Playing With Myself

Look, it's me playing with toys on video again!

Do you ever think you may have too much time on your hands?

Thank you again to anyone who donated to my Ko-fi and made this video possible.  I'm sure you regret it now.

Bricks and Pieces

In a sign that this blog is getting ever more desperate for attention, I've finally pivoted to video!  Don't worry, this won't be a regular thing. 

Merseyrail recently released a toy version of its 508 trains that you can build yourself.  Don't call it Lego; it's definitely not Lego.  It's something very different indeed called City Brix.  I decided that if I was going to put it together, I'd let you, the viewer, enjoy it with me.  So here's a video of a Tom Allen-soundalike who's old enough to know better wrestling with a children's toy.

Incidentally they put two sheets of the stickers in the pack, so I've got a spare set, if anyone wants it.

Make or Break

It pains me to say this, but Lego Lady has become kind of a bitch.

The tiny piece of internet fame she has achieved has gone straight to her little plastic head.  At first it was manageable.  After we returned from our trip to the Cumbrian Coast together, she insisted on moving into the biggest, best Lego house available:

After that she wanted a better car:

I should have stopped it there, but we've been friends for thirty years; it's hard to say no.  She complained she was lonely in her big house, so a buff manservant in a loincloth was acquired to bring her breakfast:

Now it's getting ridiculous.  She wanted the other minifigs moved out of her eyeline - they were distracting her.  She suggested that perhaps I should start knocking before I ripped off the roof of her home to see what she was up to.  Even a visit from the star of The Lego Movie resulted in embarrassment, as she actually used the phrase "don't you know who I am?", before claiming she had to have her mouth paint touched up and beating a hasty retreat.  Those were an uncomfortable few moments, I tell you.

This has become a particularly pressing matter because I'm off on another Epic Journey With Little Purpose.  Next week I'm making my way along the world-famous Settle and Carlisle Line, collecting all its stations.  I'm even staying in a station.  It's basically the most Epic of all the Epic Journeys With Little Purpose.

The right thing to do would have been to leave Lego Lady at home for this trip; that would teach her a lesson.  She didn't even wait to be asked, just began packing her tiny plastic suitcases with spare hair and legs the minute she heard me plotting.  In fact, I almost took my other favourite minifig, Ambiguously Gay Sailor, instead:

However, I relented at the last minute.  Perhaps a week in the wilds of Yorkshire will bring us together again.  Perhaps Lego Lady and I can bond amidst the scenic beauty of the rugged moors.  Perhaps we can overcome our differences against the stunning backdrop of the Ribblehead Viaduct.  Perhaps she will be humbled when presented by the awe-inspiring natural landscape and the miraculous engineering feats of Victorian railway builders.  It's a make or break trip for our relationship.

If it doesn't work, well, all I can say is it's very easy to lose a four centimetre high woman out there in the hills...

Day Five: Keeping The British End Up

In an ideal world, Aspatria would not have been my next station.  Ideally I'd have been pulling a Sid James gurn under the station sign at its near neighbour: Cockermouth.  My love for the filthiest, most puerile innuendo would have reached its apotheosis; it would have been my nirvana.

Unfortunately, Cockermouth doesn't have a railway station any more, and even when it did have one, it didn't link up to the Cumbrian Coast Line, so I had to settle for Aspatria.  The only thing it could provide by way of smut was the headquarters of the Lake District Creamery overlooking the station, and that's just pretty half-hearted.

The station was lovely though.  It had been well tended to, cleaned and scrubbed.  We were back on two tracks here and the bridge didn't look like it would collapse from neglect.  Of course, I'd turned inland now.  This was the final stretch, so there were no more train rides above crashing surf, no more salt water rusting the ironwork.

I headed out the stone archway into the little station forecourt, and then up the hill to the village.  The home ground of Aspatria RUFC appeared on my right, with a board advertising the next match and advising that the Gymnasium was open to the public.  I briefly considered halting my trip to go on a running machine in amongst a mass of sweaty hairy rugby players - or at least hanging around the showers - but instead I pushed on into the village itself.

Despite its grandiose name implying some sort of long lost Roman outpost, Aspatria is just a small town.  Or perhaps a large village.  At what point do you become a town?  Aspatria had a petrol station, a couple of pubs, some shops, but I could have comfortably walked from one end to the other in twenty minutes.

It seemed like a thriving little community, anyway, with busy shops and pavements filled with mothers with buggies and builders nipping out for a sandwich.  I wondered what people did for entertainment in the evenings; the local newspaper gave the answer.

I bought a sandwich from the local Co-op (the monopolies board should get onto Co-op's dominance of the Cumbrian supermarket trade; the only Tesco, Morrisons or Asda I saw were in the big towns, and I didn't see a single Sainsbury's the whole time.  They've got it all sewn up quite tightly) then I found a bench by the bus stop to eat it.  A little old lady appeared close by, but she didn't seem to want to come anywhere near me and my chicken sarnie; even after I got up to offer her my seat she hid inside the shelter instead.

