Here we go... Apologies, it's a little long, I think he must have got carried away...
Inspection Report: The (Windmill Hill) Welsh Highland Railway
Part One: First Impressions.
One of the drawbacks of my preferred mode of transport is that my intended destination - whether geographical or chronological - isnât always the place I end up, a phenomenon not uncommon among those of us who journey by wooden box, or so I am told. So it was with my most recent railway inspection. Having expected to arrive in South Bristol a day or two after I set off from Northamptonshire, I instead found myself in North Wales almost a century earlier, seemingly in the mid 1920s. Whenever it was, the internet and mobile networks had clearly yet to be invented, for my phone seemed to have disconnected from the modern world entirely.
Setting forth from the sanctuary of by travelling case, I found myself on the low platform of a typical wayside station, where a sign announced that I was visiting Trefechan, on the Welsh Highland Railwayâs Clarach Branch. In front of me stood a pleasant little train, with the well-known
Russell at its head, smartly turned out with gleaming lined red paintwork and shining brass.
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The consist of what I assumed to be my inspection train seemed very promising, including a licensed bar car and first class observation carriage. Either would suit my purposes admirably, and my hopes were high as I anticipated enjoying the scenic splendours of the famous Aberglaslyn Pass from a comfortable carriage with suitable refreshment to hand. Alas, I was to be disappointed.
âMr Spectre?â a voice behind me enquired, which turned out to belong to a skinny, scruffy and rather excitable chap who introduced himself as Mr Cox, my guide for the day. I had hoped I might meet Colonel Stephens, the general manager of this and numerous other light railways, an innovative if unorthodox engineer, but it seems he had appointed this foppish fellow to escort me in his place. What he lacked in military bearing however, Mr Cox made up for in enthusiasm, and he eagerly guided me along the platform as I glanced back longingly at the train, by now heading off into the distance, taking its well-stocked buffer car with itâŚ
Our first port of call was a dank cutting just beyond the platform end where a surly looking character was disconsolately heaving lumps of slate into a battered tipper wagon. Apparently, some sort of landslide had severed the branch from the rest of the line, which now terminated here â as did my hopes of enjoying the Aberglaslyn Pass. I enquired of my host when he expected a full service to resume.
âErr, next year?â he replied, rather vaguelyâŚ
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Heading back past the now vacant platform I was afforded a view of the small station building, not really suited for a terminus, but perhaps adequate for its usual role. I was surprised to learn that this is the third building to have served this site, and is itself temporary, having actually been built for a line in Kent. It is due to be replaced with a more substantial building of brick and slate, again âsometime next yearââŚ
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At the other end of the station site stood a most decrepit-looking line of wagons, their peeling paintwork fading further in the sunshine. These were, I assumed destined for scrap, and I complimented my host on his tidy-mindedness.
âScrap?â he replied incredulously, âOh no, we wonât be scrapping these until 1941 â this is the afternoon goods!â
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Further discussion on the apalling state of the goods rolling stock was cut short when something caught my eye at the far end of the siding. The siding itself was a cause for concern, being built on a rocky ledge that precluded any access from the lineside, but by clambering over some of the wagons I managed to confirm my suspicion that I had spotted one of the four wheeled carriages banned by my Board of Trade predecessors as long ago as 1897! This was a shocking discovery indeed!
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I turned to my host for an explanation.
âGrid Gwarthegâ, he spluttered, seemingly reverting to his natural Welsh, despite an accent suggesting that he actually came from somewhere in the region of the Dartford Tunnel, âDim ysmygu, dim cwn!â
Not being a Welsh-speaker myself I took careful note of what had been said to translate later, and giving him the benefit of the doubt for now, I suggested that we should move on.
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My interest had been aroused by a substantial and seemingly well-maintained signal box â perhaps things were looking up? I approached the box and climbed the steps, being surprised to find my guide following quickly behind and shouting at me most earnestly, urging me not to open the door. Of course, I wouldnât dream of entering the signalmanâs domain without first knocking to seek permission, but quickly discovered that was not Mr Coxâs concern â there was no âbobbyâ in the box at all, just half-a-dozen canaries!
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It seems that the signal box has been out of use for some years (which would explain the absence of any signals themselves), with the structure having been given over to the stationmaster in support of his hobby - quite outrageous!
Quite how safety was maintained would remain to be seen, but I could explore the issue no further just then because an asthmatic whistle announced that our train was ready to depart. Unfortunately, this trainâs locomotive was no match for the gleaming
Russell, being a distinctly unloved-looking War Department engine which appeared as though it may have been only recently dragged out from a shell hole.
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Worse awaited me at the other end of the short train. Mr Cox had promised to provide the âperfect way to inspect the permanent wayâ (another observation car perhaps, or a directorsâ saloon?) and although I had no particular desire to travel in the open âsummer carâ or functional but rather Spartan brake composite, either would have been vastly preferable to the vehicle actually intended for me. For there, at the end of the platform was an unbraked and unsprung four-wheeled trolley, and standing over it, presumably to ensure my compliance, was the unsmiling ganger.
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The train started before I could protest, leaving me to scramble aboard as best I could, hanging on for dear life as the train departed the station and we bumped and banged our way into the gloomy depths of Trefechan TunnelâŚ
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To be continued...
)- however I have said I will take my turn of hosting the inspector and have dropped Phillip a line to say to send him onto me when he's next free - he can review some of the rolling stock etc and some new signalling I've been working on