Looking back at the
few posts I've actually put on this blog I realise two things: first, that I
should really put something up more often...March 2013, hell’s teeth! And
second, the few posts I have put up are pretty diverse – dog’s paws, workplace
kitchens and VW campers no less.
The last of these
should probably be a rich vein for posts if I could actually be bothered to
write them – we go away regularly in our camper and always have a great time
and I guess that would make interesting reading for at least someone (no idea
who that someone is but I’m sure they’re out there...).
Anyhow, it’s our
most recent trip which is the subject of this post, or, to be specific, our
excursion on the Swanage Steam Railway while we were away.
It was a rainy day
when we pulled into the main beach car park on the outskirts of Swanage and
took the short walk to the station – incidentally, I’d totally forgotten this
nice little seaside town until we returned this month and I was thrilled to see
that they’re investing in the provision of some cool new beach huts on the sea
front (here’s a photo on my Twitter feed: http://bit.ly/1wbUOIE).
As we turned the
corner to the road running above the North side of the station, a train was
just pulling out (here’s a short video if that: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=6RGoq6vF5I4)
and I was instantly reminded of the things that those who experienced steam
always say about the sound and smell– it was...evocative. Which is odd, as I
have no memories of steam engines to evoke, but there is something visceral
about a steam engine, something live
which seems so easy to connect with.
We bought return
tickets for the whole journey (which only takes twenty minutes one way) and
eagerly boarded the train. We sat in a carriage I’m guessing was built in the ‘50s
on seats that have that odd mix of being sort of firm but springy at the same
time and wooden edged tables with history in every groove and mark.
Soon it was our
turn to pull out of the station, in that odd hesitant one-two, one-two way and
we made our way sedately through the Dorset countryside; through Herston,
Harmans Cross, Corfe Castle and finally to Norden where we waited for about
fifteen minutes, and then, came back.
I guess if you’re
used to hurtling up and down motorways or even modern train travel with bleary
eyed early mornings on your way to work this might not seem entirely thrilling,
but let me tell you, it was. It’s hard to imagine this is nostalgia, because I
don’t remember steam railways. I don’t have any connection with steam railways (beyond
enjoying JK Rowling’s Hogwart’s Express just as much as the next middle-aged
reader), so it’s not that. There just seems to be something real and physical
and whole about the experience – you see the beauty of the engines, you smell
the unique aroma of burning coal and hot oil, you hear the billow and fizz of
the steam and, what I really hadn't realised, is how much you feel the motion
of the train, the tug of the engine as though you’re part of this great effort
of getting from station to station.
On a totally
separate, but relevant (honest) note, I've often wondered about poetry. What’s
the point of it? I enjoy some of it for sure and, on more than one occasion, I
dabbled in writing a poem or two – but I could never really understand why.
More recently though I’ve found myself thinking in poetic terms if that makes
sense. The seeing, hearing, sensing of things which inspire the nascent wisps
of a line or two somewhere in my head seems to happen more frequently these
days.
So, to come back to
steam trains, just last weekend in Dorset, on a steam train, I wrote two poems.
I have no idea if they conform to any ‘correct’ type but nonetheless here they
are; two short poems inspired by, and written on, the train. Told you it was relevant.
Dormant
The halt at the
station,
punctuated by the
slow,
rhythmic beating of
the cooling engine’s heart,
until it stops.
Not dead, but
dormant,
waiting quietly,
still,
for searing,
burning power to be called again,
to life, to duty, to
serve.
Pull
And on the slow climb,
the chugging,
rattling pull,
of the mighty
engine, explosive steam bursting,
at every step.
With each chain clicking
clacking beneath us
her constant
hissing, billowing breath accompanies
the moving window
vista.
Well, that was fun
wasn’t it...
