All steamed up in the cold.

On the 7th October 1927 a new steam railway engine was born at the Derby Works. Her working number was 4422, but after several years of hard work up and down various tracks, she was promoted to 44422. After many further years of faithful service, she was scrapped in 1965 and languished in rusting and unappreciated despair until being rescued by conservationists and lovingly restored.

On Sunday 27th December 2009, the weather was beautiful as I drove my son to a friend's house. After dropping him off, I thought it was a perfect day to go for a cycle ride with my wife, but after discussion and concerns of icy conditions and possibly getting killed in a hideous peddling accident, we settled for a walk in one of our favourite walking spots - Ferry Meadows in Peterborough.

As we drove nearer Peterborough, the sky suddenly had a sheet of angry battleship grey clouds - and some more - drawn across it. Then rain spots appeared on the windscreen and I began to fear our walk was doomed. However, persevering onwards and keeping a good British stiff upper lip, we arrived at Ferry Meadows with no rain descending. It was just bitterly cold and the ice on the car park was treacherously slippery. "Be careful how you tread or you'll slip arse over head" sagely advised a fellow walker as he returned with his wife to their car. As neither I or my wife take any pleasure in, or had any desire to slip arse over head, we decided to take his advice.

After a while my wife had wrapped her scarf so many times around her face and neck that it was like walking with a half wrapped mummy. She told me she wasn't cold. Of course she wasn't - she was frozen! I, however was not cold at all. I had wrapped up with extra layers and felt warm while the cold air on my face was nothing short of refreshing.

Deciding independently that we should keep it to a short walk rather than an ice-trek lest I end up having to carry an ice-corpse, I guided our steps in a large circuit designed to take us back, eventually, to the car park.

Suddenly, we heard a sound of something I never expected to hear, and that was the "chuffing" and whistle of a steam train as it made its way along the Nene Valley Railway which cuts through the park. Indeed, there are a series of footpaths which allow the walker to follow the route of the steam railway until it arrives at it's terminal station in Peterborough. The railway begins at Wansford Station which is easily accessed from the A1 which runs straight past. I gave up on any hope of getting a photo of the steaming loco as it was too far away and I could only watch in frustration the smoke rising in the distance marking out its progress along the track.

Presently, we came upon a lake with lots of gulls in a commotion over a feeding frenzy. Realizing there was a photo opportunity here, I quickly trudged gingerly and very carefully to the waters' edge and took a series of shots.

A short distance further on we came to the sailing club cafe and restaurant. Deciding to get a coffee we grabbed each other's hand and pigeon toed warily over the ice towards the door, lest we should slip arse over head and have a spoiled day. Now you might think that on such a dark, cold and miserable day there would be very few people walking in the park. Well, you'd be wrong. The cafe was packed and it was only the fact that a family vacated their table just as we got served, that we were able to "bag" it tout-suite. The coffee was hot and very welcome. The cafe was very noisy as everybody seemed to chatting very enthusiastically about goodness only knows what. We didn't stay for long but strode purposely on our way again in our quest to be re-united with the car. I had some photos which I never expected as well as being warmed and refreshed by the coffee, so what else could I expect or want?

As we walked along, we heard again the sound of an approaching steam engine on the Nene Valley track. This time, it was returning in the opposite direction and even better, I had time to get the the hump-back bridge ahead of us from which I could get a photo. However, there was only just time so I had to be quick and try not to slip arse over head on the skating rink slippery ice! I managed to get a good spot, a little to one side of where it was headed under the bridge. And there it was, No. 44422, proudly pulling a whole load of carriages carrying a whole load of steam enthusiasts on a special excursion. I snapped away taking several shots, as I only had the one chance, although I suppose I could have photographed it from the other side of the bridge steaming away from me, but it didn't appeal so I didn't bother. My wife, somewhat wisely had stayed off the bridge as it was extremely slippery with ice, to say the least. Before I knew what was happening, I demonstrated how slippery it was when both feet simultaneously lost their grip and I began an accelerating slide down the bridge shouting "aaahhhgggg" as I went while my wife nearly doubled up in hysterical laughter. Nonetheless, I finally managed to steady myself without crashing to the ground, my main concern being to protect the camera from harm rather than myself.

