Football Standards in 1970 : Hampden Park

For some reason which I can now no longer recall, I began to talk to myself about being at Hampden Park in 1970 for the Scotland v England game.  What got me onto this I forget but the experience of Hampden in 1970 is not one to forget easily.

Today the football world is littered with glamorous football stadia, before the fires and tragedies that brought about a much needed reconstruction for safeties sake not all stadiums were glamorous.  Places like Muirton Park Perth, the home of St Johnstone, for instance contained the only full sixed pitch outside of Hampden Park.  The surrounding ground was very much an ancient, crumbling second division affair.  Brockville Park, where the Falkirk team displayed or not their talents was called by some 'The Black hole of Falkirk.'  A pleasant enough ground for lower division crowds but problematic for anything above 5000.  

Hampden Park itself was where the Scotland team had played since the beginning of football under the Queens Park side who still called it home.  A large bowl where the 'Hampden Roar' was unequalled anywhere else.  Not that the Scottish 'Blazers' would have considered anywhere else as worth noting at the time.  Both at the end of the second world war and shortly afterwards the ground recorded attendances of over 148,000.  No ground in Scotland, or indeed the rest of what is laughingly called a 'United Kingdom' could equal this.  

This vast expanse contained a football pitch with a running track around it, while the terraces were comprised of what can be called 'grit,' held together and edged by wooden short beams. which did not always remain in place.  Stairways, usually unoccupied, ran down from top to bottom ensuring some form of access.  Crash barriers, or should that be, 'Crush Barriers,' were installed aplenty around the terracing.   On one of Glasgow's rare rainy days the ground could easily turn into a quagmire.  The slopes that comprised exits were soon bringing back Somme memories to ex-servicemen of a certain generation.  The terraces themselves were damp, clean shoes were never an option in these circumstances.  

As an example of a game from that time I mention one I attended, the 1970 Scotland England game.  We left Waverley Station on a passenger train especially designated for football fans.  A train comprising old coaches, somewhat run down, and set aside for the drunken hooligan element British Rail expected.  I was not sure why an international crowd would resort to drunken hooliganism but there you go,  British Rail took no chances.  There was no trouble, little comfort, I vaguely remember standing but not if we stood all the way there.  It was mostly quiet in our coach, and I suspect the others, and we arrived at Queen St  Station, Glasgow and somehow made our way to the ground.  We must have travelled by what was then called the 'Blue Trains,' as that was how we returned to Queen St after the game. 

Phil Richards Class 303

We encountered one problem at Hampden, one of us four had no ticket.  Browsing around outside the ground looking for a tout we encountered a small huddle of lads surrounding one man.  He was attempting to divest himself of the crowd while nearby a gentleman with clearly no connection to this chap hung about.  Understanding that tickets were somewhere in the crowd our boy plunged in to barter.  The totally innocent man nearby nodded, and a ticket was produced for the exchange of £1/10/-.  30 bob for a ticket!  £1:50 in today's money!  However, please note that official tickets for this game only cost £1 at the time.  Add to this that the SFA indicated after the game that 137, 500 small cardboard tickets were handed in at the game, while only 135,000 official tickets were printed!  Not a bad days work for someone.

Our tickets invited us to clamber up the not quite dry slopes into our section of the ground.  There we awaited the appearance of our mate who's ticket bore a different colour and gate to ours.  In the distance to our left, we saw him appear and begin to make his way towards us.  The ground was quite empty at the time and he had no difficulty passing through, or over the separating fences.  

As at all games at the time we stood in between two barriers.  We remained far enough from the one behind in case it broke and fell on us, yet not to near the one in front, so if that gave way we fell on them.  Practical requirements at the game in those far off days.

As it was the crush was great.  Next to us stood a 'Rob Roy McGregor' type, beard and bunnet and all.  He was confused by our group one of who called on Scotland with an English accent, caused by being brought up there, while unknow to Rob Roy another supported England with an Edinburgh accent but not out loud.  We spent much time moving in the crowd as such crowds constantly move.  Our main aim was to keep between out English accented Scot and Rob Roy.  This broke down however, when Colin Stein, through on goal, was sent over the knee of the England centre half!  The entire crowd yelled 'PENALTY!' and reached forward.  Quite how the ribs did not break I will never understand.  The Dutch referee responded as such Dutch referees always did in those situations, he ran away!  No penalty was given, though it ought to have been, and we all stood attempting to breathe properly while breathing fire at the Dutchman.  With aching ribs and Rob Roy to contend with this was not easy.

