Barlaston-ished
After returning to Stafford and catching a train to Stone (of which more later), our next stop was Barlaston. Again, this would require the use of a rail replacement bus – this time, the BakerBus X1 service. In a prime example of joined up transport, this service departs from the opposite side of Stone to the railway station it supposedly connects with.
The bus turned up a few minutes late. I got on board and waved my train ticket at the driver, but he called me back before I could take a seat.
“Where are you going?”
“Pardon?”
“I said, where are you going to?”
“Er, Barlaston?”
“Oh, OK. I was just checking!”
He muttered something about “just getting on without saying anything”. Fair enough – I’m used to big city buses where any communication between passenger and staff is frowned upon.
We headed out of Stone on a wide dual carriageway, but true to form this did not last long, as we turned off and headed up another narrow country lane. A few minutes later we pulled up at Barlaston, with the driver wishing us a cheery goodbye as we alighted.
Compared to the lifelessness of Norton Bridge, Barlaston seemed altogether more upbeat. The bus had dropped us off at the village crossroads, where there was a row of small shops – a newsagent, a butcher, a hairdresser, a pet shop. They were all immaculately kept and looked like they were doing good business. As we walked towards the station, we passed a pub, a Londis store and this intriguingly-named shop (it sells Hornby, Scalextric and radio controlled cars).
This village had all the components of a vibrant community, except one: a functional railway station.
Barlaston, like Norton Bridge, lost its trains in 2003, and it exists in a similar twilight world of permanent bustitution. Unlike Norton Bridge, there are signs and noticeboards to acknowledge the station’s existence. However, padlocked gates prevent any access to the platforms themselves. The station nameboards are still there, slowly fading, and an attractive-looking waiting room on the Stoke-bound platform stands disused and forlorn.
The London Midland noticeboard, somewhat optimistically, claims that train services “currently” do not call at this station. There has been no hint from the train company, Network Rail, or the Department for Transport (who specify the timetable) that services will resume at all.
There is a poignant monument next to the level crossing outside the station: a landscaped area with trees and shrubbery, and an information board giving some facts and figures about the local area. This is a village that is proud of what it has to offer.
A dedication plaque indicates that British Rail and Staffordshire County Council co-operated to provide this landscaped area, back in 1987. Contrast that gesture of goodwill, by a state-run railway operator, with the deliberate and cynical decision, 16 years later, to run down the service in favour of shiny express trains to Manchester.
You could argue that the X1 bus serves the village’s local transport needs just as well as the train service did. Buses have their place, but a proper train service can shift more people, more reliably, than any bus. Trains can avoid the road congestion that often makes commuting by bus so miserable. Trains are much better at persuading people to get out of their cars.
Barlaston seems like a nice place. Why not make it a little bit nicer by giving the villagers their trains back?
Norton your life
“BRITAIN GRIPPED BY BIG FREEZE” screamed the headlines in the tabloids. Grim-faced newsreaders warned of severe disruption. Earnest weather presenters pointed at chromakeyed maps, excitedly pointing out where and when the next load of snow was due to be dumped. It was, the statisticians agreed, the coldest period of weather since the last one.
The perfect time to go out and visit some stations, then.
I hadn’t planned to head out this early in the year. In February it’s still fairly dark and cold; conditions not conducive to fannying around limited service railway stations. I changed my mind, however, when London Midland reintroduced their Great Escape offer, tempting trainspotters with the prospect of a day’s unlimited travel on their shiny Desiro EMUs for just 15 quid.
Pause
I’ve decided that cold days and dark nights are not conducive to roaming the backwaters of the British railway network. Therefore there will be a hiatus until the weather becomes a bit more friendly – probably February. If you want to be the first to know when this blog springs back to life again, you can subscribe to my RSS feed in the reader of your choice. Alternatively, you can click the “Follow” button on this page to receive an e-mail the next time the site is updated.
In the meantime, here’s a shameless plug for another rail-related project I’m involved in. I am a member of the Friends of the 502 Group, a group of railway enthusiasts who have custody of two vintage electric train carriages.
These two vehicles represent the the last surviving example of the Class 502 trains which ran on what is now Merseyrail’s Northern Line for the best part of 40 years. The 502s were built between 1939 and 1941 and were an early pioneer of features such as automatic sliding doors and the seating layout which became the de facto standard for suburban trains in the UK for the next 50 years. As such they are an important piece of British railway history and need to be saved for posterity.
Unfortunately we now find ourselves without a home as we have been asked to vacate the premises by our current landlords. The full story is over at the Friends of the 502 Group blog, but to summarise: we need money (a lot of it), and soon. We have just twelve weeks to raise £4,000.
We have an online donation page. Any amount, no matter how small, would be appreciated.
Thanks, and see you in the New Year.
Friendly Woodlands Creatures
When I embarked on my Cheshire Day Ranger trip, I had thought that buses would be the weak link in my plans. As it turned out, while delayed trains had (briefly) thrown my plans into disarray, the buses had worked much better. My second bus of the day was just as good as the first, and turned up exactly on time. I was relieved as I had been waiting at the stop for some time – so long, in fact, that I actually saw the same bus go past on its inward journey some twenty minutes earlier.