We made our way the final few hundred yards back to the car. I was really pleased that I had added another steam loco picture to my ever growing collection, but be assured, I'm not an anorak, no....really I'm not. It was good to get home and read up on some more steam railway history............, but not in an anorakish way of course!

Sir Nigel Charges Through

This morning I went to get a new tyre put on my car. I took my camera (or rather, one of my cameras) along with me, not because I have a fetish for photographing car mechanics at work, but rather I had been reminded by my wife that a steam train was passing through at about the same time. So, leaving the car on the ramp, I wandered down the road and looking up the line I spotted a pool of smoke rapidly heading my way.

I quickly walked back to a better viewing position and then it appeared - Sir Nigel Gresley as "The Christmas Tynesider" steaming its way up to Newcastle. The time was 08.15, exactly the time I had been advised it was due.

Steaming Diesels

Last Saturday the wonderful new steam locomotive LNER A1 Class 4-6-2 no 60163 Tornado came thundering through Huntingdon. Being forewarned of this wondrous event I dragged myself down to the railway station armed with my new Fujifilm camera. Guess what?? - it was early and I could only stand in frustrated sorrow as it charged through the station before I could get onto the platform, let alone take a photograph. Even so, undaunted, I decided to return in the evening to catch it coming in the opposite direction. Entering the station I joined all the anoraks armed with their video cameras, mobile phones, walkie talkies etc etc....... Now, as I have previously stated, I am not an anorak, honest, and I had no mobile phone, walkie talkie, beard, thick pullover, notebook, or any other such anorak paraphernalia about my person, - just a few details hastily written on a scrap of paper.

The train came through a bit late.

On ISO 3200 the resulting photo was crap. Dohhh!!!!

Oh well, back to the drawing board.

I did learn one thing from this experience, and that is my Canon EOS 350D is the best camera I have for doing action shots of steam engines charging along railway lines. The Fujifilm S100 is a wonderful camera, but because of the digital viewfinder and the small delay in the shutter firing after pressing the button does rather throw one in one's action photography exploits!

Sooo...... this Saturday the “Cathedrals Express” BR Britannia Class 7MT 4-6-2 no 70013 Oliver Cromwell steam train was due on its way “oop north”, and I was determined to get the best action shot in the world.....ha ha!!! By the way, I am not an anorak, please understand.

Armed with my trusty EOS, I trudged with a friend for about a mile through Offord Cluny to a really good spot where pedestrians can legally walk across the railway line. I decided, however, it would be safer to photograph the mighty steaming snorter hurtling towards me from the edge of the track rather than standing in the middle of the line, taking the shot, and jumping out of the way at the last moment.

We assumed our positions and waited. And waited. Now, I have got to say there were a fair number of fellow anoraks...er...not “fellow”, sorry, yes, I must remember I am most definitely NOT an anorak.............wondering around with their tripods, video cameras, stills cameras with long extensions, beards, long sideburns, pullovers etc etc assuming various positions from various viewing points. There were also horses around. To relieve the boredom, I struck up a conversation with one, though he was obviously fed up as he had a long face!

I returned to my viewing point. I had the perfect spot. The weather was perfect. The test shots of passing electrics were perfect. Nothing could go wrong.

Wrong – it went!!

Presently, a train spotter came up to us and informed us that the steam loco had broken down (dohhh) and so the carriages were now being hauled by a diesel engine instead. Soddit!

For a while, I mused that maybe he was spreading a rumour so that when I left and vacated the perfect viewing spot he would suddenly emerge from a cunning hiding place and assume MY position!!! This would not stand, I decided, and resolved to remain undaunted until said train eventually steamed by.

Finally, it appeared. He wasn't fibbing. An old (though not very) diesel pulling loads of old carraiges came trundling up the line and past us. I held steady, held my nerve, stood my ground, and didn't fire until I saw the whites of the driver's eyes.

I hope you like my shot the Type 57 Diesel Loco, which, as everyone knows, is a re-build using the outer shells of the earlier type 47s which were introduced in the 1960s. The type 57s, of course, ran from 1997 to 2004 when they were withdrawn, though, of course, everyone knows that as well – of course!