The game finished as a no scoring draw, only the second in such meeting since 1872.  Of course I had to be there!  Tsk!  I mean I had to be at the 1970 game, not the 1872 one.  

At the end we joined the crowds heading down the slopes, these now in a much worse state after the crowds had marched over them.  We waited while most had moved before joining them and at the bottom fought our way through those heading towards awaiting buses.  We naturally had to go the other way for the 'Blue Trains.'  Outside the ground a heaving mass of men, nearly all men, pushed through one another, all knowing the unwritten laws of such crowd situations.  

Two years previously we had been heading in the other direction towards the bus, to our right a gentleman dressed in the usual uniform of overcoat of the time, was indicating to the entire crowd coming towards him that they had to get out of his way.  In his alcoholic stupor he could not work out that by moving to his left a few feet and the throng would carry him home, if that is he was facing the correct direction.  We let the throng carry us on that occasion, this time our throng headed the other way until we were stopped beside a police horse slavering at both ends.  Here police control was in force, one long line of stragglers moved, then another, having avoided both ends of the horse we soon progressed to the train and back into the city centre.

Now it was  simple thing to get on an Edinburgh bound train, however, the crowd was queuing up way outside the station so instead we decided to await a later train and refreshed ourselves in  Glasgow pub.  

Glasgow pubs have always had a reputation, not always deserved. Pubs everywhere produce bad behaviour, not just Glasgow ones.  The late 60s and 70s were not a good time for pubs however, the two main breweries 'Scottish Brewers' and 'Tennent Caledonian,' were intent on producing some of the most bland pubs known to man, and the beer to go with it.  This pub, the name escapes me but it has probably changed anyway with time, was close by and quite crowded.  It must have been after 5:30 or nearer 6 pm by the time we entered, obtained our lager and found a seat.  We sat there filling time amidst the hubbub of noise, suddenly, on a table two tables down from us, an empty beer glass fell over.  Silence!  All looked around, no-one spoke, a hand reached out and reset the glass, all turned away and suddenly the hubbub returned and life continued.  

Then we ventured out, walked through the dark, damp streets to the station, caught a train, another long compartment coach, and headed up the slope back to the Waverley.  

Today's wealthy, soft, well provided for fan would not be able to cope in such circumstances.  Digital tickets, online booking, seats that they ignore and stand up throughout a game, no pie from the stall, instead almost a Takeaway meal, and now they consider bringing beer back into the grounds.  Train travel, along with a large 'Carry oot,' on a luxury electric train or perhaps driving in your own car to fret about the cost of parking when arrived is the other option.  No more fearing those kids who offer to 'protect your car' for money.  A softened 'Nivea' smothered generation would not survive football in the days of yore.  I wonder sometimes how I managed it.

Night Trip in the 80s

Reading a book on rail travel my mind returned to the days of long ago when I regularly caught a late night train from Kings Cross Station to Edinburgh.  I canny mind who informed me of this train, especially as it did not stop in Edinburgh, but I boarded the thing anyway.  When I say it did not stop, what I mean is that it was not meant to stop there officially, this stop did not appear on the timetable, yet stop there it did, at 3 am in the morning.

Once I knew about it I made for it.  I am sure it left about 10 in the evening, but memory says it was 8 pm, however, it was a slow train, not an express, and the luxury about it was the fact that all the coaches were aged corridor coaches.  Indeed, these had long been pushed aside for the open plan coaches normal today, and being made up of small compartments, with very few passengers travelling late at night, it was very comfortable.  The lighting in the compartment could be dimmed, most important for night travel, and once aboard and settled in there was nothing to do but enjoy the dark view of the world outside passing slowly by.  Some things did pass by quickly of course, express passenger trains full of express passengers, goods trains, which we now refer to as 'freight' for some reason, and often we would slow to a dark halt in a loop and wait while something flew past in a hurry.

This was a great experience for young me.  I was never disturbed, except by a man in a peaked cab looking for tickets, and once a group of young soldiers looked in, growled and made their way to the far end and exercising in the Cairngorms.  Good luck to them!  

