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.
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.”
