Satunnainen

"Ooooh, more Helsinki posts!" said no reader ever.  It has gone on a bit, hasn't it?  It's gone on so long that when I wrote the first post someone messaged me to say they were going to Helsinki later in the year on holiday so they were looking forward to reading about it.  That person has subsequently had their holiday and come back to the UK and I'm still here writing it up.  In my, defence, I've had a lot going on at home so I've not had the space to carve out two hours to yammer on about Finland.  Also, I loved it all, so I wanted to give it the attention it deserved.

The point is, though the Helsinki Metro is all finished, there's some other transporty things I did in the city, so here they are, gathered together for your "pleasure".

The 15

Last year, when I travelled on the Lidingöbanan in Stockholm, I made notes as I travelled, a stream of consciousness that I put on the internet.  Finding myself in Helsinki with no more Metro stations to collect, I decided to go on the 15 tram and do the same again.  If you recall, this is a loop line that goes from Itäkeskus to Kellaniemi via the north of the city, entirely avoiding the middle of Helsinki.  Unlike the trams in the city centre, this has been built to modern light rail standards, with its own rights of way and bridges. It takes over an hour to get from one end to the other (time via the metro: less than thirty minutes) and nobody would do it unless they're an absolute nerd.  Oh look, that's me.  Here are some vague thoughts, hammered into something resembling a blog post.  It's ok, I don't mind if you don't read it.

Oh they are request buttons! I wasn’t sure. An old lady has pushed one to get off at Roihupelto. It seems to be a large retail park. 

I went to swap seats to the little two - I’m currently on a 4 - then I spy it’s for disabled people and back away. Here I have a little table with a USB socket but I’m charging off my battery anyway.  

Running down a grassy median with a lane of traffic and cycle lanes either side. Rocks and forests and now we’re on devoted track through fields. How far out are we going? This is positively rural.  I thought it would be suburbs all the way. Two old ladies, one in floral, one in animal print, haven’t stopped talking since they boarded. Meanwhile across from me is a straggly bearded fat man in denim reading a comic. He puts it away and takes out another one with Donald Duck on the front, looking annoyed in a snow drift. Donald Duck, not the man.

An expanse of large glass buildings that scream business park; it is completely devoid of life until we get to Viikin tiedepuisto, a park, and suddenly there’s a shopping mall and a quaint little red cabin. Floral has got off here but animal print remains. The seats are faux yellow leather but the best part is the aircon, blowing at maximum throughout. Stops are plain with minimal seating. An entire family gets on at Viikinmäki, three generations, and they spread themselves around the hinge in the tram. 

I’m still wet with sweat.  My face is dry but my shirt is disgusting. I should’ve changed it. At Oulunkylä there’s a railway station, cream clapboard and looking like it’s from the 19th century: a K train passes through and pauses as we move on. A woman takes the seat opposite me but she perches on the edge so that she can face the direction of travel. There are new apartments everywhere. Is Helsinki experiencing a boom or is this the effect of the tram? Five, six storey buildings with retail at the ground floor. A building site with a crane and more being built and then some older, more 1980s blocks. The family get off and the grandad whips out a camera and starts filming the building works. What a loser. Ahem. 

Across the motorway the buildings are starker and more old fashioned, though the tram has clearly caused a new quarter to be constructed. Houses now, little tin looking buildings in pastels and surrounded by thick gardens. Hämeenlinnanväylä is under a flyover, and it’s like being back in Amsterdam. Three young men in white vests board, one Black, one Asian, one white, oozing attitude and cockiness. They only last one stop. The white boy has a cigarette behind his ear. 

All weather football pitches with people actually playing football in this scorching weather then we’re in a tunnel under Huopalahti station. Yellow tile at the stop then another new neighbourhood under construction. 

We pause at Vihdintie - to even out the schedule no doubt - and Donald Duck packs up his comic and moves to the door to exit at the next one. A roundabout over a motorway junction, thick trees and daisies and past a McDonalds drive in which is empty even though it’s lunch time. There’s a huge hole in the ground to my left with the remnants of a building at its centre; I’m guessing an old factory. 

A man got on stinking of BO and I wonder if that’s what I smell like too. He had crutches and a coat on and a thick beard but he disembarks at the next stop. So many trees, mature and high, between buildings, along side tracks, like construction is only permitted in clearings. Another tunnel, unlit, smooth. The track is hidden behind fences and we end up at Ravitie where two twelve year olds get on, one with blonde dreadlocks poking out from under his baseball cap. The road we’re passing down is silent. No cars. A single walker in athletic gear. Starting to feel hungry. May have to invest in a sandwich. 

Apartment blocks and a large wide ring road. The boys are watching a video on their phone and we can all hear it, of course. Leppävaara station, under the overpass, then a stop beside the shops around the corner. An A train waits at the platform as we pass. The boys get off for the mall. It’s a popular stop. Their place is taken by a teenage girl with a badminton racket who immediately starts talking on her phone. We pause again, probably because this is such a popular stop - time to accommodate crowds. 

Take a swig of Pepsi Max - the aircon is now getting to my throat. How long have I been on here? An avenue between seven story blocks, new with the tram line, the trees still young but the flower beds blossoming. Up a slope past multi storeys and office blocks. Another motorway crossed and then a stop in the middle of a forest, apparently; there doesn’t seem to be anything around and nobody boards or alights. A few small houses, white homes behind fences, parasols poking up, then back into the countryside via a dizzying bridge over a motorway. The driver puts his foot down until we stop at another one with seeming no purpose; it’s right by the motorway junction and that’s all. Still, a young woman gets off here and she doesn’t look like she’s going hiking so who knows. 

Following the highway.  Maari has a huge drum like building like an atrium which looks impressive but is probably just an office block. We’re in the back of Aalto University and now there are teaching blocks and laboratories but the students have seemingly all gone home for the summer. The tram pauses at a square across from the metro station - a different entrance to the one I used. The next stop is the one I disembarked at before, Otaranta, and I can get glimpses of water through the trees. Badminton girl gets off here. 

Now it’s the final stretch to the terminus, four or five of us left, me the only one who came all the way - an hour and change to travel round the edge of the city. The voice cheerily announces metro station and terminus in three languages and then we stop. 

Tikkurilla

My last day in Helsinki was an awkward one.  I had checked out of my hotel at ten am, but my transport out of town wasn't until the evening.  I had my big heavy backpack with me so I didn't want to go to a museum or something, and it was roasting hot again, so I simply rode some trains and buses and metros all day to keep myself amused.  It doesn't take much.

I took a random local train from Helsinki Central and got off at Tikkurilla.  This was a stroke of good fortune, as it turns out this is something of a star station.  A wide glass bridge dotted with shops and facilities spans the tracks.  It was big and impressive while also being incredibly practical.