Steaming back to the Future

The new "Tornado" steam locomotive passing through Huntingdon yesterday afternoon. Is this the future for our railways? Many would like it to be so.

Train Spotting

I mentioned in a previous posting that I like to photograph steam trains…….sometimes…………when I get the chance…….I’m not an anorak you understand. Well, last Saturday my wife decided to have a day out in London with our youngest son. As we have a dog at home and no one to look after it and as we need to save money at the moment (just bought another car), I decided to stay at home. Except that I didn’t.

A few days previous, as I was sat at my desk in my office at work, a head suddenly appeared around the door and it turned out to be a friend who is particularly keen on steam trains. Being an ex-photographer, like myself, he also likes photographing them. He gave me the details of a train which would be passing through Whittlesea on its way to Peterborough the same Saturday. This, I decided was my mission for the day. My wife would go to London, and I would go to Whittlesea.

I arrived at a level crossing just on the southern outskirts of Whittlesea in plenty of time to see the train which was due at around eight minutes past nine in the morning. I was thinking of going to the station, but seeing other people with cameras loitering with intent at the crossing, I decided this must be a good vantage point, so I swung the car into the “siding” and joined the gaggle. The first thing that hit me was they were all pretty old, or at least middle aged. Actually, from what I have seen of train enthusiasts, most seem to be like that. I then realised that I must have fitted in pretty well, as I am pretty old myself.

I got talking as you do. I went to great pains to let them know that I wasn’t an anorak (because I’m not), but did like to photograph the odd train – when I had the chance. I was careful not to actually use the word “anorak” while explaining myself, in case I ended up with my camera shoved down my throat, or rammed firmly where the sun doesn’t shine! I explained that there was a time – many years ago – when I could be found sat on the railway bank marking off the numbers of passing trains in my Ian Allan book. They seemed really impressed – not! Also, I noticed that they had better photo equipment than me. The guy with the long beard and hair tied back next to me (high train-spotter fashion!) had two single lens reflex digital cameras, both with long telephoto lenses on, and both a higher spec than my timid Canon EOS 350D. His cameras were black. Mine was silver. I asked him if he marketed his photographs. He seemed a little disdainful of the question, rather as if I had asked him if he farted regularly! “No” - he replied, but he does have a web site and proceeded to show me some of his prints from the day before. Nice clear photos. His web site is: http://www.jpsgallery.fotopic.net/.

Other middle aged men gathered – women don’t seem to be interested in trains; it’s a very masculine pursuit! A couple had quite expensive looking video cameras. I wondered what they did with all the footage. Did they edit them all together? Was it an on going process with an ever increasing series of trains, one after the other, going on for hours…..and hours…..and hours……and…..? But then, probably not! As I really hate video, I showed my distaste by not entering into conversation with them. They obliged, by not entering into conversation with me.

As I stood, contemplating the track lines, stretching off into the distance ahead of me, I heard one of my companions saying that the train was running 37 minutes late. He had just got the info after phoning his mate further up the line. Damn and blast I thought, but decided not to be discouraged but to wait it out come what may. I had timed things so that I could get out, take the photograph, and get home without the need for the loo. Unfortunately, the cup of tea I had earlier before setting out was having a disproportionate effect on the inner walls of my bladder, and the pressure was steadily building. Well, a mans gotta do what a mans gotta do – only on this occasion it was an open –air pee. Fortunately, we were next to a bit of a woodland nature reserve, so I was able hide myself away and relieve the pressure. I always find I can concentrate a lot better on things when I’m not busting for a pee…….don’t know about you.

I stood, continuing to monitor the conversations. Talk of engine sheds. Talk of shunting yards. Talk of fabled engines in fabled railways. This was all completely out of my league of course, because I am not an anorak. I continued to stand, stare and listen. The barriers at the crossing kept going down, trains passing, then the barriers rising again. Every time the barriers went down, I switched on my camera in case it was the steam train. Lots of trains passed. All diesels. This was not an electric line, so there were no pylons and no overhead power lines. This was good because without these elements, it would add a touch of authenticity to my photos – when the train finally came.