The 300 dropped me off in the centre of Wigton, a town that I suppose you could describe as having a vaguely comic name.  It's a bit of a reach.  It certainly wouldn't pass muster in a Talbot Rothwell script.

Wigton is a real old-fashioned market town; that elaborate water fountain in the Market Place tells you all you need to know about its wealth and where it came from.  There was also a market hall, and a car park that hosted stalls on market day - in a way, it was still the 18th century here, but in a good way.

I wandered down the main street, past the Lazeez Indian Restaurant ("You'r welcome to bring in your own alcohol to dine in with..", it promised, in a way that was so grammatically offensive I almost got out a red marker pen) and the Youth Station, a former pub converted into a community centre.  Again, there was that real sense of place, of a town where you could probably encounter four or five friends just walking down the High Street.

I walked past the parish church, and some rows of stone cottages (Collegium Matronarum Provento annuo - John Thomlinson AM - Erexit - Robt. ejus Frater STP - AD 1723 said the stone above the door) and then I was back on the road to the station.  Len & Donna's Garage (your local independent) was charging 138.9 for a litre of unleaded, which reminded me that living out in the country isn't all rolling around on hay bales and drinking milk fresh from the udder; you end up paying over the odds for things that people in towns take for granted.

The local theatre, a converted church, was named after John Peel; I'm not entirely sure why, as I can't find any link between him and the town.  Presumably the owners were just massive fans of Home Truths.  The town's most famous son is actually Melvyn Bragg, who is Lord Bragg of Wigton.  I wonder what the residents felt when they read A Time to Dance, his saucy tale of May to December lust on the Cumbrian fells.  I expect there were a few locals recognising themselves in the prose and blushing furiously.

The land around the station is dominated by the Innovia factory, a massive industrial complex that doesn't seem to fit with the rest of the town.  Suddenly I was back in the ugly world of Barrow and Sellafield.  It manufactures cellophane and other films - this was one of the first places to produce Rayon.  Innovia is an absolutely rubbish name for a company - it could make literally anything.  It used to be called British Cellophane Ltd, which is a far better name.

Wigton station was up on a viaduct, a relative novelty for the line.  It's held in by sandstone walls and a bypass on the far side, with a freight line branching off into the Innovia factory.

Wigton has incredibly wide platforms; combined with its position above the town, there's a real feeling of space.  Its most notable feature for me was an absolutely lousy flowerbed.

That is just horrifyingly naff.  It looks like the centrepiece of the driveway of some horrible nouveau riche McMansion, the kind of building that's been designed to look a bit like Downton Abbey but built out of red brick and with air conditioning and double glazing.  The pediments and the name in the centre and the horrible pink stone - it was bafflingly terrible.  I wondered if this was a Jubilee project or something; if so, they should have just spent the money on more bunting or buying everyone in town a pint.

I wasn't surprised to be the only person getting off at Dalston.  I'm not sure anyone ever uses the station.

It definitely wins the prize for "station most ignored by the local community".  Wigton might have had a factory right next door, but you have to actually walk through an engineering plant to get out of Dalston.  There's a yellow marked pedestrian path through the centre of the plant; the workers regarded me with bemusement as I tried to casually stroll past.  It's clearly not something they see very often.

I weathered the pitying looks from the oil-splattered engineers to take the sign photo.

Dalston itself is mainly based around a square, with plenty of small local shops, as well as the inevitable Co-op.  I treated myself to a scalding hot meat and potato pasty from the little bakery as I wandered around.

I know it's very practical, and it's what people have been doing in village squares for decades, but I wish they weren't just glorified car parks.  It doesn't feel like a thriving centre of the community if you have to pick your way through Ford Mondeos to get to church.  Still, it was all quite nice; clean air, happy residents, pretty, well cared for houses with flower-filled front gardens.  I've never been to Dalston in London but I am absolutely positive it is just like this one in every way.

Perhaps the most interesting feature in Dalston is its big black cock.

I had to get my smut somewhere.  It seems the village decided the best way to commemorate a new century was a cast iron planter with a demented rooster on top.  I think this is one of those things that people in the countryside all know about and townies will never understand, like fox hunting or the comedy stylings of Jethro.

There was still some time until my bus so I went in search of something to do.

I pulled my battered timetable out of my pocket (actually the second one I'd had that week - the first had been soaked through in the rain and was rendered unreadable) and silently crossed off the last few stations.

That's it, I thought.  The Cumbrian Coast Line finished.  There was still Carlisle, of course, but I'd be arriving by bus and leaving via the West Coast Main Line; there weren't any more little stations for me to visit.  No more single platforms in the rain.  No more tea rooms.  No more quaint villages.  This was it.

