You've Got A Friend In Me

I'm a very good friend.  A wonderful, caring, lovely friend.  If you ask for my opinion, I'll gladly give it.  If you want someone to go to the pub with, I'm there.  If your boyfriend dumps you, I'll take your side and say all those rude things about him I'd kept quiet about.  And I'll never say nasty things to you, only ever behind your back, where you won't hear them.  I'm great.

This is my friend Jennie.  We've known each other for years, and she's now a lecturer, who occasionally has to travel all over the country to hold tutorials.  When she told me that she was dreading the long trip cross country to York for a session, I volunteered to accompany her.  This is because I'm basically a fantastic person.

NO I DIDN'T GO JUST SO I COULD COLLECT SOME STATIONS HOW DARE YOU.

After tea and toast in the lovely Me and Mrs Fisher cafe, where I derived great pleasure in listening to the ladies at the next table talk about internet dating ("He said he was in an open relationship, but I doubt he's told his wife.  It was only a fling anyway"), Jennie went off to the University and headed for a bus stop.  I was slightly hampered by York City Council's decision to not grit or clear the pavements; the trudging of Saturday afternoon shoppers had turned the snow into thick grey slush.  It was only a ten minute walk but when I reached the bus stand I had soaking ankles and damp socks inside my boots.  They wouldn't dry out all day.

I was headed for Poppleton, a village just outside the city which sounded like it had escaped from Winnie the Pooh.  I was able to watch the slow evolution of York as we drove away from the centre.  It's like a series of tree rings, each one marked by a particular era in its architecture and layout - the medieval core, surrounded by Georgian grandeur, followed by Victorian villas and 1930s suburbs.  Finally there were 21st century boxes, and we were crossing the ring road.

The bus dropped us in Nether Poppleton at 1:19, four minutes after my train had left.  It meant I had an hour to kill.  What to do?

It wasn't my fault.  The bus dropped us off right outside the Lord Nelson; it would have been rude not to.  I had a quick pint in the silent atmosphere of the village local.  There was no music, no tv blaring, just a couple of pensioners eating fish and chips in the "restaurant" part, not talking, just staring slightly past each other.  The only other patron was a young lad with blonde hair nursing a coke; he kept jumping up and peering through the window, nervously waiting for someone.  The air was thick with the fug of a deep fat fryer.  The dart board had a hand-written sign saying that flights were available for 40p at the bar; I could see them in a biscuit tin marked FLIGHTS in permanent marker.  It was a snug little place, a bit threadbare, not at all glamorous, but pleasant and warm.

After a quick pee in the tiny toilet I ventured outside.  The paths here weren't even sludge, just trodden down snow, and I took care not to slip, while being aware that I had to get to the other end of the village for the train station.  Main Street curled round a corner, brushing up against the Ouse, a bench ready for summer.

I was following a family of three, towing a sledge.  Mum pushed on at the front, briskly calling back instructions over her shoulder - "watch the path here!  Don't run!".  Dad was pulling the sledge, a little skip in his step, and the kid was resolutely unamused.  He was a porky little fellow, and I guessed that this was his parents' idea, to get him away from his Nintendo XBoxStation.  Now he was making everyone regret it, moaning about the cold and the wet.  The pink sledge probably didn't help.

Poppleton was really quite lovely.  A delicate stream, almost frozen, ran between trees and past houses; soft white gardens lead up to well-maintained porches.  The snow absorbed the sound, so all I could hear was the trudge of my boots.  There was a library, and a community centre; a sports field and a surgery.

I was already having good thoughts about the village, and that was before I hit Upper Poppleton, the second half of the settlement.  Then it developed into full blown love.  A wide open village green was bisected by the main road, looked over by a war memorial and church.  A pub, a post office, a red telephone box, and in the centre of the green, an actual Maypole.  It's the first time I've ever seen one for real (the one put up in the school hall at Juniors' doesn't count) and I was surprised by how tall it was, a stripy rocket bursting into the grey skies.

I passed the kids leaving the general store with a twist of sweets clutched in their hand and pushed on out of the village.  I only slipped once, but managed to stop myself from doing a complete somersault.

Poppleton station was a wonderful surprise in many way.  The station building was no longer in railway use, but they'd done something clever with it: glassing over part of the platform so that it created a sort of conservatory waiting area.