Travelling at off-peak times was my preference, and this train was off-peak.  The night view from a dimmed compartment gave a differing outlook from the dreary day.  Lights appeared here and there, pausing near a block of houses, some were lit up, most in darkness, an occasion pair of green eyes watching from beneath a hedge, red flashing lights high up in the distance, and passing movements in the opposite direction, lit passenger trains, dark bulky goods ones.  Stations were not quite bare of people.  Well lit, a railwayman walking about here and there, at least in the larger stations such as York.  Anoraks,  sorry, enthusiasts, two far from young men at York in the middle of the night, eagerly recognising a number on one of the coaches.  This appeared to I to be one step too far with train watching.  Travelling at low speed watching the houses in the distance, traffic flowing on major highways, occasional cars on lesser roads.  Shops signs lit up, industrial units with steam from vents and chimneys, with obscure dark shapes looming up and passing by  silently.  

We would arrive at the Waverley on time almost exactly, and once I was confident the train would actually stop and not drop me at Dundee or Aberdeen, I would 'alight' as they say into a near empty station.  Usually two or three at most taxi's would sit there hopefully, a knock on the window, a sleeping driver awake, muttering "Three O'clock," and coming back to life, I would be driven home in style.    

I enjoyed those journeys, soon to be amended with the introduction of a new service, via the west coast for some reason, in open coaches with far too bright lighting.  On one occasion this broke down, almost all passengers were grateful and slumbered happily, none complaining to the guard when he informed us of the problem.  On another trip I was met by an elderly (to me then) Pakistani man who chatted happily about his business in Aberdeen.  He was pleasant, kind and good company, and I did not wish to tell him to leave me alone so I could sleep.  He drifted of somewhere about the midlands and we snoozed uneasily into an Edinburgh dawn.

It is time I got back on a train!

   

Railways, a Book and a Trip

 

Amazon 

I have just finished reading ‘Eleven Minutes Late,’ by Matthew Engel, an excellent but rather ungainly titled book on UK’s beloved railways. ‘Beloved’ is the word I used but we must remember there are commuters who may disagree somewhat with that term.  This is not a book full of technical details, I would be dumb before it if it was, but an enjoyable romp through the growth off and present state of the railways in the UK today, well, in 2009 when the book was published.  

This brought to mind all the memories of good days on the railways, back into the nostalgia of the days of steam.  Obviously, none of my readers will be old enough to remember that grime filled time period.

Entering into the glass covered yet somewhat dim Waverley station via the long slow ramp, taxis lined up at the side, or by the wind-swept steps off Princes Street was always a pleasure, it still is!  Possibly it was dim in my memory because we usually travelled early in an Edinburgh July!  The confined spaces, taxis and cars passing by, people crowding John Menzies bookstall, crowds of people confused as to their platform, as indeed we were, possibly it is just my memory. 

Dad would make for the wooden ticket office in the centre of the station, a marvellously decorated hall, leaning down to the ridiculous small window from which tickets were dispensed at that time.  As kids we were just excited to be heading for Cowdenbeath or Dunfermline for a summer holiday glad to be out of school and in an adventure. 

Ah family, living off them is such fun, at least for us.  As I remember it my aunts and uncles then were all marvellous and quite used to children in the house.  Many had passed this way before us.  

After much fuss at Waverley we would head for Platform 18 where we approached the dark maroon carriages of British Railways.  How old were they I wonder?  Corridor trains that possibly came in to service before the war?  On occasion I would ask about the man in the blue, dingy oil covered uniform, to be informed he had been ‘under the train.’  This was a concept that intrigued someone well under 10 years of age.  The idea of crawling about under the train intrigued.  Had it been possible I would have ventured down myself to have a look.  This was not however encouraged.  These men were merely the crew ensure oil levels were correct, all moving parts greased to the driver’s satisfaction before leaving thus ensuring the dingy black engine would reach the final destination without hitch. 

I did not realise that such engines were no longer maintained to their best condition, the policy was to just keep them moving for a few years before diesel, the answer to all rail problems, would begin.

Another flawed railway policy.    

Inside we settled into a compartment, much to the delight of those who had got in previously who now contemplated the delights of travel with children!  Today I feel for those people.  

I would be entranced by the ridiculous system for opening the window on the doors, all leather strap and strength, however they usually remained shut, the small window of the compartment itself was half open, to allow air to enter and steam and grit to remain outside.  Some preferred sitting with their back to the engine to avoid such intrusions. 

The pictures above the seats, aged prints of highland glens, lochs and other delights unknown to those from Edinburgh’s corporation housing estates, sat next to the dim lights covered by even dimmer lampshades.  Switching them on made the compartment even dimmer still. 

On occasion a jolt would tell us the engine had taken its place at the front and soon we would be off.  

