“BREL York” reads the embossed step as I cross into the stuffy carriage, the smell of hot dust and diesel fumes displacing that of rain soaked concrete and ballast, the thundering of diesel engines replacing the gentle hum of the OLE and occasional announcement. I take my seat and plug myself in to my iPod. A notebook or novel sits on the seat next to me, poking out of a pocket of my big coat, in my mind I’ll use the next three hours productively but realistically I will gaze at the passing scenery and contemplate. I’m going home.
I’ve timed my journey to avoid the Pacers so my journey won’t be too uncomfortable (for the uninitiated these are rail vehicles built in the mid-80s out of bus parts on a shoestring budget to serve unelectrified branch lines, they are terrible). I’m travelling after the rush hour to avoid the crowds as the train approaches Leeds, I could have left at around ten, and the chances are that’s when I planned to leave, but I’m terrible at getting out the house. There are perhaps ten or fifteen other passengers on the two car train, a couple of cyclists on their way home after a long cycle through the dales disturb the quiet as they rattle their gear into the racks and clack to their seats.
The hustle alarms sound and the doors shut. The engines roar as the train judders and shakes its way out of Platform 2, hurrying up the West Coast Main Line, past scrubby farmland and the open expanse of Morecambe Bay, the journey’s brief encounter with speed before we reach Carnforth and the slow line beyond. I twist my head as rows of old carriages, mail vehicles, and dead diesels pass by before Steamtown is obscured from view by the walls of the platform shelter. A Pendolino screams by on the way to Glasgow as a few people change to catch trains to such exotic destinations as Ulverston and Barrow-in-Furness. Once again the hustle alarms wail, the doors rumble shut, and the engine picks up, dragging us up, over the mainline, and away.
I’m lucky and the rain ceases, light clouds linger over head, I will be spoilt with a glorious sunset. The train rumbles on, joining the alignment of the Little North Western Railway before grinding to a halt at Wennington. The conductor releases the doors and stands on the little platform, I hear the doors of the next car slide open and the click of the snick of the gate to the carpark. The conductor boards and closes the doors, then with two sharp buzzes we are once again away, trundling towards the Yorkshire border.
The third stop is Clapham (North Yorkshire) and I recall the occasion I walked 3 miles to catch the first train of the day after a party in nearby Austwick. The countryside is bathed in the beginnings of a sunset, low oranges and yellows playing off rivers, rocks, and low-lying fields of sheep. In the distance hills with their rocky outcrops outlined against a darkening sky. The train grinds on, wending its way through stops at Giggleswick and Long Preston before reaching the anomalously grand Hellifield.
Hellifield was once an important junction station served by expresses between London and Scotland, and whilst those days have passed, the grand iron work of the station buildings remains and in the glorious red/orange light it’s somehow easier to imagine its once important status, the sunset going some way to conceal the peeling paint and boarded up windows.
Once more the train groans away from the station, passing the final visible signal box of the journey, roaring displaced by a low grumbling as we head on, Gargrave passes as another brake application, hustle alarm and roar of diesel engines before the long pause at Skipton.
As we approach we pass two roads of modern electric commuter trains (Class 333s for the spotters) waiting for tomorrow’s rush, the first indication for almost 50 miles that we aren’t in the 1980s. Night has fallen but Skipton is large enough to have proper lighting, albeit probably flickering. Recently painted ironwork supports a glass platform canopy, the diesel exhaust marks already starting to show. At Skipton the crew changes and during the eight and a half minute wait the engines are powered down. The saloon is temporarily plunged into semi-darkness, before the strip lights ping back on. I stand up and step outside, walking up the length of the platform to stretch my legs, cold, fresh air temporarily blowing away the comfortable smell of hot dust and oil, the throb of the engines still ringing in my ears. I turn to see the new conductor emerge from the underpass and walk back. The last of the light of the day has ebbed away as we recommence our journey, so I pull out the book and lose myself for a couple of stops. We fly through stations I know oddly well, having undone and labelled every one of their many poster cases in a previous existence, stopping at the few that this old diesel can manage without delaying the following electric.
At Shipley I begin to gather my things. The train judders away one last time and crawls towards Leeds. Outside the city is temporarily visible as we emerge from a cutting and out across the low viaducts of the station approach. I pull on my big coat and force the zip of my hold all over my book and any other sundry possessions I’ve taken out during the journey, the few passengers move towards the front door of the carriage, but I go to the back, my long legs will get me out and down the platform before the queue for the logical door filters out. At Leeds I am faced with a decision, there’s a fast York train in 12 minutes which for £14 which will get me home within the hour, or I can wait forty minutes for the Blackpool train which will get me home an hour later but cost me nothing (the joys of staff travel). I invariably decide to save my pennies and pop to M&S for a pint of milk and a dessert.
With half an hour to kill I take my place at the end of the platform and sip my milk, some bizarre quirk means that by the end of the day the security announcements have gone out of sync and a disembodied voice threatens “Luggage will be removed and may be destroyed by security services”.
A few trains rumble through heading to Neville Hill for the night as a small gaggle of people gather at the platform end for the last train to Cross Gates, Garforth, East Garforth, Micklefield, Church Fenton and York. A 158 eases up the platform and the doors hiss open. Once again the sounds and smells of the station are displaced by the low rumble of the engines and the smell of hot dust. I settle down once more and dig out my dessert, book and iPod. Stations and songs pass by, this is the home stretch and in 25 minutes and no time at all we are through Church Fenton, the final station before York.
The conductor walks through filling a clear bin bag with discarded beer cans and copies of The Metro as the train ignores poor Ulleskelf and surges up the East Coast Main Line. We slow and pull gratefully into Platform 7, the conductor ties the bag top and drops it on the luggage stack before opening the door control panel and releasing the doors. I alight into the cold empty station, the grand ironwork soaring overhead protects only me from the elements as I cross the bridge. The departures board reads 2342, there is no next train. I am home.