I've never seen this done before.  It's a brilliant idea.  It provides a secure, architecturally pleasing space for waiting, as well as some cycle racks.  It means a station structure isn't left to rot.  It'd be better if there was a ticket office in there (or even a ticket machine) but still - well done Northern Rail.

As the sign above indicated, there's a level crossing at Poppleton.  It's not got flashing orange lights or a siren or even automatic barriers.  Here, they do it old school.

A signal cabin.  Gates that have to be wheeled across the track, gates that I've never seen for real in my life, only in my Hornby railway set when I was a child.  When the time came, the grey haired signal man pushed them into place by hand to block the road.  There was something so quietly civilised about it.

Before I got my train, however, I had time to take a look at Poppleton's other claim to fame.  There was a time when railway companies had plots of land devoted to horticulture - growing flowers for stations, plants to shore up embankments.  British Rail slowly reduced the reliance on these, and privatisation killed them off completely; it's easier and cheaper to simply buy flowers in bulk.

At Poppleton, they've reversed this trend.  The local community have reclaimed the abandoned railway gardens and are slowly resurrecting them.  Their excellent website shows how these neglected patches of land, the greenhouses and sheds are now being turned into facilities for the whole village.  The coal yard alongside the station even retains an old wagon.

It's a wonderful idea, well executed, and my only regret was that I was seeing it at the very worst time.  I imagine it's a joy to see in summer.  I left Poppleton full of optimism, a smile on my face, a strange feeling coming over me: happiness.

Stalking Norris Cole

When I'm not romping round the North collecting train stations, or lazing around in bed, I write for the Coronation Street Blog.  I'm not the most prolific of contributors - I'm not the most prolific contributor to my own blog - but now and then I'll write a sarcastic hatchet piece that cruelly mocks a character.  Fun stuff.

Our efforts caught the attention of ITV, and all the blog writers received an invitation to visit the cobbles for real.  A very rare, and tremendously exciting event; since they closed the Granada Studios Tour at the turn of the Millennium it's been closed off to the public.

In a unique two for one, I decided to combine my two blogs together, and include a Tart with the visit.  I was headed for Deansgate, Manchester's red-headed stepchild of a station.

Piccadilly's got the size and importance.  Oxford Road's got the cool wooden building and trendy clientele.  Victoria has the history and the architecture.  Deansgate's just... there.  It gets far fewer services, and is often quiet and empty.

It's not too attractive at platform level, either.  Too much red brick, too much modern "improvements" that have dated badly.  The metal struts holding up the canopies look tired, the shelters are windy.  Step away from the platform and you encounter the 1980s bridge across the road to the Metrolink station; a bridge that hasn't been maintained at all.  I bet there are all sorts of buck-passing behind the scenes, the tram people asking the train people to clean it, the train people saying it was the tram people's responsibility.  While they debate, the tube gets darker, and mouldier, until it looks like an underwater passageway.  You expect to encounter a barnacle or two.

As you head downstairs though, something strange happens.  Deasgate unfurls before you, spiraling open, the tendrils of history gradually rising up around you.  Dull modern steps take you down into a tiled brown ticket hall, lights bouncing off ceramic, shining out at you.

The station's layout's odd and disconcerting.  The ticket hall's at ground level, but at the same time, up some stairs; there's a subway underground which doesn't go anywhere except to the street.  Even here you can see how the station's forgotten about, with signs directing you to Manchester Central's old name, G-Mex.  Indeed, some of the train indicator boards still call it Deansgate G-Mex, pointing out how old-fashioned and abandoned it is.

It's romantic though.  It has a wonderful sense of history and Victorian might.  In that lower-level corridor, even the cones can't hide its atmosphere and bulk.  Those metal studded girders, the portcullis entrance gates, those tiles.  It was a delight.

The building's curved to fit the corner, a little feature I always love, and the Victorians once again humiliate the present day.  That tedious white Deansgate sign is nothing compared with the fancy scrollwork of the Knott Mill Station stonework above (Knott Mill was its original name).  Underneath are ironwork gates, which have been violated by Northern Rail purple, but which are still beautiful.

It could do with a bit of TLC, Deansgate.  A bit of a scrub up and a tidy.  So long as it retains that charming sense of nineteenth century style.  I'd hate for it to lose that.