Either side were shopping malls with direct connections to the station.  I had a bit of a wander round, smirking gleefully to myself, then went back down to the platform for another random train north.

Yes the Swedish name for this station is Dickursby.  No that isn't why I stopped here.

Kerava

My randomly selected train terminated at Kerava and I disembarked in a small town on the edge of the city.  The station building was getting a lick of paint as I arrived, refreshing its soft pink woodwork.  I used a wood-panelled subway under the tracks to reach the station square.

Everything about it was charming.  The building sat neatly surrounded by open land; the lack of ticket barriers and fencing made it feel so much more welcoming.  Buses idled outside in a small exchange, ready to take train passengers onward.  There were a couple of small cafes and shops in the buildings nearby.

I hovered outside the bar, mulling whether to indulge myself with a quick pint.  This is where I'm meant to go off on a rant about the price of beer in Scandinavia, but have you been to a pub in the UK lately?  The A frame outside said a half litre of beer was €9, about £7.80 at today's prices.  I'm writing this with a pint of lager beside me which cost £4.80 so that fabled gap between British and Finnish beer prices is considerably narrower these days.  I passed on the beer in the end, because I knew I wouldn't be able to have just one, and I had a long day ahead of me.

There were, incidentally, some posters on the wall advertising an upcoming concert from Erika "Ich komme" Vikman.  Europe may not have embraced her at Eurovision but clearly Finland still loved her. (Käärijä, of "Cha Cha Cha" fame, had performed at an open air festival in a Helsinki park on the previous Saturday, and I had genuinely considered going until I realised I would only know one song and the rest would be in Finnish.  Also, going out on a Saturday night?  No thank you). 

Can I use this point to mention just how massive Finnish trains feel?  When I got on the one back from Kerava it was like boarding a space ship.

Oulunkylä

If you did read that load of old nonsense about the tram journey further up the page, first of all, bless you.  Secondly, you might have noticed a mention of Oulunkylä station, one of the points where the railway lines and the 15 tram cross.  I decided to jump off and take a closer look at it.

I was sadly disappointed.  Though the station building looked lovely from the street, closer inspection revealed it had been converted into private homes.  It's tremendously disappointing when that happens, no matter where you are in the world.  I want railway stations to be stations, dammit, and even if you don't want to have the full ticket office experience (though you should) it's nice to have a waiting room for the passengers that's not just a bus stop that thinks it's fancy.

There is at least some artwork at the station, in the form of a giant slanted clock at the entrance to the subway.

The theme continues in the murals on the wall.

I'm not sure why Oulunkylä is time-obsessed, but I'm going to take a moment to pat them on the back for at least having a clock that works.  It's a modern miracle.

That definitely says Oulunkylä.  The sun was in exactly the wrong place to to get a decent photo with all the text visible.  As usual, if you would prefer I went back and took a proper sign picture, please feel free to send me a Finnair ticket.

After that there was a lot of buses, which are great; today Diamond Geezer wrote about the consultations for Superloop 13 in London and it was a reminder that Helsinki has a load of trunk route buses that do express services and they don't feel the need to hype them up as a fantastic innovation that will change the city.  Helsinki's just great to get round.  It's fun.  Go if you can.

And yes, I did go on one of the old trams.  It was rickety and noisy and packed.

So I'd taken a plane to Helsinki.  I'd gone on the underground and commuter trains. I'd ridden the buses.  I'd gone on the trams and the light rail. What possible form of transport was there left for me to take?

A ferry, of course.

Notes from Another Time

One of the longest direct train routes from Lime Street is the service to Norwich.  Departing every hour, the train crosses the width of the country, heading from the north west to East Anglia and calling at the likes of Manchester, Sheffield and Nottingham on the way.  Like all travel that doesn't involve heading towards London in the UK, it's a slow, meandering route that doesn't seem to know if it's an intercity or a local.  The trains are diesels, because much of the route isn't electrified, and there's nothing fancy like a shop on board.  

Obviously I was going to have to take this train sometime, and I finally did on the 23rd June 2016.  If that doesn't ring a bell, first of all, lucky you; secondly, it was the date of the Brexit referendum.  I voted in the morning then trotted off to Lime Street, not realising that it was the last day of Britain being a relatively normal country.  I was getting the East Midlands Trains (not Railway then) service and I was going to take copious notes.  In fact, my notepad is basically a constant stream of observations for the journey, six hours of scribbling, twenty-one pages of tiny writing, which I'm now going to reproduce here.  I've tidied it up a bit, removed the spelling mistakes and the odd name, but otherwise, this is what happened to me and what I was thinking for that whole trip.

LIVERPOOL TO NORWICH - 23rd June 2016.

10:45.  Primed and ready to pounce at the button.  Surrounded by pensioners in bright florals and polka dots eyeing me shiftily.  They're worried I'm going to take their seat, I can tell.  They've got that hopping anxiety, side-eyes to watch me in case I try to get ahead of them.  My relative youth means I win out though, because my eyes are good enough to spot when the button lights up, despite the bright sunlight.  I'm in there, pushing ahead of them while they're still gathering up cases.

My seat is a table; I don't normally like tables when I'm travelling alone.  I'm always worried I'm going to end up surrounded by teenagers, or worse, chatty people.  People who want to make friends.  People who think a five hour train journey is a chance to mingle.  Sod that.  I want to sit in silence with a podcast in my ears.  My reserved seat is facing backwards, which is annoying.  I unload a packet of crisps and a Coke Zero for the trip, storing the rest of my lunch under the seat.  

A tiny Asian woman, barely five feet tall, hesitates by my table.  She puts down her big leather handbag, brown, with a jacket poking out the top, then picks it up again and wanders off.  Soon she's back.  She sits down uncertainly.

"Is this the Norwich train?"

"Yes," I say, and she thanks me and goes back to looking a bit anxious.  Now I'm anxious too, worrying that maybe this isn't the Norwich train, and now this poor lady and I are going to end up in Carlisle together.

The diesel engines, which have been running continuously, suddenly cut out.  As one the passengers wonder if we've broken down.  Then they start again, there's a whistle, and we trundle out of the station, my companion nervously checking the envelope with her tickets as we go.

We're still in the Lime Street tunnels when the guard appears for a ticket check, bald and gruff, scrawling a twist with his biro, and we're just out of Edge Hill when the trolley appears.  The voice over the tannoy confirms that we're headed for Norwich so I can breathe easy again.  The trolley boy is dark and stubbly, skinny, with a black flower tattoo poling out from his rolled up sleeve.

Estimated time of arrival at Norwich, says the guard, is around 16:10.  This is the longest single train service I've taken since the Sleeper; standard class all the way, no extras, just a load of red seats to stare at.