I felt a real sense of achievement striking out that last station.  I'm not sure if anyone else has done this - I'm sure someone has - but visiting every station on that long, lonely line felt like a feather in my cap.  There had been times when I'd wanted to jack it all in, but there had also been times when I'd never wanted to leave.  Nursing a warm cup of tea in a small village somewhere, the high fells in front of me, the taste of salt from the sea on my tongue.

I relaxed into the comfy bench.  The radio station in the pub was having a retro hour, and in the process, playing all the songs from the 90s I liked.  Could It Be Magic.  Renaissance.  Wonderwall.  An old man came in and took up his usual seat to flirt with the barmaid.  I could stay here a little longer, I thought.  Then the old man started looking in my direction, and I realised he was gearing up to engage me in conversation, and so I fled.

I tell you what, they have some posh buses in Carlisle.  The number 75 had leather seats.  Sitting on them for just a little trip into town felt ridiculous, somehow, like arriving at your friend's house in a horse-drawn carriage.  I wondered how long these leather seats would last on a service in Liverpool; I bet someone would have jammed a pen in them before you'd left Queen's Square.

Lego Lady seemed to enjoy it.  You can't see it properly, because the photo didn't come out right, but she is definitely smiling.

I'd been to Carlisle once before, to see a recording of I'm Sorry I Haven't a Clue.  It was being held in a leisure centre on the outskirts of the town, and I got to see Barry Cryer and Sandi Toksvig having a glass of wine outside a fire escape before it started.  It was obviously hilarious, even if it was Jack Dee as chairman rather than Humph; the off the cuff quips were as good as the jokey amswers, and it was frequently filthy.  I'm constantly delighted by the absolutely obscene stuff they get away with on that programme; it seems that since it's Radio Four it doesn't count.  We'd driven up that time so I hadn't seen the station building.

The station was known as Carlisle Citadel when it was built, and it still has an air of an impenetrable fortress to it.  I felt like I should have been wielding a lance and wearing a suit of armour.

I got myself a coffee and had a bit of a wander around.  It was strange to see trains with the Scotrail branding - not long intercity trains, just little commuter ones.  I was within sniffing distance of tartan and shortbread here.

That circular roof motif was particularly pleasing to me - it was simple, but elegant.

The thing that really stopped me and made me think was across the bay on platforms 5 and 6.

Welcome to the Settle-Carlisle Line & Hadrian's Wall Country Line.  I hadn't been on either of those lines yet.  They were both clean purple slashes on my Northern Rail map; not one single station crossed off on their entire length.

It was a reminder.  Even though I'd conquered the Cumbrian Coast Line, there was still so much more to do.  My head began to fizz with thoughts; I'd need maps, timetables, spreadsheets.  I needed to do some more planning - and soon.  I was tired and homesick, but I still hadn't lost my passion for Tarting...

Day Three: Happiness Is A Warm Teapot

ALERT: MILLOM STATION HAS A TEA ROOM.  

It's a proper tea room too, not a "coffee shop" or a "breakfast bar" or a "lineside snack based experience centre".  It's got lozenge signs and a nice green fence.  It's basically perfect.

In fact, the only bad thing about the Trackside Tearooms was the fact that I didn't have time to visit it.  My dodgy planning that morning meant that my schedule was on a knife edge; I couldn't afford to loiter, no matter how tempting it was to nip in for a cup of PG.  

It's a shame because Millom Station is worth a visit.  Unlike most of the stops on the line, there's a ticket office; even more unlikely, the ticket office is there thanks to the work of the locals, rather than Northern Rail.  It's linked up to the local heritage centre, which also occupies the building.  Sorry, did I say heritage centre?  I mean the Millom Discovery Centre, which uses a very annoying logo that merges the "r" at the end of "discover" with the "m" of Millom.  It ends up looking like DiscoverNillom, or perhaps DiscoveMillom - you can see it here.  I think it's a museum, but it's hard to tell.  Presumably calling it a museum would send children fleeing in terror.

I immediately headed out of town, passing the boys playing rugby at the grammar school and down a side street.  The road narrowed to one lane, then a track, and then I was following the railway line back the way I came.  

If I'd known Millom was going to be so good, I'd have got off at Green Road and walked there, because it's easier to relax once you've arrived.  As it was I had a trudge in the hot sun ahead of me.  And it was a hot sun: if you look closely at the sign photos over the course of this day I gradually turn a lobster pink.  My excellent South African genes have since turned this rosy glow into a mellow tan (thanks Nana!).