There is little to compare with the noise of an engine, whatever size, chuff, chuffing its way out of a station.  People who dislike train travel who come across such an event will be unable to pass without watching as the iron monster belches out steam from far too many parts and slowly noises its way up the track.

The leaving of Edinburgh heading west or north takes the train through the garden’s underneath Edinburgh castle high above.  Those sunbathing, for a few weeks of the year only, would watch the clouds of white steam rise as each train puffed its way along.  Then would come the short, dark, tunnels, always an engine driver’s delight as he was engulfed in the steam alongside any watery drips falling from above, tunnels always have drips falling from above.  The two dark tunnels, lit by dim lights at regular intervals, wound under Edinburgh taking us quickly to Haymarket station where the populace filled the time while waiting for their train by discussing the latest design for renovation of the site above. 

They are still discussing this today!

Trips in the sun by steam train were always special for a child.  He has no understanding of the problems around him, except the shortage of sweets to gobble on the way.  He does not comprehend the effort of the fireman stoking tons of coal into the fire, expertly keeping the pressure correct enabling the driver to work the steam power.  Real men’s work in those days. Today, some lines that run occasional steam trains often have two firemen to fire the boiler.  Even these men are not strong enough to work single handed on some tough lines as in the days of steam.  Just how strong was a fireman on any such engine?

The railway headed west until the outer reaches of Edinburgh, soon after turning towards the north, leaving the main line to run on towards Glasgow, we looked for the lights at Turnhouse airport, always hoping unsuccessfully to see aircraft come and go, very different today of course.  Fields full of green crops, sheep or indifferent cattle passed by and usually without stopping at Dalmeny we raced over the vast cantilever bridge that crosses the Firth of Forth.  

 

The ‘Forth Bridge,’ never to be called the ‘Forth Rail Bridge’ by anyone born within Scotland, is one of Scotland’s greatest feats of engineering.  Of course, few Scots actually built it, but we will ignore that little problem.  Erected in such a manner as to ensure it would not collapse in a storm as had the Tay Bridge not long before when the centre girders collapsed in a violent storm taking a train and its contents with it.  The engineers were not going to risk that and so far no storm has endangered the bridge.  The only danger came from down south when a proposal to close the bridge to save the cost of painting it constantly. Typical southern thoughts.  Now, to save money, the bridge wears a new coat of paint that will last 25 years – they say! 

From the bridge we would look down on many light blueish grey Royal Navy ships lined up on both sides of the Forth, part of the fleet based at Rosyth.  Further upriver at Grangemouth more blue grey ships were based, and under the centre of the bridge on Inchgarvie fortifications that once defended the port lay deserted but enticing to every young lad on the train high above.

The rocky outcrop at North Queensferry soon opens up on the right-hand side of the train to a view of the bay beyond.  Here, throughout the 50s and well into the 60’s it was possible to see the shipbreaker's yard.  Always two large ex-Royal Navy ships lay together, large chunks cut out as Britain’s huge war effort was diminished to fit in with her more realistic political position.  Navy ships no longer stand there but the yard still exists, work permitting.

Then it is on past Inverkeithing, slamming doors, cries from the porters, sailors abounding leaving and arriving, and onwards into Fife.  Again, fields of cattle and sheep, many gardens featuring huts that once were railway trucks, a sight rarely seen today.  How long these had been in situ it was difficult to tell, nor was it asked how they had got there.  Also no longer seen was the use made of the land at the side of the tracks.  On many occasion vegetable gardens were seen at the end of small gardens attached to smaller houses. Possibly some of these had been installed during the war and remained until much later British Rail little Hitler’s arrived to end the practice.

Today the view from the train contains more houses than sheep, more roads and cars than cattle, this is in my view, last noted some years ago, less interesting.  Progress I suppose.

The station at Dunfermline Lower was a magnificent building according to my memory, today the Edinburgh platform has seen the waiting rooms and covering shed demolished and replaced by a Scotrail bus shelter.  I hope that has improved since my last visit.  Dunfermline ‘Upper’ has long gone along with the engine sheds and sidings that once sent the clang, clang, clang of railway wagons being shunted across the night sky.  Now recently built overpriced houses fill the space, the only clang coming from pots and pans wives and girlfriends pass over their man’s head.  

 Canmore

Our journey ended at Cowdenbeath, once the ‘Chicago of Fife,’ the centre of the Fife coalfields and home to several coal pits.  In 1851around one thousand souls worked the land around Beath Church, Iron Ore and then Coal were found and by 1914 25,000 folks lived there, most worked the mines.