One of my fellow train spotters phoned his mate again. It was clear that the train was now nearly upon us – at the very gates! I quickly checked my camera settings, not wanting to arse it up after going to so much effort. The brightness had changed. The morning had begun dank and gloomy. However, the weather had now definitely brightened and I settled on 200 ISO at F8 aperture priority mode. This gave me a shutter speed of around one six hundredth of a second. As I wanted the train to be nice and sharp in the picture, I knew that with careful panning, this was well fast enough to stop the motion.

A puff of white smoke appeared on the horizon. Then I saw the engine and carriages appear in the distance. I focussed on it through the viewfinder, and proceeded to fire off shots for as long as I could until the train went past me. It came racing towards me, around the bend, though not racing particularly fast (it was late, after all) – more a steady canter than a fast gallop. Right up until this point I didn’t actually know what the name of the engine was, nor had I bothered to ask. Just the fact that it was steam was good enough for me. When the train had gone, I zoomed in on the camera preview screen to look at the name plate on the engine. It read: Union of South Africa.

Walking the West Highland Way - Episode 4: Don't mention the War

Leaving the Tyndrum Lodge Hotel the next morning, feeling refreshed (sort of in a morbid kind of way), we boldly went, one foot before the other, blisters pressing to bursting point ….uugghhhhhh. Actually, it wasn’t my blisters I was worried about – I didn’t have any; it was my son’s blisters which bothered me. His blisters were just awful and I knew from past experience what misery and agony they can be. Our first main resting point along the way today, was Bridge of Orchy. Knowing there was a railway station there, he decided that this was to be the point where he made the decision to go on or not. I would have been really gutted if he had left at that point having come so far, but when push comes to shove, we all know our limits.

Thankfully, this part of the walk wasn’t too bad in the sense that it was flat and we had a single track to follow, so there was nowhere to take a wrong turn. The countryside wasn’t exactly awe inspiring, but it was nevertheless a million miles from the flatlands of Cambridgeshire. What really made it for me was the fact that we were walking next to a railway track. What do railway tracks make? … Yes, you’ve guessed it – trains! I don’t really know why, but I absolutely love trains. I can’t fathom what it is about them, but I’ve always felt this great surge of joy tinged with excitement when I see a train. And yet I’m not an anorak! I don’t stand around on platforms all day having orgasms every time a train goes by, diligently noting the numbers of the engines, counting the coaches, noting the exact time to the second. No, I don’t do any of that. I do, however photograph them. I have a friend at work, who is also a fellow athlete and member of the running club I belong to who regularly keeps me informed whenever a steam train is due to pass through Huntingdon. Armed with this info, I have a tendency, often accompanied by my wife to lurk at some vantage point beside the railway track hoping the train hasn’t been cancelled (the story of my life). Steam trains are in a different league to the sleek electric speedsters of today. Steam trains were real trains, what trains should always have been. I just love the smell of steam train smoke in the morning! I love the sound of a steam engine – all that pumping power, hissing and spitting steam with great chuffs of white smoke forced into the sky. Wonderful.

Anyway, back to the walk. We had no steam trains to accompany us, only the odd goods train or electric passenger train. Whenever one passed, I amused myself in photographing it. All the good photographs I take, I put onto an on-line photo library I subscribe to. So far none of my train shots have made a sale. Even so, I live in hope. We managed to keep up a good pace on this part of the walk. Finally, we found ourselves approaching Bridge of Orchy railway station. At around this point, we were caught up by a bloke and his son from Cambridge who had previously walked the West Highland Way. We got talking to them, as you do, and the bloke decided to advise us to use the baggage carrying service the next day when we were due to ascend the worryingly named “Devil’s Staircase.” Being determined to carry my rucksack the whole way, I politely acknowledged his sage advice, but decided nonetheless I was going to carry my rucksack come what may. I’m not a wimp.

The sight of the railway station brought great joy to us as it marked another significant milestone in our quest. It also marked decision point for my son. To get the train home, or not to get the train home – that it is the question. Whether tis nobler in the mind to suffer the slings and arrows of outrageous fortune walking on blistered feet……………… He decided to carry on. Wonderful. I breathed a sigh of relief. The walk continued…..