As I gazed out of the window, picturesque Cheshire villages soon gave way to runway landing lights and budget hotels, as the number 200 made its way along the Manchester Airport approach roads. I alighted at the airport’s transport interchange complex and made my way to the railway station, where things were in slight disarray, with trains cancelled, passengers confused by the departure boards, and an unattended suitcase on platform 3 causing some consternation.
Styal Icon
“How much is it to Northwich?”
“How much do you want it to be?”
My bus driver was a comedian. Marvellous. I eventually negotiated a fare of £2 and sat down for an enjoyable 20-minute ride through country lanes and small villages.
The number 48 is an infrequent rural bus service, making just five return trips a day between Frodsham and Northwich. It looked like the sort of bus which has “regulars”, who get on the same bus every day and probably sit in the same seat. I took a seat near the back, probably occupying someone else’s usual spot. I’m sure I got scowled at by at least one other person who got on.
I arrived in Northwich with plenty of time to get the next train, which was fortunate as, unknown to me, the railway and bus stations are some distance apart. A brisk walk across town ensued, but in the end I arrived in plenty of time for my train. The plan was to take a train from Northwich to Manchester Piccadilly, then onward to my next destination, Styal.
Acton Stations
I wish I could have recorded the noise made by the booking office clerk at Aigburth station when I asked for a Cheshire Day Ranger. It’s hard to describe, but was a sort of “ooh” – not, “ooh no, I’m going to have to search through 15 different menus to find it on my ticket machine,” but, “ooh that’s an interesting ticket I’ve never heard of.”
Having successfully acquired my ticket, I set off for Liverpool South Parkway for an onward connection to Crewe. My goal was Acton Bridge, a small Cheshire village with a small station to match.
This is probably going to be my last Station Master trip this year. Autumn brings with it short days and wet weather, as well as those pesky falling leaves that make train travel so unpredictable. However, I decided to go out for one last hurrah, an ambitious trip to bag a few more (relatively) local stations before going into hibernation. I like to keep my audience interested. Also, I didn’t want to leave the phrase “FUCKING CUNT” floating at the top of my blog for the whole winter.
Croxley Music
“FUCKING CUNT!”
The angry-looking man from whom this utterance came turned around and noticed Ian and I staring incredulously at him.
“Not you,” he said, apologetically, “I mean me.”
He stormed off to his car, which he proceeded to kick and punch several times, in a scene reminiscent of Basil Fawlty at his frustrated worst. Having dented the bodywork, he got into the vehicle, cursed loudly to himself several more times and then drove off with engine roaring, at a speed completely inappropriate to the residential area in which we found ourselves.
Ooo-kay then.
Scott was still inside the corner shop and missed this entertaining tableau. As soon as he rejoined us, we soldiered on towards the end of the line at Croxley Green.
More side streets beckoned, where terraced houses rubbed shoulders with small industrial units in various states of dereliction. Our attention was drawn to this lovely sign on one of the still-functional factories.
I have no idea what a Fibrerod Pultrusion is, even after reading their web site (yes, I Googled it). Still, I wish the firm all the best with their Pultrusion-related endeavours.
I’ll give ‘em Watford!
I made one of my occasional trips to London last weekend, and amidst a whirlwind of tourism, theatre and Soho-based frolicking, I made time for a Station Master trip.
I also met up with an old friend from school, Seb Patrick. We spent a good deal of time catching up, and during the conversation I mentioned that I was planning to take the London Overground out to Watford.
“You’ll love the Overground,” he advised, “everyone loves the Overground.”
He was right, of course. Ever since the launch of “London’s new train set”, as the initial publicity described it, I have been in love with the idea of the Overground. Transport for London took a disorganised collection of neglected, unloved railway lines and invested wisely in them, creating a useful transport network for the 21st century. It’s been a huge success with passenger numbers increasing dramatically in the four years that the system has been in operation.
Certainly as I trundled up the line from Euston, I was impressed. The new Capitalstar trains, with air-conditioning and wide gangways between coaches are light years ahead of most other commuter trains, although it is strange to see Tube-style longitudinal seats on a “main line” train. I alighted at Watford High Street, which felt cared for and welcoming, as did all the other stations the train passed through. In short, the Overground is the standard to which other suburban rail networks should aspire.
However, amidst all this life, there is death. I was here to explore a forgotten part of the system, which has not benefited from the recent investment. That is the Croxley Green branch, a short stub which leaves the Watford DC Line just south of Watford High Street station.
Clifton suspense
I was feeling cocky as my train powered through the Lancashire countryside en route to Bolton. The day had gone perfectly so far: I’d had a good couple of hours at Hebden Bridge; Salwick station had been successfully bagged; and I’d managed to get a bonus sugar rush from a very sweet Mars milkshake that I’d bought on impulse from the WHSmith shop on the platform at Preston.
I thought the rest of the afternoon would be nice and straightforward. All I had to do was get to Salford Crescent in time for the 1743 to Wigan Wallgate, one of the two trains each day which stop at Clifton.
I was feeling especially smug after spotting that, by taking an earlier train from Preston and changing at Bolton, I would get to Salford earlier than if I took the direct Preston to Salford train. I would have a twelve minute connection into the 1743 – ample for Salford Crescent’s single island platform.
It was an uneventful run to Bolton, where I duly alighted and searched the departure board for my next train. My heart sank: the Manchester Airport train I needed was running late.
Twelve minutes late, to be precise.