The house now lived in by my mother’s eldest sister was also the miner’s cottage where they were all born.  Granddad had managed to get through three wives and ten children, only one child of whom did not survive. That meant after my grandmother died, in childbirth like the others, granddad had a two roomed house, a kitchen attached at the rear with a tap, an outside toilet and nine children!  Not uncommon for the time, my mother was born in 1915.

The ground behind the house sloped downwards towards the large football ground.  This was built so large as the expectation as for the town to continue growing.  It is claimed some 70,000 could fit in when completed!  Not now!

Next to the football ground entrance stood Pit No 7.  Here my granddad and his sons all found work.  There was no other.  For generations the family had been miners, coal being found in the 1500s in Fife, and they were to be the last generation of miners.  All the boy’s sons were forced to learn a trade, none were allowed to endure what these men had to endure for 50 years!

Behind the house, we rarely went out the front onto the street, lay the path up to the bridge we crossed as we came in.  From here we looked down the embankment at the constant flurry of railway life passing by.  Trains running from Aberdeen to London perhaps, fish trains also passing, leaving behind a stink, many long coal trains, heavy wagons with no brakes, controlled by a guard at the rear, local passenger services running around Fife, goods trains abounded and we waved at each one and never failed to get a response. 

Today there is a much-improved rail service for commuters.  For a while it was pretty dingy.  Many complaints can be heard but few can complain about the view, either from the crossing of the Firth of Forth or the many scenic views when running along the coast towards Kirkcaldy.  Fife is worth looking at, even if they say “If ye sup wi a Fifer, do it with a lang spoon.”

Friday, Pay and Railways.

Friday night, rain or not, the citizens of this municipality are running around unconcerned by the Turkish invasion and possible genocide in Kurds land, the Irish discussions re Brexit that so dominate the media, nor indeed the 'TERROR' attack as the 'Daily Mail' put it in Manchester.  This is Friday so it is time to enjoy the end off the week they say.  Who can blame them, possibly those who have to work Saturdays I suppose.  It can be very annoying to see the majority enjoying the 'normal' time off when you are left working.  During pleasantries with the lass in B&M yesterday I mentioned how she would soon be free for home.  Her somewhat disgusted reply informed me she finished at 8 pm!  The poor lass, she still had so many hours of joy ahead of her.
B&M are one of the shops who have a large turnover of staff.  'Basic pay,' very possibly poor management, certainly not much fun with many of the customers, and little sense of 'fun' to be seen from the staff members.  Other shops local to this have similar turnover and I suppose they care not as there is always someone desperate to try a short while working here.  There is not a great deal of choice!
Sometimes I wonder at the poor work I have done, the inept management, sometimes corrupt and self seeking, at other times very efficient and capable but not with money to spare.  I wish I had trained in something when young but when young I cared not, to be honest I would have soon been dumped anyway as I lacked what was required until Jesus came along and gave me a kick.  Then I chose low paid work like Hospitals and charity work, unpaid!   I enjoyed that more than lining my pockets however.  Some things are worth more than cash even if I did little.  I am now a 'Jack-of-no-trade' and fail to fix everything I break.  This is a regret but too late now.  
I sympathise with those looking to another ten years or much more in such work.  I doubt Bojo's latest wheeze will do such people much good, in the EU or out of it.  The Hedge fund managers, not on low pay, will be encouraging him however by flashing cash in front of his face.   

I suddenly feel the need for a railway picture.  This one is of Edinburgh Waverley Station in 1914.  It is to be regretted that all the trains have left for their destination, on time I expect, and as the photographer, whoever he was, coaxed his glass plates into place several would be steaming through the tunnels beneath his feet in either in or out direction, on different tracks I hope.  

Seen from the other end, the southerly direction via Berwick and on to Newcastle and London, we have a picture from I think the 1870's.  It may be the 1890's however as some fool has forgotten to mark the date on this one.  My grandfather was driving engines at that time while living nearby, possibly one of these.  The 1881 and 1891 census has him listed as 'engine driver,' a highly skilled and dangerous operation.  At that time drivers might work 12 or more hours, in all weathers, on passenger and goods trains.  Both could be troublesome and both had timetables to obey.  Passenger safety was very important to the railway companies, they said, but as you see the carriages are short, made from wood, had no heating it appears from these pictures and I cannot tell if these had gas lighting or oil lamps installed.  They might just be 3rd Class of course. 
The drivers and firemen joined 'ASLEF' 'Associated Society of Locomotive Steam Enginemen and Firemen' rather than the 'NUR' the National Union of Railwaymen,  as they wished to be seen as slightly above the common railwayman.  Class is not something that comes from above but from within!  Together they changed the pay structure and hours of the men but the ability to get yourself fired, for almost anything, was great, and the dangerous working conditions for many improved only slowly.  There is no way conditions and working practices of the 19th century could be imagined these days in the UK, Brexit of course might bring them back.