South Parkway.  The woman opposite looks vaguely like she wanted a cup of tea, but was too shy to stop the trolley boy.  Though it may have been her general nervousness; she sits sideways so that we don't catch each other's eye accidentally.  There are black inky fingerprints on the cornflower blue table, a remnant of the previous occupier.  Do newspapers still give you inky fingers?  I thought they all moved to computer colour printing.  Maybe it was the Telegraph, refusing to go with these modern (1980s) technologies. 

A quick look at the train app as we reach Widnes and we're already three minutes late.  I break open the Coke.  At Warrington, she puts her handbag on her lap to free up the seat; it's reserved from Peterborough.  When we leave the station and no-one sits down she moves the bag back.

It's quiet, this train, conversations in hushed murmurs; when a phone rings, the bell is the noisiest part - the rest of the conversation is in strange whispers.  As we pass under the M6, the lady moves to the offset seat, and I try not to feel hurt.  Would stretching out my legs into her recently vacated space be rude?  Yes, it probably would, so I stay hunched up.  Although then I glanced to my right and spotted that not only had she stretched out, she'd also taken her shoes off, revealing two slightly grey heels and bronze nail polish.  That's not on.  I mean, admittedly she was only wearing sandals - there was no unlacing of shoes - but still.

We're approaching Oxford Road.  A clatter of branches from an unkempt tree, then the island of tall apartment blocks that fascinate me.  A woman on a balcony adjusts her bra through her blouse.  We're due to get a third for our quartet at Oxford Road.  Obviously the hope is they won't turn up.  The back of Home, and a couple of towers.

The platform is packed.  Hare Krishnas on the platform at Oxford Road and our seat mate arrives, a woman in her fifties with a mop of brown and grey perm.  She stows her suitcase then puts her other two bags on the table, canvas woven in bright colours.  She's got a travel mug of a tea and a tiny homemade roll wrapped in clingfilm.  Pink leggings and two or three layers.  "With the air con on, it's a bit cold," she says to the Asian lady.

"Chilly," she agrees, smiling.

Piccadilly.  

Stockport looks pretty, the Co-op pyramid poking out of the trees like a Mayan ruin.  The woman next to me pulls out her glasses, then some crochet work.  She's making a jumper or cardigan, picking at threads.

There's a patch of astroturf on Stockport platform.  Finally the seats across the way fill up; three men in their 60s with bags that won't fit in the overhead rack.  They dump them in the vacant seat.  "Put your seatbelt on," one jokes, and they all giggle.  They're going to North Norfolk; I think they may possibly be train people.  There's certainly no sniff of wives.

"It does get a bit tedious after Sheffield," one warns, the only one with hair; his two companions are bald as eggs.  Yep, they're train nerds; they're talking about chords and the LNWR.

My companion rolls a ball of blue wool the same colour as the table top out as my watch ticks over onto 12.  The ladies begin to chat, first about where they're going, then the Asian lady compliments her crochet work - "it's beautiful."

"It's just a blanket.  It never turns out the way you want it."

An unscheduled stop at Hazel Grove, presumably something to do with the flooding.  The train men are talking about routes and which ones they've done as we plunge into the tunnel beyond Manchester, the one you enter in a landscape of suburbs and industry and emerge into green.  It's the bit of line that makes me think of Diamond Geezer, and trudging around a hill.  

Actually the train nerd with hair is quite hot in a DILF kind of way.  Distinguished in a checked shirt and sandy M&S slacks.  His mates are not hot.

I started wondering if I should have something to eat.  I'm not especially hungry but it would break up the boredom.  I'm a bit put off because I can't remember what flavour my crisps are; I suspect they're a bit stinky.  I'll leave it.

Train folks are talking about the Woodhead Tunnel.  I suddenly realise this is me, Robert and Ian in twenty years time.  I hope I am the hot one.  "So do we agree that privatisation has been a good thing?" one pronounces and I switch off.

To be honest I'm annoyed they haven't recognised me.  I'm a very very minor face in the world of railway blogging!  I knew I shouldn't have taken these couple of months off.  I'm already forgotten.  

Edale is damp and green, lush, thick grass and trees.  The Asian woman has pulled out a very dense, very boring looking conference agenda and is looking through it.  I can only see a few words and they don't seem to connect into a sentence.  Just before Sheffield, the crochet woman drops a needle, and I actually talk to her as she retrieves it.

"Have you dropped something?"

"It's ok, I can see it."

Very proud of myself for not fucking up that interaction.

She shifts from blue to purple wool.  At Sheffield, the train goes back the way it came; suddenly I'm facing forwards.

In the row behind the trainspotters there's a middle-aged man and his doddery old mum.  She's fallen asleep but he's eating his lunch.  A white bread roll that he's putting ready salted crisps into, and a plastic bag with a quartered pork pie.

The Asian lady puts her coat on.  "It's chilly."

"It's the air conditioning, I think," says the other lady.  I like the fact that they're having the same conversation in reverse.

A new ticket inspector, bluff Sheffield, checks all our tickets again while the trainspotters talk pubs and restaurants.  They have a voucher; "it's pasta or pizza only, from the fixed menu."  The trolley boy is the same though.  

A check of the app and we're four minutes late; we got back on target in Manchester and lost it again at Hazel Grove.

"I used to do that," says the tiny woman, pointing at the blanket.

"I started it in February," her new friend replies.  "It's something to do on the train or in front of the telly.  Or waiting for the kids to finish their swimming lessons."  The Asian lady is returning home to Nottingham after three days in Liverpool on a course.  "It'll be nice to get home."

"Well, yes, but I'll have to go back to work."  She pulls out a grey silk scarf with black spots, and Crochet Lady coos "that's beautiful", and I think they're definitely repeating themselves now.

It seems to be the toilet shift; the door hisses open and shut as a stream of passengers make their way.  I'm trying not to think about it.

Trainspotters move onto model railways - "Hornby have just brought out the Q6" - and have a tupperware with a bun and a couple of sandwiches and a thermos.  One of them has, anyway, the taller bald man; he doesn't seem to be sharing.  Meanwhile the middle-aged son is playing a fruit machine game on his phone.  I know this because I can hear it loudly paying out.

Alfreton.  Haphazard details of my visit swim in my head, the heat, the road, a convenience store where I bought water, the general Midlands-ness of it all.  Going the wrong way and having to turn back, a mining village, a canal walk, cows.  Finally the station, tired and hot, not being able to sit down because the shelter was full of trainspotters with tripods.  

The Asian lady begins to redistribute the contents of her handbag into her pockets, getting ready.  A moth flies right by my face and crashes into the window before vanishing.