Granada's just round the corner (yes, Granada; I hold no regard for this "ITV Manchester" nonsense).  Soon I found myself actually outside the Kabin, by the Rovers, stroking the astroturf in Sally Webster's front garden.  Sadly there was no sign of a tram - probably for the best - but I did loiter round the bus stop, looking for a Weatherfield Wayfarer.

 Much to my delight, the bus map has actually got Weatherfield on it.

It's a weird little place, the Coronation Street set.  Utterly familiar - you know every nook - but tiny and full of odd little details.  After all, who would even notice that on a map?  Who even cares?  We were allowed inside to the even tinier sets, where, yes, I stood behind the bar of the Rovers.  Because I had to.

It was a thrilling day, though, and for probably the first time, a railway station was overshadowed by the stuff afterwards.  Poor old Deansgate.

*cue mournful trumpet solo*

Elegant Symmetry

Even though I count myself as a Tube aficionado, I've never really ventured beyond about Zone 3.  The problem is, once you head out to the extremities, the Underground station becomes the most interesting thing about it.  I'm sure there are some thoroughly charming little streets around, say, Wood Green, but for a visitor all you see is a load of semis and little shops.

It means that there are absolute gems of the Underground network that I've never seen.  Cockfosters is one of them.  More than just a slightly smutty punchline to cheap gags, Cockfosters is one of Charles Holden's supremely gorgeous designs for the Piccadilly Line.  I've written about Holden before, and his masterpiece at Arnos Grove.  Cockfosters is the terminus to the line, opened in 1933.

I took a bus from High Barnet tube station, at the top of the Northern Line - a disappointing little terminus, just a load of platforms with a tiny box of a building below street level.  I'd planned on walking but there was a bus waiting, so why not?  That's the genius of the Oyster card - it frees you up, makes you feel able to gamble.  The bus traveled through back streets of the district, squeezing between parked cars and making seemingly impossible 90 degree turns, filling me with admiration for the driver.

We pulled up in Cockfosters' specially constructed bus layby.  Right away you got a sign of Holden's clever forward planning; there was a subway straight from there, under the street, into the station.

The classic font.  The wide glass windows.  I was already excited.

The station building is surprisingly low.  Holden favoured tall, prominent stations, acting as beacons to attract passengers.  His planned towers were never built, so what we have instead is a long, symmetrical brick building.  The roundels on the end still call out to passers by.

It's actually just a supremely elegant access point to two staircases.  The terminus is below the road bridge, so this pretty building is just the trailer for the main feature.

It's just astonishingly beautiful.  A wide open ticket hall with plenty of natural light; cleverly lit alcoves; dark wooden doors and paneling.  It's a masterpiece of simple, understated, good design.  Plenty of room for passengers to flow in and out.  And it's concrete - such a derided, despised building material.  This shows how inspiring it can be if used right, and maintained well.

In the opposite direction is the train shed.

Again, that wonderful symmetry; platforms laid out clearly and simply, easy to negotiate, easy to get to.  All that light and openness.  Not perfect though - that clock isn't working, and neither is the old "next train" indicator.  I know there are modern LEDs further down the platform but... it's not the same.  The building's Grade II listed and I wish this was included in that listing.  A working station clock is an essential.

I boarded the Southbound train, ignoring the mad lady who walked into every train, talking to herself.  One day I'll visit all of the gems of the Underground.  One day.

PS: while I was riding up the Northern Line, this young man appeared on Grindr.  If you feel like getting in touch, sir, I'd be happy to explain my fondness for the Underground to you in person.

York Fruit

It was birthday last week and not one of you bastards bought me a present.  I mention it every year, in the hope that one of my readers will send me a gift in return for all the free entertainment I provide you with throughout the year.  I know you don't know where I live, but this is the 21st century; you can e-mail me a voucher for Harvey Nicks, or something.  Or alternatively use the internet to cyber stalk me, find out my address, then turn up on my doorstep with something wrapped in tinfoil (NOTE: please don't do that).

One person who has to buy me gifts is, of course, The BF, and I have him very well trained.  An Amazon wish list (not that we actually buy the stuff from Amazon - not until they pay proper amounts of tax) that has been carefully graded in order of preference.  He purchases the presents then lays them out in front of me, much as the Magi once did to Our Lord, seeking my approval.