Crossing the river Orchy – and the A82, we continued on an upward incline into forested slopes. We all started to walk at our own pace, so we got spread out and I lost sight of the others, apart from my nephew who walked with me. Presently, we came over the rise and beheld a beautiful landscape with Loch Tullah to our right. The land was much more open so we had a better sense of progress. When walking along tracks in woodland shrouded with trees, it is difficult to judge distance, but now, for the time being at least we could enjoy the changing landscape. We were, of course, still feeling pretty exhausted, lets not forget. My blowfly bitten swollen ankle was still extremely painful, and would remain so for the remainder of the walk. My nephew was still letting out the occasional “Ow!” with every step injecting pain into his blister ridden foot.

Walking onward – and downward, we spotted what looked like a pub, with a number of people lurking around outside. When we got closer, the pub turned out to be the Inveroran Hotel. Our countenance transformed to cheeriness and a slight spring sprang in now springing steps as we agreed on how lovely it will be to relax in the comfort of its confines for half an hour or so, with a pint of the Landlord’s best bitter refreshing our sagging innards. The dream was short lived. When we got there and walked into the bar, then the restaurant, then the rest of the premises, there wasn’t a soul around, save for the gaggle of apparently Germanic walkers mainly of a middle aged chronology, it became oh so painfully clear that the place was shut. It had probably called time shortly before our arrival as the other walkers looked as if they had recently received refreshment. Even so, I dare say they would never have needed as much refreshment, or as badly needed it as us because they were far too smartly attired to be attempting the heavy duty type of walking we were doing. They were dressed more for a Sunday stroll down to the paper shop along the path across the golf course than to be remotely considered to be serious walkers. We walked on, but I am convinced that if we’d waited, a bus would have picked them up and dropped them off about fifteen minutes walk from the next pub. As the next pub was probably about ten miles away, they would probably have boasted (in German) to their erstwhile friends and colleagues that they had in fact walked it all. But then, they were not the REAL walkers. We were the real walkers. We were the ones in pain, exhausted, sweaty, weighed down by overweight rucksacks and a distance still to walk which would leave your average townie hailing the next cab .We were the real deal.

With the desolate hotel now firmly behind us we crossed the Victoria Bridge over the river flowing into Loch Tullah, and onwards along an old military road. The landscape ahead was very undulating, panoramic with big skies. The road, which after a very few miles became more of a stony track, seemed unending. It would stretch way off into the distance, and when you reached that point the view was very similar gain. We were, by this point, completely knackered and longing to reach the welcoming embrace of the Kings House Hotel in Glencoe where we were headed. I have to say that I am very familiar with Glencoe as I have driven through it and stopped by it many times. Although we seemed to have been walking towards it for ages, the scenery around did not look at all like what I was hoping to see – until – a familiar looking mountain came finally into view. We felt heartened at this, but still could not yet see the Kings House. It is easy to spot the Kings House, because it is the only building of any substance around and coloured white, which makes it stand out against the rugged backdrop. Presently, the Kings House itself came into view – a little more than a light dot in the distance. It was some distance below us as we came over the ridge. I estimated it would take us about half an hour to reach it. My nephew estimated that it would take us about an hour to reach it. He was right and I was wrong.

We reached it with the light rapidly fading, billowy clouds wrapping around the tops of the peaks and a couple of well antlered deer looking on as we crossed the threshold to our hearts’ desire and the fulfilment of all our longings.

After some refreshments I went to chill out in the lounge where there was a big fire place, a carpet, a comfortable sofa and other plush implements of relaxation – and two Germans.

My brother was in the lounge as well, but after I struck up a conversation with the Germans (both of whom were of the male gender), he became bashful, shied off and I next saw him the following morning at breakfast. Having lived for three years of my life in Germany, I was interested to chat with my fellow Germanic walkers. It turned out they had started out camping, abandoned their tent after getting bitten half to death by midges. I know what this is like, as I have experienced the self same thing myself many years ago. We talked about the problems of the world and solved them all – as you do. They kept buying me drinks. I kept drinking the drinks they bought me. Conversing about Europe, as we find it today, we found ourselves agreeing that there was a Polish problem. It occurred to me that one of their former political leaders also thought there was a Polish problem! I didn’t mention the war. Honest.

Crashing out in my single room above the bar, I slept like a log, with no one to be kept awake by my snoring.