Tees valley and back along the Esk valley. That's a lot of valleys and some stunning scenery. We even caught sight of The Angel of the North, which was a first for me.
I’d booked myself into a Bed and Breakfast in Whitby for the night, so as the sun set and the superb four course dinner was served, I washed it all down with a decent bottle of red wine.
Could life be any better than this? Fine food, fine wine, the sun setting over an ever changing vista of fields and rivers, the amiable chatter of Anne, Mark and Clive and the companionship of a resin gnome. If that is what retirement is about then I certainly wanted more of it.
Construction of the Settle to Carlisle railway line began in 1869 and took 7 gruelling years to complete. This was the age of the Navvies, the hardy labourers, mainly Irish, who carved out Britain’s railway and canal networks by brute force. Entire families lived in camps and small townships on the bleak Yorkshire moorside. Not only was the work dangerous but the conditions meant that the threat of diseases like smallpox was never far away. 6,000 navvies were used to build the 72 mile long route with its 14 tunnels and 20 viaducts. A total of 201 people died during construction and of these 110 were children.
The railway came under the threat of closure by Maggie Thatcher in the 1980’s. Fortunately the Minister for Transport of the day, Michael Portillo managed to persuade her not to axe the line. Mr Portillo, one of the few politicians that I actually admire, showed a great deal of foresight and since he saw off the threat in 1989 the line has gone from strength to strength. 750,000 now use the line annually, and not just day trippers like me, but a growing number of commuters too.
Our diesel locomotive made light work of the journey, keeping up a steady but sedate speed that enabled me to marvel at the verdant landscape outside my window as the rugged Yorkshire Dales gave way to the alluring fells of the Lake District. Had I travelled by steam train then the enginemen would have had their work cut out to keep up the same pace. The 16 mile climb from Settle to Blea Moor was known as ‘the long drag’ by train drivers, requiring them to shovel a constant supply of coal into the firebox for the steam locomotive to maintain speed up the near constant 1 in 100 incline.
No such effort for me, thankfully. Instead I got to graze on Elevenses as a world of poetic beauty slid by the window.
We arrived in Carlisle for a three hour stop-over in the early afternoon. I headed for the Tourist Information office full of intention to visit whatever tourist hotspots were on offer. It was a bright, sunny day so I decided to picnic in the park at the northern end of the city. After a filling tuna-mayo sandwich and lashings of ginger beer, the soporific effects of the train journey began to take effect and was not long before one man and his Hull City gnome were snoozing on the grass. So much for seeing the sights.
There was just enough time for Wainwright to pose for pictures in front of Carlisle Castle before we made our way back to the railway station. It was here that I made my first discovery of the Wainwright Effect.
I helped Wainwright to arrange himself into various positions around the waiting train whilst I snapped away with my camera. As I did so I noticed people stopping to stare at my small friend. Everyone smiled and was somehow gladdened by the sight of the Black and Amber diminutive footballer. Strangely though, no one paid me much attention.
Wainwright and I had never worked out the terms of our relationship, but this trip made it very clear. Wainwright is the star and I am merely his minder and personal assistant. It is a role that I am very comfortable with.
I decided to test Wainwright’s winning ways and took him to the diesel locomotive. I had to wait while a genuine enthusiast quizzed the drivers on something technical or maybe he just asked: ‘Can I have a go?’ When he sloped away, shoulders slumped, I took my chance and poked my head into the oily cabin.
The two drivers eyed me with all the enthusiasm of jaded rock stars, tired of constant attention. Jaded or not, my question was one which I am sure they had never been asked before:
‘Excuse me. Can my gnome have his picture taken in your cab?’
A moment of puzzlement gave way to broad smiles as Wainwright was enthusiastically lifted aboard. He even got to pose looking out of the window whilst ‘driving’ the train. I sensed a certain amount of reluctance as the wee feller was returned to me. I had the decency to wait until I was out of sight of the cab before I wiped the grubby fingerprints off the hitherto pristine gnome.
We returned via the Tyne valley, the Tees valley and back along the Esk valley. That's a lot of valleys and some stunning scenery. We even caught sight of The Angel of the North, which was a first for me.
I’d booked myself into a Bed and Breakfast in Whitby for the night, so as the sun set and the superb four course dinner was served, I washed it all down with a decent bottle of red wine.
Could life be any better than this? Fine food, fine wine, the sun setting over an ever changing vista of fields and rivers, the amiable chatter of Anne, Mark and Clive and the companionship of a resin gnome. If that is what retirement is about then I certainly wanted more of it.
Next time - The 20 Challenges
Time Team did a dig at the site of one of the workers settlements and to say life was tough is an understatement, none-the-less, they became small highly organised little societies for the short time they were there.
ReplyDeleteYes, I remember the programme. An incredibly hard life.
ReplyDelete