This year I added a new twist to the Birthday Season - we would go away for the weekend.  The one good thing about being born in January is no-one else wants to go anywhere at this time of year, apart from the Seychelles, so it's quite easy to get a cheap hotel room in this country.  I chose York as our destination, because I'd never been there and I had heard it was a place of beauty and history and well worth a visit.

Which is of course, bollocks.  York is home to the National Railway Museum, and this was the first and last reason I wanted to go there.  The city was pretty enough, in a Chester-sort of way; there were lots of old buildings, some quite awful 20th century ones, a lot of Americans looking confused at boot scrapers.  We went to the Minster, but it was NINE QUID to go inside, so we just turned round and marched back out again, muttering about money lenders in the temple.  Similarly, there was a queue outside the Jorvik Centre, so we didn't bother with that; besides, as a child of the 80s, I felt I knew everything about the Jorvik Centre thanks to the fact that it was seemingly always on Blue Peter.  Mark Curry was permanently in a medieval shift getting pillaged.

This was all background noise to the main attraction.  We turned up at the NRM just as it opened, and were there for four hours.  The only reason we left was because it all became exhausting after a while.  It's like the British Museum, where there's just so much to see you end up becoming overwhelmed and a little bit light-headed.  However, while the British Museum has nice handy halls full of dull stuff like Medieval pottery or Sumatran coinage that you can skip through on the way to the Phonecians, everything at the NRM is interesting.  Everything.  Even the benches are beautifully designed historic relics.

We'd barely got inside and had time to coo over the enormous engines before the tannoy started plugging a talk on the Bullet Train, so we dashed over.  The Bullet Train is the only one outside Japan, a gift from that nation to ours, and an "Explainer" went through its features, history and innovations.  She was very good, despite the BF's misogynistic mutterings ("What does a woman know about trains?  Is she just going to tell us about the seat cushions?").

Key facts I took away from the talk:

• Japan built an entire High Speed network, from scratch, in 1964, while we in the UK are wondering whether it might possibly be a good idea to get round to it sometime.
• Each carriage has a member of staff dedicated solely to the happiness and comfort of the passengers.
• If a train is more than a minute late the driver has to go to his bosses and personally account for his tardiness.  If he does it three times, he's sacked.
• If you climb on the tracks and are killed by a Bullet Train, your family are fined.
• Japan is a fantastic, weird country.  I must visit some time.

We'd barely finished with Explainer-san when there was a demonstration of the turntable at the centre of the Great Hall.  Two men rotated a mighty steam engine while we watched; it was like the world's heaviest merry go round.

After that we were free to wander around, trying to take it all in.  There was a history of British Rail, which strayed from being unbiased into a full-on obituary; the concluding panels, where everything was broken up and flogged off, were utterly depressing.  Also depressing was a bit of Stalin-esque revisioning when it came to thanking the contributors to the display:

"We've covered up Jimmy Savile's name!  NOW OUR CHILDREN ARE SAFE!"

Regular readers will know that I find steam trains a bit dull.  Noisy, old-fashioned, dirty; I'd much rather spend my days on a sleek electric train than a chugging Thomas the Tank Engine.  The exhibits at the NRM are more interesting, because they have a significance behind them - they're not just preserved for the sake of preservation, but instead have a story behind them.

While I was taking that photo, I overheard a woman nearby talking to her friend on her mobile.  "We'll be a bit late, love," she was saying.  "Nick's on the Mallard at the moment."

Nick, it turned out, was a middle-aged man.  He was typical of the museum-goers.  There were lots of kids, yes, but they were more usually accompanied by a Dad rather than a Mum, and there were plenty of men on their own just wandering around.  Occasionally stroking a boiler, which is frankly disturbing.  I wasn't even tempted to do that with the green Southern Railway train, and that was beautiful.  The accompanying information piece on electrification made no mention of Merseyrail when it talked about third-rail systems, though, and so I shall be writing a sternly worded letter immediately after I finish this blog.

There was even a hint of the future, in the form of a railway manufacturer's mock up of new interiors for the East Coast mainline trains.  Have you ever wanted to have glowing purple cup holders?  You're in luck!

The Warehouse was where they stored the museum's collection, and you were allowed to wander around.  Station signs, maps, models, badges, even railway company toilets, everywhere you looked; frankly the only thing that stopped me from moving in was the lack of a telly.