The Fast and the Slow

Royal Highland Fusilier

I was perusing a 'Cab Ride' video while I awaited the plumber to check the one year old boiler.  This brought to mind those days of long ago when travelling by train to Edinburgh was part of my life.   The video that is, not the plumber.
Escaping work to sit looking at the world passing, sun shining, happy quiet coach, provisions in front of you, and hours of enjoyment ahead was always a delight.  In those days it was the 'Deltic' type '55's' which pulled the dark maroon British Rail coaches, the sun as we left meandering slowly into the Kings Cross tunnels a sharp comparison to the rather dark and somewhat dreary Kings Cross shed as I remember it.  The station, built in 1852 on the edge of London, stood on what had been land used for a smallpox and fever hospital, where did they go after that I wonder?  A wooden station had been erected at York Road in 1850 by the Great Northern Railway while the navvies built the gasworks tunnel under the Regents canal and allowed entrance to the new station.  Kings Cross was never in my view an attractive station, functional yes, but not one to set the heart racing.  It did its job and still does very well but then it appeared dull and as I waited for trains pretty crowded also.  Trains to Leeds and Newcastle, local trains round the corner and smoky diesels heading for elsewhere polluted the air.  So did the people I suppose.  Once the 'ding dong' and the garbled announcements concerning what the train was and where we were going had passed we knew a new world was about to open for us.

I wish I could say I was there in the days when Gresley's giant 'Pacific' engines made their way north, steam belching, noise waking the dead amongst much admiration from all around.  While the 'Deltic's' could produce enough blue smoke to also fill the huge shed the image was somewhat less romantic.  The aroma of railway stations filled with belching engines remains with me today, there is nothing like it.  There is no doubt today's electric engines are the way forward, no doubt they are cheaper, easier to operate and do not require the foreman to shift half a coal mine on each trip, however, we all prefer to see a steam engine pass rather than a diesel no matter how efficient.

   
During the late 70's the HST's took over.  These 'High Speed Trains' regularly reaching 125 miles an hour on the long straight lines in the south.  For the first month or two the guard, remember guards and not conductors, the guard would announce "We are not travelling at 125 Miles per hour."  This would produce murmurs of appreciation as we sped through stations watching to see if anyone was daft enough to stand ahead of the bright yellow line on the platform.  It was naturally difficult to know which station we were passing through, the only name board that could be read was 'Gentlemen!'

 Global Railway Review

I find sitting in a railway carriage while the world passes by a terrific manner in which to see the real world.  There is little to see or keep you awake driving down a motorway, what scenery exists is hidden behind embankments and if there is a view it soon leads into a city bypass which as you know are delightfully attractive places.  The view from the train takes you past fields with crops or animals at various times of the year, the very colour of the ploughed ground speaks volumes re history, geography and life as it is lived.  One noteable sight is the Black Earth seen around Peterborough.  Once 'The Wash' came all the way up to here, now long drained and shrunk the black earth is a result of what was washed in many years ago.  The land has to be monitored daily as the shrinking earth affects the height of the railway track.  One day it might sink in!
Once passed the flat lands around York we see changes in the line itself.  The further north we go the less straight the line as the land slowly begins to rise around us.  While crops are still seen, sheep and cattle will appear, especially if you can see the far off hills from your seat.
Buildings appear different, the brick that abounds in London is changed to stone way up north.  The design of houses built in the far past reflects local architects while more recent housing follows a general pattern of the day.  One housing estate is much like another now.

The latest 'Scotch Express' is formed by a Hitachi class 800 Azuma.  This will be somewhat faster than the aged diesels that once pulled the 20:00 hours to Aberdeen, not stopping at Edinburgh where it actually stopped at 3 am and where I left the train and the sleeping soldiers on their way to die of exposure in the Cairngorms.  That aged train had aged compartment coaches and as it was quite empty I always had one to myself, lights dimmed, feet up and joy all the slow way home.  As the Azuma does a non stop journey in 4 and a half hours Kings Cross to Waverley at least once a day I suspect it will also have a few more home comforts than the late night slow train.

A Wee Run North

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