The clear day and my remote location meant I got my first real look at the Lake District's peaks.  It's strange how little I've been here, considering it's only a couple of hours up the motorway from my house.  I still have that idea that it's really far north, inaccessible, when the M6 and the West Coast Main Line bomb right through the centre of it.  In fact the main negative of this whole trip was that I only skirted the edge of it and didn't have a chance to do a Julia Bradbury all over the Fells.  In fact I never will - not as part of this quest, anyway: the Northern Rail map has a big hole where the Lakes are, as Oxenholme and Kendal are not served by their trains.  If you follow their map the only way from Lancaster to Carlisle is round the edge of Cumbria.

Still, it was good to see the distant hills, a light froth of clouds still hanging over their tops, the ground already turning green in the spring.  It was postcards and paintings, a view it was impossible to dislike.

The road was called Aggie's Lonnin.  I have no idea who Aggie was, or what a Lonnin is for that matter, but I felt it was important to record this name for posterity.  It passed over the tracks, where there was a brief moment of excitement as I saw another human being: a man with a 4x4, pulling a dirt bike on a trailer.  Then there was a more heavily shaded, tree-lined walk to Green Road station.

It's a surprisingly urban station for such a rural spot.  It's a request stop, and there are only a few scattered houses around it, no villages, but the building wouldn't look out of place on a city commuter line.  Something about its 20th century lines, the red brick, the lack of ornamentation.  

It's definitely out in the countryside though.  You wouldn't get someone in the city attaching their bike to a flimsy fence like that and wandering off for five minutes, never mind boarding a train and disappearing for the day.

My next station was another request stop, but a bit closer to civilisation.  I had an hour to kill at Silecroft but I wasn't bothered, because it was bang in the centre of the village.  I was sure there would be something to distract me.

Wrong, wrong, wrong.  Yes, the station was at the heart of the village - it's just there wasn't much of a village to speak of.

A single road with stone houses arranged haphazardly either side.  I walked one way, past a red phone box with Coins not accepted here in the window (then what's the point?), to where the houses petered out.  Then I turned and walked back the other way.

Don't get me wrong - it was very pretty.  But there wasn't even a shop.  My fantasy of a rural cream tea while I waited - proper scones and sponge cake - was out the window.  I couldn't even get a Twix.  There was a pub, The Miner's Arms, but that was closed during the day (and quite possibly in the evening too; it looked like that kind of place).  Finally I went back to the station and sat on the platform.

Two men in Network Rail orange jackets had emerged from the signal box, and they were doing something to the track.  They hammered and kicked at the rails for a bit, then went back inside.  It seemed to be a very physical job, whatever it was.  I just baked slightly while Lego Lady took in the view.

It certainly wasn't filling me with confidence about my next station.  That had been even more isolated that Silecroft on the map.  On the plus side it was called Bootle.

Just imagine the hilarious shenanigans if you got on the wrong train.  You go looking for the New Strand shopping centre and end up in the middle of nowhere.  Or alternatively, you're hoping to end up in some pretty rural idyll and then you're clubbed about the head by a smackhead beneath the Triad.  Either way: LAFF RIOT.

Bootle station (this Bootle station) does have a lovely waiting area - this open barn arrangement, as though some cows regularly caught the 14:02.  It had some very nice tiles on the floor.

The village beyond was probably once a decent settlement.  There was an old post office building, and an old bank building, and an old pub.  The key word here being old.  They were all houses now, a residential enclave here, desirable homes snapped up by people who didn't really want to engage with the community.  People who drove in BMWs and Range Rovers, parked up outside on a Friday night and left on a Sunday.  Or they were here all week, but worked at the other end of the railway line, and bought their groceries in a Morrison's superstore.  This was less a village, more a dormitory.  As though to underline the fact, a FedEx van swept around the green at speed, no doubt bringing another Amazon delivery to the sticks.

I plonked myself down on the bench on the tiny village green, next to the bin for dog poo.  I had resigned myself to another hour sat here.  I wondered if the curtains would start twitching as people identified a random person in the village.  A stranger.

Across the way, the signalman clambered down out of his box and started dragging the gates across the road.  A train's coming, I thought.  Then it hit me: a train's coming.  I dashed back to the platform and got there in time to catch a southbound train.

Where was I heading?  Millom of course.

The Trackside Tearooms were exactly what I wanted them to be.  Cosy and welcoming.  A smiling proprietress, who told me to take a seat while she warmed my sausage roll (not a euphemism).  Pictures of steam trains on the wall.  Free wi-fi.  Red stone tiles on the floor, and a large fireplace, and a row of fairy lights behind the net curtains in the window...

In other words, I could have stayed there all day.  I only had twenty minutes until my next train, but I settled into the comfortable chair and allowed the stresses so far to slough away.  My eyes drifted over the community noticeboard, taking in the book group, and the slimming group, and the holiday cottages to let.  Ok, the St George's Day Celebration didn't sound too much fun ("Singing: encouraged.  Dancing: optional.  Flag waving: COMPULSORY") but beyond that, I was content.  A good cup of tea on a station platform - once again, it solved everything.