An architect's model of Euston Station's rebuild smelt of naive hope; badges of long gone railway companies were glistening with corporate pride.  There were uniforms, badges, hats, even crockery.  

I could have stayed there forever, but I doubt I'd have been able to last very long without sticking something in my pocket, and an arrest for theft is not a good way to finish a day trip.

We paused for lunch in the cafe, where a couple of bored five year olds kicked the back of my chair while their Dad tried to sell them on the museum's virtues.  Then it was back under the road to the other hall, filled with Royal trains.

They were very pretty, but Royal trains don't have the same social significance and interest for me that the regular trains do; it's like trying to learn about how people used to live by studying Buckingham Palace.  I was intrigued by the fact that George V had a telephone on board.  I had visions of him bellowing "I'M ON THE TRAIN" to Queen Mary somewhere around Leicester.

We were tired out by this point so we departed for the gift shop.  It was just as overwhelming; I wanted everything from the entrance onwards, including the Hornby railway and the guard's hats.  In the end I settled  for a fake platform ticket and one of those clicky hand devices inspectors use to count the passengers, much to the BF's horror.  "That's just another device to fuel your OCD," he warned.  "If you start using it to count the number of bites you take out of a sandwich I'll throw it out the window."

So: the National Railway Museum.  It's bloody marvellous.  You can put that on the poster, if you like.

Reckoning

Hello Scott.  It's 2013.  As it's a new year, why don't you update us on how your Northern Rail quest is going?

I'm glad you asked me that, mysterious voice in italics.  That's a very good idea.

When I was collecting the Merseyrail map, one of the questions I was often asked was "How many have you got to do?"  And because I was young, and stupid, I used to reply, "Dunno."  I'd been crossing them off a map, not counting them, and so I had no real clue about how many I'd collected and how many I had to go.

The Northern Rail map is different.  Yes, I'm crossing them off every time, but I also have a spreadsheet.  This is tremendously organised for me.  (It's also another outlet for my OCD, so it's not necessarily a totally positive development). 

There are 525 stations to collect on the Northern Rail map.  Actually, there are 524, because they still haven't bothered to add Buckshaw Parkway even though it's been open for over a year, but I'd already got that station anyway.  Of those 525, I'd collected 84 before I'd even started - either because they were already on the Merseyrail map, or because I'd visited them with Robert for his blog, or because they were in Manchester City Centre and I got them years ago just to amuse myself.

So that left 441 to collect.

The Northern Rail project officially started on June 17th last year, with this blog post.  Since then I've managed to visit another 74 stations.  That's quite impressive, even if I do say so myself.  Considering some of them have been on the other side of the country, it's a pretty good number, and means that I've visited a total of 158 stations, leaving me with 367 to get.

I'm pleased with that.  It's a pretty good hit rate, and keeps me well on target.  I haven't collected the easy ones yet - the close by stations in Manchester, places like Leeds and Sheffield.  On the other hand, I also haven't collected the virtually impossible to visit Redcar British Steel, or any of the Cumbrian coast.  I've got a fair mix of town and country, of stations in PTEs and ones in the shires, of big ones and small ones.  I'm doing ok.

It does raise a question though, and one I'd appreciate your feedback on.  Should I change the name of the blog?  "Round The Merseyrail We Go" - well, I've been round the Merseyrail; should it become "Round The North We Go"?  Or something a bit less clunky?  I'd retain the merseytart.com - I will always be the Merseytart - but perhaps a new header and colour scheme is in order.  I do like purple, after all.

Your thoughts are much appreciated.

That list of stations visited since June 17th in full:

Accrington, Adwick, Bamber Bridge, Barnetby, Bempton, Bentley, Berry Brow, Bishop Auckland, Blackburn, Bolton, Bredbury, Bridlington, Brigg, Brockholes, Castleford, Castleton, Cherry Tree, Church & Oswaldtwistle, Conisbrough, Darlington, Denby Dale, Doncaster, Farnworth, Featherstone, Filey, Gainsborough Central, Gainsborough Lea Road, Glasshoughton, Hatfield & Stainforth, Heighington, Honley, Huddersfield, Huncoat, Hunmanby, Hyde Central, Hyde North, Kearsley, Kirk Sandall, Kirton Lindsey, Lincoln, Lockwood, Lostock Hall, Manchester Airport, Mexborough, Mill Hill, Mills Hill, Moorthorpe, Moses Gate, Moston, Newton Aycliffe, Normanton, North Road, Pleasington, Pontefract Tanshelf, Retford, Rishton, Rochdale, Salford Central, Salford Crescent, Saxilby, Scarborough, Seamer, Shildon, Shepley, Shireoaks, South Elmsall, Stocksmoor, Streethouse, Thorne North, Thorne South, Wakefield Kirkgate, Wakefield Westgate, Woodley, Worksop