"I wonder how the voting's going," says the Crochet lady, and I brace myself.  They chat generally - the polls are open so she can vote when she gets in, the results will be out in the morning, they'll count through the night - but neither asks how they're voting.  I'll put Asian lady down as remain but Crochet Lady is harder to read; she could go either way.  There could be a Daily Mail stashed in her handbag.

There's actually works at Ilkeston!  It's happening!

The Trainspotters have moved onto European railway systems and their failure to implement decent platform heights.  "I thought disability standards were all across Europe!  I thought we all had to do it!"  I tense up again.  Maybe I just shouldn't listen to other people's conversations.

Nottingham.  Of course the last time I went here I went to Hooters.  Still a bit ashamed of that.

"Prague's worth a visit but it's full of schoolkids on trips."

The Asian lady says goodbye to her pal and leaves us.  The seat reservation says we'll be getting a new companion.  On the platform at Nottingham is an old man with a cane wearing a grey hoodie with a picture of John Wayne on the back.  The trolley boy disembarks with a clatter.

Our new companion is an old lady with big dark glasses in a sleeveless top.  She leans across and says, "I always wanted to learn to crochet.  You could've taught me on the way!"  They immediately bond; our new companion knits and sews and patchworks.  I feel like joining in with my love for the Sewing Bee and how Rumana was robbed but I keep quiet.  I did pipe up when the new lady arrived to point out the Asian woman hadn't been sitting in the right seat; written down it sounds like I was a pedantic bastard but it wasn't like that.  Not entirely.

Ooh, the Trainspotters are talking about some gay!  "Does his mother know?  His brother must know.  He's reasonably intelligent."  I think DILF might be a gay too.

We leave Nottingham past the rotting hulks of warehouses - finally a bit of unfamiliar track.  And only halfway.

Now the smaller bald man has broken out his sandwiches - they smell of meat.  Yup, DILF is definitely A Gay, with a German boyfriend.  I remember the dark fingerprints; I hope the lady didn't dirty her wool.

New lady pulls out her lunch - "I think my daughter thought I was travelling for a week!"  She's been visiting her daughter, looking after her grandkids.  Another ticket inspection, this time a smiling man; his aftershave lingers after he leaves.  

Everyone is eating now.  The carriage is thick with the smell of room temperature bread.  I wonder whether to eat my sarnies, feeling inadequate next to these two ladies with their home made snack boxes - I bought mine at M&S.  The new trolley boy looks like a young Kevin Eldon.  I decide to go for it with my ham and mustard while Crochet asks the age of Old Lady's grandchildren - "Seven and five.  A lovely age."

"But hard work."

"Ooh yes."

I'm amazed by their skilful small talk.  I just can't manage it.  My mind goes blank and I'm lost.  I answer the questions yes or no then scour my brain for follow up questions that never come.  

Nottinghamshire is hazy, swathed in grey.  The guard singsongs over the tannoy: "ladies aaaaaaaand gentlemen."  

Grantham's home of the Woodland Trust, apparently.  Growing up I thought that Margaret Thatcher was Northern, because I thought Grantham was in the north; it sort of is, and sort of isn't.  The Trainspotters get excited by a freight train waiting across the way, and there's the click of an iPhone camera as they preserve it for posterity.  

I've got pen on my arm.  I've been on this train for three and a half hours.  I'm not entirely convinced I'll actually be able to walk if I get out of my seat.  Middle-aged Son stands and stretches as we hover at Grantham, engine running, waiting for a train to pass on the main line.  Finally an HST burns by and we chug out of the platform.  

We'd been warned that the refreshment trolley is leaving at Peterborough and Small Bald has had a bit of a panic.  He walks down the carriage, first asking the guard, then nipping into the next car.  He finally reappears.  "He's coming down in a minute."  The ladies pull out purses for a final tea.  I've come out without any cash and I'm not going to pay for a cuppa with a card so I'll stick to the bottle of water in my bag.  (The Coke Zero was finished off somewhere around Alfreton).  

The trolley boy is a bit sweet, chucking out his pre-prepared lines as the older lady orders a latte with sugar - "white or brown, my love?"  That's another thing I can't do, the friendly little affectations, the chummy finishes.  I can. on a good day, manage a "mate", but it's usually attached to something a bit aggressive.  It's not parrotted the way some people manage - mate mate mate mate.  The guard returns through the carriage, hunched over, looking a bit like a cartoon character.

Big Bald is getting a footplate experience at the start of July, a birthday present.

"I thought it was a driving experience?"

"That was about two hundred pounds more."

I'm thinking about having a pee.  I'd have to interrupt Crochet Lady's crocheting but it's probably about time.  Maybe.  There's a queue so I can last.  I actually want a little sleep, but I can't doze on trains, I can't.  I'm convinced someone will steal my things.  The only time I dozed was after waking up too early on the Caledonian Sleeper and nodding off on the train back to Glasgow.  Fortunately that train was so packed no-one would've been able to run off with my bag.

Old Lady is reading Val McDermid while the Trainspotters lecture Small Bald about his tea making techniques - "the fat in the milk blocks the holes in the tea bag."  The Old Lady's two-sugared latte smells tooth destroyingly sweet.  I have a bottle of fizzy water.

Peterborough is signalled by a pretty waterworks building, and then the backs of retail parks.  The dome and tower of a mosque.  Some extremely noisy people board, but they're in the wrong carriage.  There doesn't seem to be any sign of the woman who should be sitting in the old lady's seat, lucky for her; she's all settled in.  There's no sign of whoever should be sitting the Trainspotters' luggage seat either.  

Middle-aged Son's fruit machine app pays out again.  Crochet Lady dumps her stuff on the seat and goes to the loo; clearly it's a sign that I need to go while she's out of her seat.  Finally burst through to the toilet.  Just a square with a scratched toilet seat on a metal cone.  I pee and hurry back to my seat, pleased my legs still work after all that time in one spot.  

Flat fenlands out the window, infinite and featureless, trees as landscapes.  Very much had enough now.

"Good book?" asks Crochet.

"Yes.  Very gruesome."

I'm keeping my eye out for Ely cathedral.  I've never seen it, but of course I know of its reputation for being huge.  I'm probably on the wrong side of the train.

A howl of the horn.  I wonder how many train drivers we've had.  Travelling this far is unacceptable for drivers but fine for passengers.  The guard comes over the speakers to tell us "we're approaching... Ely... for services to... Cambridge."  He's astonishingly laid back.

Ely cathedral is hugely impressive and hugely out of place.  It floats over the rooftops, completely out of proportion to the town below.  

