You’d have thought I might have grown out of it by now. Ever since I was a young boy, the sight and sound of a train was enough to lure mew to trackside or somewhere near trackside. Long hours were spent, pointlessly as it turned out, waiting at the bottom of Sandy Park Road in Briz (Brislington) and hoping that the distant diesel locomotive might make the short trip along the tracks for me to get a closer look. I was so patient and it never happened, not even once. The patience has long gone but the fascination with trains is still as strong and obsessive as ever.
Just yesterday, I was driving along Bristol’s Cheltenham Road, nearing the arches that carry the branch line between Bristol Temple Meads and Severn Beach. Suddenly, a ‘sprinter’ type train, known in these parts as a ‘rattler’, passed by in front of me. “Oh my God,” I said, to no one in particular. I can’t say there was a massive adrenalin rush but there was a hint of frisson. I love to watch the trains go by.
On Wednesday, it had been the same feeling at Limpley Stoke as we walked from the Angelfish restaurant along the canal to the magnificent Dundas Aqueduct. The aqueduct itself is breathtaking enough, as it straddles both the river and the railway line but for me, always, there were the passing trains, all rattlers, that grabbed my attention. On the aqueduct, we had a fine view of the winding double-tracked lines. On the towpath, if I heard the distant of a diesel engine, I looked for the nearest gap in the trees. A brief glimpse of the train was enough. I needed that. It has always been thus.
My friend and I used to visit St Anne’s Station, or what was left of it, and watch the diesel locomotive powered expresses thunder to and from London, interspersed with the rattlers of their day, the Diesel Multiple Units. In the late 1960s and early 1970s, there was so much variety in motive power, you sometimes just didn’t know what was coming next. You could be sure, though, that whatever was coming, there would be plenty of it.
Bristol Temple Meads was a hotspot for the very young me, too. Three old pennies was all it took to gain access to a non stop world of trains. Not only that, at the Bath Road end stood the locomotive sheds. Diesel locos seemed to be moving all day long and what with the endless stopping trains from north to south, from east to west and back again, there was not enough time in the day to watch the trains go by.
I did buy a small book in which I intended to record the names and numbers of the diesels but I soon gave up on that. Around me were other young boys and, more worryingly, older men recording not just the train numbers but the carriage numbers, as well. They mixed all day with other trainspotters, comparing notes, offering advice on what train would be coming in, headed by whatever loco that had been booked. How they knew these details, I didn’t understand at first, until I discovered they had informants, like drivers, guards and various other railway employees, who would tip the wink. I secretly wished I knew the inside information but in truth just seeing the trains was enough for me.
I never grew out of it. Whenever I am in the land of my mother’s, the Netherlands, I am watching the trains, and trams, go by. Even last autumn when visiting Rotterdam, I set aside time to watch trains at and near Centraal Station and by Feyenoord’s stadium before their game kicked off. Last autumn, I even replicated the journey of my childhood from Bristol Temple Meads to London Paddington to Liverpool Street to Harwich/Parkstone Quay to Hoek van Holland (by boat) and, finally, Hoek van Holland to Rotterdam Centraal Station. The rolling stock was very different, but it felt just the same in terms of excitement.
Even when on holiday in Croatia, I found myself at Split station watching the occasional geriatric rattlers arriving and leaving. As I neared the station, I found myself speeding up to ensure I didn’t miss a thing. There being so few train movements, even in the heart of summer, the chances of missing anything were remote.
Approaching my dotage, I am grateful we live near Bristol Parkway station, Filton Abbeywood, Patchway and, best of all, Pilning which gives views as far as the Severn Tunnel to the west and almost to the Patchway tunnels to the east. If I am really lucky, I might see a freight train roaring up the steep gradient from the Severn Tunnel, spewing thick clouds of ‘clag’ and rattling by at the volume, it always seems, of an AC/DC concert. Earlier this year, I drove all the way to Bromsgrove near Birmingham just to watch trains roaring up the legendary Lickey Incline. All on my own.
It seems I am drawn to everything about the railways. I have always loved tunnels, I love watching points change, I love signals, especially when they change, I just love the sight and sound of trains whether it’s the clickety-clack sound, the tracks of the roaring engine or even the high-pitch whining sound made by the new fangled electric trains. And the more I think about it, the more I am aware that as soon as I am near a railway line, I am on the look out to see if anything is about to pass by.
I cannot explain any of this, although my dad did buy me a train set when I was very young and that may well have set me off. Unfortunately, my parents split up when I was young and my mum who brought me up had, for some reason, zero interest in watching trains. My grandad, who kindly took me to Keynsham Park every now and then, was far more interested in motor cars than trains, so I took what small glimpses while I could.
My love of watching the trains go by has not lessened over the years. And to make matters worse for anyone who happens to be around me, for the last few decades, maybe longer, I have become equally obsessed with commercial aircraft and as with trains I have no interest in recording numbers.
I’m not sure what this says about me. Probably nothing since all it involves is watching things go by. There’s likely to be an element of escapism in it but really, none of it really matters.
What I really love is watching the trains go by. On a good day, things don’t get much better.