Glass Houses

If you follow my Twitter feed you'll be aware that last week I was at my Mum's for New Year.  I took a train down on the Sunday, but the stresses and travails of Virgin travel started to get to me.  Not even a First Class weekend upgrade and the generous provision of a Butler's Secret "lunch" pack (contents: one stick of chocolate, one biscuit, two crackers and a piece of spreadable cheese) could calm me.

Eventually it got too much for me.  I jumped off the train at a station that wouldn't normally be on the list of calling places - Milton Keynes Central.

After a few moments composing myself on the platform, getting my breathing under control, I headed for the stairs.  It's not a bad station at platform level.  The practical yellow tiles will never win any prizes for attractiveness, but they discourage graffiti, and there are plenty of waiting rooms and seats.

Yes, I know that's comically lopsided; I was carrying a very large rucksack.

Up top there's a long bridge connecting the platforms, the location of the sole moment of whimsy on the station.  The bridge is illuminated by pairs of portholes, letting you stare out at the tracks.  If you want to.  I was far more keen to get out of the station, a situation not helped by the ticket barriers not working.  There were four men hovering around the exit gate, checking tickets at their own lazy pace.  A gaggle of teenage girls were ahead of me, giggling and flirting, and the guards were in no hurry to rush them through.

I plunged straight through the ticket hall and out into the open air, to let the chill of the day cool me and stop my nervous sweats.  They'd remodelled it since I was last there.  There used to be a wide open plaza in front of the station; theoretically a kind of central square for the town, in reality a windswept space for skateboarders and roller bladers to chip at with their wheels.  Now, a bus exchange had been constructed outside, cutting down the amount of space available.  Normally I'd hate this kind of intervention, but the old Station Square was such a deathless expanse, I was glad to see it chopped up.

That is the station, promise.  That bland office block houses its entrance, and if there's a more damning indictment of Milton Keynes' lack of architectural skill, I don't know what it could be.  The building - and its twin siblings, to the east and west - could be anywhere.  It could contain anything.  This could be the south-west headquarters of Peroxy Polymers (UK) Ltd, on a business estate somewhere outside Taunton.  It's incredibly dull.

Railway stations are exciting places.  They're centres for travel and centres for communities.  Milton Keynes is so devoted to its road system that it saw the train station as unimportant, sticking it at the far end of the town centre and hiding it under a load of offices.  Nobody understood the beauty and relevance of train travel.

As the bus exchange seemed to have moved, I wandered across the square to find the old one.  I'd spent a long night there once, in 1995, waiting for a bus home after seeing REM play at the Milton Keynes Bowl.  I'd gone with someone I sort of knew through my Saturday job, and over the course of the evening together, we'd realised that we had absolutely nothing in common.  I remembered the bus station as being pretty nice.

The fine bus terminal had been abandoned, turned into "Buszy", a youth centre.  A total waste of a perfectly decent building.  It did at least give the skateboarders a new home.

I headed back to the station for a coffee in the Pumpkin cafe.

Fans of awful superhero movies might recognise the station building, incidentally.  The infamous Superman IV: The Quest for Peace used Milton Keynes Central station to double for the United Nations.  It didn't convince.  (It also tried to persuade us that the Tube was an American subway system, even though they used the exact same trains, and that Margot Kidder was an attractive youthful woman).  That was a mildly exciting fact when I was a Superman-obsessed ten year old; then I saw the film, and it became a badge of shame.

The interior of the station's as bland and tedious as the outside.  It's a box, with shops down one side and the ticket windows down the other.  Cold marble-effect floor tiles and a high suspended ceiling give it a chilly, unwelcoming air; not the greatest gateway to a new town.

It does have one good feature though.

I do love a massive logo.