"There are loads of people getting on at Ely," DILF warns.  "Best move your things."  They stow them behind the seat backs and a teenager slips in their place.  He moves off though, and a terribly posh girl whips out her laptop and takes his place.  Surprisingly we then reverse, and I'm going backwards again.  Old Lady's phone burrs and tinkles but she doesn't notice; when she does she holds it with the delicacy of a woman afraid it may explode.

Posh girl is now chatting animatedly to Small Bald about Steeleye bloody Span and Quadrangle.  There is no escape for me.  They went to see them at the Royal Exchange.  DILF is disinterested, confirming his status as the Best One.

In the sky, a fighter jet, flying so flat, so fast, not doing that thing where planes seem to go slow in the distance.  This is fast.  It banks and curves away.  

Now Posh Girl is chatting to the guard about the flooding.  Everyone can just make chat.

Lakenheath!  Octopussy!  Ridiculously thrilled.  Explains the fighter jet anyway.  Posh Girl and Small Bald are really deep in conversation now.  Meanwhile Crochet and Old Lady discuss knitting.  "Do you knit for your grandchildren?"

"No.  They're allergic to wool, for a start."

Thetford station, advertising the Dad's Army museum.  Penultimate but still three quarters of an hour to go.  There's nothing.  Nothing in between.  It's different to the north where there's landscape and scenery and life.  Houses in the middle of nowhere.  Here it's just emptiness.  Fields and trees.  Little life.

Middle-aged Son has pulled on a bomber jacket; he's ready to leave.  His mum has woken up too, and stares out the window.

I've had enough.  Also Small Bald's voice is starting to go through me.  I feel awkward for the girl.  When the men were talking it was fine but now it's weird.  They explain their story to Meryl (that's her name) - that they went to grammar school together and now they meet up once a year to do something train related.  They're embarrassed, and Meryl picks up on it, but Small Bald doesn't, and tries to get them to whip out their old pictures.  They refuse, so he describes the picture instead; black and white, four of them, at Carlisle station trainspotting.  They're meeting three friends so I wonder who was left out.

The ladies have packed up their reading and their hobbycraft; we're all ready for the end.  Finally I give in and put on a podcast again, RHLSTP, because I can't take any more.  I adjust my seat and realise the ladies are dozing.  All this way and right at the death they decide to sleep.  Anxieties again; do I wake them at Norwich?  Although I have to because I'm trapped.  I keep catching Middle-aged Son's eye, or is he catching mine?  He doesn't seem happy either.  Have I missed something?  Have I done something?  Unless he snuck a look at my notebook while I was in the loo.  Could be possible.  Now I feel a bit guilty.  Sod it; I'm never meeting these people again.  

The endless skies are darkening now as we approach Norwich - hopefully not a sign.  My phone power is low.  I glanced over at the Old Lady and she opened her eyes at that exact moment, which was awkward.  Farms, a load of chicken coops.  Small Bald goes to the toilet and the conversation dies.  Big Bald is forced to lean in and take over the chat.  Horses gathered under a bridge.  Big Bald appears to be explaining the etymology of the word "tramp"; I missed how this came up and now I'm desperately trying to work it out.  A gravel plant as we come into Norwich, crossing the river and passing the depot.  Time to wake up and go.

Better To Travel Hopefully...

Ending the blog on Manchester Piccadilly wasn't planned.  I mean, it was sort of planned - I don't just chuck these things out you know - but it mainly came about because I realised I'd forgotten about it.  I collected Oxford Road back when this blog was Round The Merseyrail We Go and the name "Merseytart" actually made sense.  I visited Victoria then too, although as I didn't actually take a sign pic, it took a few years for me to collect it properly; pleasingly, I collected it with Ian and Robert, two friends I actually made because of this blog.  And I collected Deansgate on a very special day trip to Coronation Street - the old, Quay Street set that's now been knocked down.  I saw Audrey Roberts and everything.

Manchester's other three stations covered different aspects of the blog, over the years, so it seemed appropriate to finish up at Piccadilly.  It helps that Piccadilly is a fine station.  A fantastic Victorian trainshed over busy platforms, always moving, always thronged.  It could be argued that Piccadilly is the centre of the North's rail network, perhaps only rivaled by Leeds.  Suburban and national trains pour in and out, minute after minute.  Lime Street's great of course, but as a terminus, people tend to stream straight out into the city.  People change trains at Piccadilly, so there's always life.

The station got a hefty makeover in time for the 2002 Commonwealth Games, with a new, glistening concourse and more shops.  Shops everywhere.  If you need a sandwich, or a birthday card, or even a new outfit, Piccadilly's got you covered.  And yet it doesn't feel cluttered.  A mezzanine's been strung along the back, with a curving shopping street, but there's still plenty of space for you to mill about and watch the departure screens.  They'd prefer it if you bought a crab and rocket baguette, of course, but if you just want to hang out, that's ok too.  (You might not get a seat).

I was feeling low, this being the last ever blog trip, so I headed out of the station for a bit of air.  Curving away from the entrance is Gateway House, a great 1960s office block that sidles down from the station entrance in a lazy S-shape.  For years it's been neglected, but a change of ownership has meant it's now being converted into an aparthotel.  The new windows are modern but still in keeping; the architects haven't destroyed what made Gateway House special.

Actually that's not entirely true.  For years, the parade at the base of Gateway House played host to an Ian Allen shop.  Ian Allen prints pretty much every railway book worth reading, and a lot of ones that aren't.  Their shop was a lovely place to browse, with an upstairs filled with model railway supplies.  I'd hoped to have a browse, maybe treat myself to a gazetteer, but it's gone.  Closed forever.  There's a Waitrose and a Subway, but that lovely railway bookstore has vanished.

Even more dejected, I wandered round the back of the station, past the former car park which might, one day, host the HS2 platforms.  That'll not be until at least 2032, when I'll be in my fifties.  I wonder if I'll still care?  I've realised lately how many big, elaborate projects, big national schemes, aren't going to come to fruition until I'm a pensioner.  My excitement for them now is tempered by the knowledge I'll be too old to enjoy them.  (Presuming President Trump hasn't annihilated us all by then).

I also took the time to wave at Manchester's other station, the abandoned hulk of Mayfield across the way.  Opened as a relief station for Piccadilly, it stopped taking passengers in 1960, and closed altogether in the 80s.  Now it rots, looking for purpose, always on the verge of being demolished.  Of course, I love it.

Back round the side of Piccadilly, under the viaduct for through trains.  Platforms 13 and 14 have always been hopelessly overstuffed, and they're about to get even busier once the Ordsall Chord is built and more trains can go through Piccadilly without having to reverse in the main trainshed.  Network Rail has plans to build a second viaduct, with two more platforms; you would think they'd build this first, ready for all the new trains when they come, but things never work out that way.  Instead, 13 and 14 will get much busier for a few years until 15 and 16 arrive.

I ducked into the Metrolink platforms, for a look.  I still adore the trams, and putting them in Piccadilly's undercroft makes them even better.  I just like the word "undercroft".  There's too much space for them, if anything, with a big empty concourse that never fills, but it's clean and modern and charming.  They're another part of Manchester's glistening network that's about to get bigger, with works approved for an extension to the Trafford Centre (about 20 years after it should have been built, but anyway).

And that was it.  I'd pretty much "done" Manchester Piccadilly, which is good in a way, because I can never remember how to spell it (two c's?  two d's?).  I wandered round to the front and took the final sign selfie.

End of the line.  In the run up to this day, I'd always fancied getting a meal in one of Piccadilly's restaurants to celebrate.  A kind of final hurrah.  However, even though it's overloaded with catering outfits, none of them took my fancy.  Yo Sushi terrifies me, all those domed concoctions rolling by on a conveyor belt; what if you got the wrong one?  What if you picked all the expensive ones and ended up with a huge bill?  I've only been to a Carluccio's once, and it was rubbish.  And eating in a TGI Fridays at 11:30 on a Tuesday morning, alone, would drive even the most happy and well-adjusted ray of sunshine to loop a length of cable round their throat and end it all.  I ended up, appropriately enough, in The Mayfield, Piccadilly's pub, where I ordered a Newky Brown and took a seat on the mezzanine.

I didn't feel like celebrating.  I started this blog in June 2007, a few months after I turned 30.  I didn't know it at the time, but I was in the middle of a bit of a crisis.  All the things I'd thought would happen before I was 30, all my dreams, hadn't happened.  I was in a job I didn't like.  I was going through a very rough patch with the BF that nearly finished us for good.  I didn't know who I was.

Station collecting came along and helped me.  They were a refuge.  Crossing each one off the map became a real triumph.  As it grew, as I went more and more places, it became more important in my life.  I took days off to go to places at the edge of the Merseyrail map.

Then my mind collapsed.  Depression swamped me.  I spent days in bed, not wanting to move.  And yet, this blog was still there for me.  It was a reason to get going.  It was a reason to leave the house.  As I shifted to the much larger Northern map, the pleasure of it increased.  Planning, mapping, plotting.  Excel spreadsheets full of train times.  Ordnance Survey maps covered with routes.  It became my hobby and also, in a way, my saviour.  Railway stations made me smile in a way the rest of the world didn't.

It brought other benefits, too.  I've met some fantastic people thanks to this blog, made actual, real friends.  I got invited to places, nominated for awards.  I appeared in The Guardian.  I actually know what Diamond Geezer looks like.  I got some free flip flops off Merseyrail.

It's also given me some incredible memories.  I've been all over the north of England to places I never thought I'd visit - never had a reason to go to - and it's never failed to wow me.  This is a wonderful, beautiful country we live in.  It's filled with astonishing beauty and fascinating places and great people.  Cities and towns and railway stations that we should all go to, even if it's just once, just to see.

All the memories.  Getting caught up in an apocalyptic rainstorm on the way to Squires Gate.  Hiking over the clifftops below Chathill.  Falling in a ditch somewhere around Goxhill.  A night illuminated by starlight at Kirkby Stephen.  Hot, sticky walks to Langley Mill and Chinley and Heysham Port.   Pints of beer in Selby and Ribblehead and Snaith.  Leeds and Newcastle and Bradford and Carlisle and Manchester and Liverpool and Skipton and Entwistle and Ravenglass and Mytholmroyd and Glasshoughton and Hexham and Urmston and Sandbach and Whiston and every single other spot.  Every single station has a moment associated with it.  The Northern Rail map isn't a map of places any more, it's a map of my brain.

I don't know what I'll do now.  I thought about going somewhere else.  A different railway map, a different network.  It just wouldn't be as much fun.  I'd be doing it out of duty rather than enthusiasm.  I might pop back here now and then, a little odd moment, a little hello, this is what I've been doing.  There are a couple of railway-related things I always meant to do and never did; I might do them.  I had an idea of a book, but I'm finding it hard to get it down on paper; the pressure to make it good (instead of this old guff) gets to me.  Maybe.  I just don't know.  I'm nearly 40, and this seems like a good way to bookend my thirties.  Close it off.

I finished my beer and headed down to platform 14.  I waited.  Then I took a familiar purple train home.

A Sheaf Of Happiness

Sheffield is just below Newcastle in its ability to make me swoon with adoration.  It's a wonderful place.  Step out of the station and you have that fantastic square, with stainless steel and fountains.  It's a city that's big enough to give you everything you want, to let you lose yourself, but small enough to feel fun and bohemian and friendly.

Just walking past the Crucible gave me a little thrill; my dad was snooker obsessed in the 1980s - there were bound copies of Snooker Scene on the shelf next to the telly - and so the Crucible is woven in and out of my childhood.  It's probably why snooker is one of the few sports that I find acceptable, even entertaining.  (Please note: while snooker is great, pool is an awful Yank abomination).  I remember being surprised to learn, somewhere in my teens, that the Crucible was a theatre.  I'd always assumed it was the Wimbledon of the game - it still feels odd to me that one week they're hosting an international sporting tournament and the next it's An Inspector Calls.

Across the way is another of Sheffield's tiny pieces of genius, the Winter Gardens.  It's just an arcade with a few plants in it, really, but it's such a wonderful idea.  It's a sheltered place for people to just... sit.  That's all.  There are cafes round the edge, yes, and a hotel and an art gallery immediately adjacent, but there's no obligation to spend.  If all you want to do is enjoy the trees and plants, you can, and no-one will stop you.  Such a refreshingly egalitarian concept.  There should be Winter Gardens in every city.  Instead of making us consume, make us enjoy.

Of course, this is all part of Sheffield's unabashed leftiness and dedication to the working classes.  The square outside its Town Hall - a Baronial confection that looks like it's sitting on top of the Batcave - isn't named for some Victorian entrepreneur, but is instead called the "Peace Gardens", while the fountains are dedicated to a Chartist rebel.  Sheffield does have a vested interest in promoting international brotherhood, given that it was ground zero for a nuclear attack in Threads.  I watched just the trailer on the train over and it's one of the most harrowing pieces of film in history; the actual programme makes you want to (a) find a nice comfortable corner somewhere to cry out all your bodily fluids and (b) donate all your money to CND.  It's absolutely horrific, and you should see it, although I wouldn't watch it if you're on any kind of anti-depressive.  Or you live in Sheffield.

One thing that baffles me about Sheffield is: how are there any overweight people in the town?  Up and down you walk, entire streets built at sixty degrees from the vertical, hills appearing from nowhere and rising straight up.  You think a building is perfectly normal, then walk round the back of it and find a sudden drop down to the car park.  I walked from the station to the City Hall at what felt like a constant uphill rise and I was drained when I got there.  The last time I was in the city for a wander about was with Diamond Geezer, and we'd been out wandering in the Peak District: that was a pretty dance among the flowers compared with the slog I'd just experienced.

That's Jessica Ennis' gold post box!  Seriously, it's becoming a new obsession.

I was crossing the city in search of one of Sheffield's other selling points: its trams.  Opened in the mid-90s, the network suffers from one of the worst websites in the world (seriously guys, it's 2015) and labours under the name "Supertram", but it's otherwise a real asset.

I headed out to the University of Sheffield stop.  I'd like to pretend this was because I wanted to experience the city just a little bit longer, but in fact it was because I completely missed the City Hall and West Street stops.  The northbound ones had shelters and grand signs, but the southbound ones just had a bit of metal stuck in the ground; I managed to walk right past them both.

It turned out to be for the best, because the University of Sheffield stop is right next to a tunnel exit, and you know how excited I get about tunnels.  Yes, I do know it's very Freudian, I have A-level Psychology.

On board, the trams are sort of... odd.  I'd been on the Metrolink only a few days before, and Manchester's network is the gold standard for British trams.  They're clean, efficient, fast, and constantly expanding.  Supertram is a weird bus on rails.  There are steps inside, for a start, which I'd seen before on the also disappointing Birmingham tram network.  The Stagecoach livery has permeated every square inch of the design, so it doesn't feel that different to a double decker.

You don't buy tickets from a machine before boarding, as on Metrolink.  Instead there's a conductor selling tickets from his little machine like it's 1935.  And all the stops are request stops.  The tram will only pause if you ring the bell, like a bus, though in practice the tram actually stopped at every single halt on the way.  So that was a bit of a waste of time for everyone.

Still, it was a thrill to be on board a tram, to hear that gentle electric purr as we whizzed through the streets.  After Fitzalan Square-Ponds Forge stop we crossed the road on a bridge - past one of the least enticing tourist signs I've ever seen, directing visitors to the Cholera Monument - and giving us a view of the Brutalist joy that is Park Hill flats.  The route was less attractive then, curving behind industrial estates and through deep embankments.  For a while we shadowed a canal, then there was the giant bulks of a retail park and a stop called "Valley Centertainment" which made me furious.

I got off the tram at Meadowhall South/Tinsley, and struggled to fit all of that in a sign pic.  A tram route in the UK is something we should treasure, but I feel like Sheffield isn't making the most of it.  There are tentative plans to build a new route to Dore, if HS2 ever gets this far, and a tram-train pilot to Rotherham that may happen one day, but beyond that nothing much.  The tram needs to work a bit harder if it's going to be as fabulous as the city it serves.

Day Four: Another Town, Another Train

It's appropriate that I'm writing about Settle, today of all days.  It's the 25th anniversary of the line being saved from closure.  It would probably have been more appropriate for me to be actually riding the anniversary train, and writing about that, but I'm not diamond geezer; I don't keep abreast of all these birthdays and special events and book myself tickets months in advance.  I just flounder about like a wasp trapped in a warm room, occasionally hitting the right target but more often than not banging my head against the glass.  Still, this blog post might get caught up in the swathe of Google searches on the line, so it's all good.

I can't decide if Settle is the head or the foot of the line.  It gets its name first, yes, but Carlisle's rather more important than this little town in the Dales.  It does have a nice, well-preserved station as befits its status.  I disembarked with a lot of pensioners with cameras and sandwich bags.

Obviously the station is far more touristy than some of the others.  There's more in the way of historic geegaws lying around, and there's a little shop that sells souvenirs and railway memorabilia.  I wandered in, determined to spend some money, and fingered the merchandise while I eavesdropped on the conversation behind me.  A new volunteer was chatting to the man behind the counter, and he was very keen to impress; every other sentence was an obscure fact about the line.  The shop man was nodding and smiling in a way that said "yeah, I've heard it all before."

I came out with a paperback line guide and a little enamel badge that said Station Master.  I'm not sure that I will ever wear it - it'll probably end up in a drawer alongside my 007 pin and the badge I got off eBay that says I Get Around By Merseyrail Underground - but the money was burning a hole in my pocket, and I wanted to support the volunteers, even if it was in a tiny way.  Plus, Robert has a blog called The Station Master but he doesn't have a badge so in a very real sense, I've won.

Outside there was a car park and a restored water tower, plus plenty of random railway heritage.  Old signs and pumps and bits of engine.  I was much taken by the two signs warning against trespass, which handily summed up a hundred years of linguistic change:

Down by the railway bridge I found what I'd really come here for: the station sign.

A different sign, more for the tourists, pleased and annoyed me in equal measures.

I gained a great deal of satisfaction from looking at that sign and thinking, "done it."  I'd ticked off all those stations.  Where it irritated me was its insistence on calling Kirkby Stephen station "Kirkby Stephen West".  That is the original name of the station, true; there used to be a second line going from Bishop Auckland to Tebay.  It closed to passengers in 1962 and completely in 1974 (though the Kirkby Stephen East station is now a heritage centre).  With only one station left in the town, British Rail changed its name to Kirkby Stephen - no geographic signifier required.

The persistence in calling it Kirkby Stephen West on the tourist sign summed up, for me, why I hadn't entirely taken to the line.  I loved travelling along it, I loved its scenic beauty and its stunning route, but it was a bit too chocolate box-y for me.  I've written before - at long and tedious length - about my dislike for heritage railways.  About how I like railways that are about the future, not the past.

The Settle & Carlisle has nice, modern purple Northern trains running along its length, but you're dropped off at stations that are red and cream and Victorian.  They are working stations but they're stuck in a limbo between the past and the present.

There's an element of childish sulkiness to all this, I admit.  Every train I rode was full of people taking in the line and enjoying the heritage.  There's a part of me that thought, that's my gig.  I ride lines all the time, not just fabulously scenic ones, but crappy single track lines through chemical works and rattling Pacers to dull suburbia.  I couldn't mark the Settle & Carlisle as my own, because so many other people were doing the same thing as me.

I headed into town.  Settle made an immediate play for my heart strings with a hairdresser called Moneypenny's - or, to be accurate, Moneypennys, which raised the delicious prospect of it being staffed by Lois Maxwell, Caroline Bliss, Samantha Bond and Naomie Harris (with Pamela Salem doing the teas and Barbara Bouchet brushing up the offcuts).  It didn't need to be quite so obvious - it was a delightful little town.

It was currently straddling the border between a thriving country town and a middle class tourist centre.  There was still a butcher and a baker, plus banks and newsagents - good local businesses with plenty of heritage behind them.  There was a Co-op and a working men's social club, and a couple of pubs.  There was also Ye Olde Naked Man Cafe, which was advertising "Hot Buns" on a blackboard outside.  The mind boggles.

However, against these proper old-fashioned businesses, there were exclusive cookshops, gift shops, even a shop that sold hand crafted toys, the type that Tina Fey memorably described as "the kind of beautiful wooden educational toy that kids love (if there are absolutely no other toys around and they have never seen television)".  The scarves on sale in the clothes shops were more Hermes than knitted winter warmers.  I went in a handcrafty homewear type shop in search of a lunch box - I'd been enduring squished butties all week.  I ended up buying a yellow and blue plastic box that had Yay lunch! written on it; a bit twee for my tastes, but I couldn't face another mashed up mess of crumbs and mayonnaise.  The woman behind the counter treated me with utter contempt, presumably because I looked a bit poor and I wasn't buying one of her extremely expensive pointless kitchen gadgets.  I shan't name the shop, I'll just say that the only way I would cross her threshold again would be if I was driving a monster truck through the front window.

Having shopped till I dropped in the town centre I headed out back to walk to my next station.  I passed a couple of historic plaques, one of which commemorated the Rev Benjamin Waugh, one of the founders of the NSPCC.  The other was a tribute to Sir Edward Elgar, who apparently "often stayed here as a guest of his friend Dr Charles Buck."  Poor Dr Buck; all that time contributing to Settle society and they stick a plaque on your house to commemorate a bloke who just came up to use your spare bedroom now and then.

The narrow road rose steeply past The Folly, a seventeenth century house which is now open as the Museum of North Craven Life.  Well, it's not actually open right now - it reopens after the winter break on the 15th April - but that's what it's used for now.  Victoria Street turned into Albert Hill, parades of neat cottages with pretty flower baskets.  There was a house for sale and I thought, yes, I could probably live here.  It was charming and pretty and there was an enormous Booths supermarket (for readers from the south, Booths is like Waitrose, only not quite so lower class).  I would ruin the town even more, of course, driving out some local farm folk from a house in their historic home town and sending house prices even higher then complaining when tractors of manure went down the high street; I'd end up being welcomed by the staff at the snobby kitchen shop, and the cycle would continue.    

The railway line to Long Preston shadows the A65 through the Ribble Valley; I decided to take a more interesting route, up and over the hills via the Pennine Bridleway.  The morning was mellowing, with a bit of wind and a bit of sun hinting that the best of spring was still to come.  It was, as usual, tough going.  I'm not built to walk at an angle.  I kept having to pause for breath, hoping that this wasn't how the whole route was going to turn out.

At least it was a hard, metalled road underfoot, not squidgy mud.  I passed a couple of small farmhouses, and a waterworks, and a little pile of litter.  Right on top was a Lipton's Iced Tea bottle, confirming my theory that anyone who likes drinking cold tea is a massive wanker.  Smaller paths split off the main one, routes for walkers, but I stayed on the main bridleway.

As I walked I was mainlining Softmints; it was sort of like Edward Hilary taking Kendal Mint Cake up Everest, but on a much smaller scale.  Can I just say that one of the most disappointing experiences in all confectionery is biting into a Softmint and having it crack?  Trebor seem to slip one hard, unchewy one in every packet, just to keep you on your toes and ensure that you don't completely enjoy eating their sweets.  I paused for a swig of water too, looking out over the forested hills and breathing in the clear air.  I was totally alone.

Until, suddenly, a pensioner appeared on the path ahead of me with two dogs.  I was stunned; where had she come from?  There were no settlements between here and Long Preston, just four miles of rough path.  Had this old lady really walked all that way with no protection other than a blue headscarf?  Her dogs sniffed around my legs, a couple of little spaniels in tartan coats.  Why are coats for dogs always tartan, I wondered?  Perhaps that's why the Scots are so keen to get independence; the English took their historic family wools and wrapped them round chihuahuas.  It's pretty insulting when you think about it.

The old woman passed me with a little smile and an apology for her friendly dogs, then ploughed on towards Settle.  Supergran.

The terrain was sparse, but not as wild as I'd seen elsewhere on the line.  I was getting into the more populated parts of Yorkshire, where settlements had tamed the landscape and brought it to heel.  Pine trees stood in regimented lines, looking artificial.  Gorse mingled with yellow grass.

Above me the clouds couldn't decide what weather to throw at me.  Grey and white battled with one another, frothing with indecision, occasionally breaking to let shards of God light to power through.  They illuminated hot patches of the fields then were closed off again.

I sang to myself, now that the landscape had flattened out a bit and I could get my breath again.  I'd like to tell you that it was a traditional English folk song, or perhaps an inspiring walker's tune to keep my pace, but actually it was Cool Rider from the criminally unappreciated Grease 2.  It had been bashing around in my head for days.  I can't say why, other than the obvious reason: it's ace.

Past a mountain of blue chippings - I'm not sure where they'd been dug up from; they looked like they should have been at the bottom of a fish tank - I encountered the loneliest bench in England.

I couldn't quite work out why it was there.  It didn't have a dedication plaque, so I assumed it wasn't in memory of some valiant old hiker.  It was just stuck on the side of a hill.  I took a seat, and yes, the view was rather special, but it still seemed odd.

The road sloped down again as I approached the river valley.  A few spots of rain began to lethargically beat against my coat, but they soon gave up, as though they'd just given me a bit of a warning.

Long Preston was as classic an English village as you could find; I stepped out onto a triangular village green with a may pole and a pub.  A turn around the corner and the stone houses, window boxes brimming with spring posies, were joined by a village post office and a tea room (sadly closed at that time).

I was hopelessly early for the next train and, not fancying the idea of huddling on a station bench, I did the next logical thing.

The Boar's Head was just waking up - it was a little after 12.  The landlord was bringing in some crates from his car, purchases of crisps and mixers from the cash and carry.  The barmaid leaned against the optics, staring ahead, already bored and she'd only just started.

It was soon time for me to head off for Station Road and, blessed be, a British Rail sign.

I was off the Settle & Carlisle Line now and the contrast was stark.

Ok, I know I was complaining earlier about the chocolate box stations of the S&C, but that's one hell of a come down: pot hole ridden tarmac, a cycle shelter and a couple of benches on the platform.  The tourists wouldn't bother coming this way - which was a shame, because as I hope you spotted in the pictures above, the landscape around Long Preston was just as pretty in its own way.

The end of the Settle and Carlisle line didn't mean the end of my trip, though.  I still had the Bentham Line to collect.  Plenty more stations to go round...