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?

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.

The only downside: Great Escape is only available for a two-week window and requires advance booking. I settled on my chosen date of 11th February some time ago, without consulting any long-range weather forecasts, and I was stuck with it even after the barometer started to drop.

As it turned out, I didn’t have too much to be concerned about. Yes, it was cold, but it was dry. Wrapped up warmly with gloves and a fetching scarf, I was quite comfortable, even on my train from Liverpool South Parkway to Stafford, which appeared to have no working heating.

Also, I wasn’t alone. Joining me for a second jaunt (following our Watford excursion back in September), were Mersey Tart Scott Willison and Mr Metro-Land himself, Ian Jones.

I was glad of the company, for this trip would be slightly more complicated than most. My target was the notorious Staffordshire “ghost” stations – three stations, on the line between Stafford and Stoke-on-Trent, which are technically still open, but haven’t seen a train since 2003.

Scott and I arrived at Stafford station just after ten, where Ian was already waiting for us. Poor chap – as a condition of the Great Escape ticket, he had been confined to London Midland’s slower trains, meaning a 7am start from London. He had also suffered the indignity of a London Underground rail replacement bus.

We paused for a moment to “appreciate” Stafford’s station building. It’s a relic of the 60s, having been built during the West Coast Main Line electrification project. It’s a functional concrete building which is never going to win any architecture awards, but we still got some photos for completeness. It does have a nice big BR double-arrow prominently displayed on the highest part of the station building. It looked like it had last been cleaned in about 1986, but still pleased me.

Having done that, we headed for the bus stop on the station forecourt. Paradoxically, this particular railway adventure was going to involve a lot of buses. Our first station, Norton Bridge, is just a few miles north of Stafford, but is inaccessible by train – and, in fact, inaccessible by any means at all, as we soon discovered.

My own self-imposed rules for this blog are that for a visit to “count”, I have to arrive and/or depart by train. However, there are no trains to Norton Bridge, so the official rail replacement bus service (the number 490, operated by Wardle Transport) would have to do. We waited a few minutes before a small red single-decker came round the corner and pulled up. We climbed aboard and proferred our Great Escape tickets to the driver, who accepted them without really looking at them. We did not set off straight away, as the driver nipped out of his cab for a quick smoke before proceeding. During this lull in proceedings, I got a picture of the three of us. What a merry band of travellers we make!

Only two other people boarded the bus at the station, although we gained a few more people at the Sainsbury’s supermarket down the road. As seems normal for these services, all the passengers seemed to know each other, chatting amiably as we chugged along the streets. They were all decidedly elderly, so I hope they weren’t too offended by the conversation between the three of us, which soon became quite 18-rated (partly inspired by a recent tweet of mine).

Once beyond Stafford, we left the main road and proceeded down a series of narrow, winding country lanes, (including a hair-raising crossing of a narrow bridge with 90-degree bends immediately before and after, which our bus could only just squeeze through). We passed The Mill Restaurant, which is apparently Staffordshire’s best kept secret (not that secret, if the large roadside signs advertising it are anything to go by) and then entered the village of Norton Bridge itself, where our bus pulled up outside the entrance to the station.

Or rather, what had once been the entrance to the station. Where the station entrance stood, there is now only palisade fencing. There is no station sign with double-arrow logo – indeed, at street level there is no sign that a station exists here.

Peer through the fence, however, and there is more to see. Norton Bridge station is (was?) a single island platform, with the tracks of the West Coast Main Line passing either side of it. The station was never particularly busy, but until 2003 it was served by a local stopping service between Stafford and Stoke. This service was withdrawn, supposedly as a “temporary” measure while work continued on the West Coast Main Line modernisation. However, during the upgrade works, the footbridge giving access to the station’s platform was removed, leaving the platform marooned, with weeds growing on it and the former waiting room boarded up and derelict.

Despite all this, the station is still officially open in the eyes of the railway. The existence of the 490 bus, which accepts rail tickets, is apparently considered sufficient to fulfil the train operator’s obligations.

I was able to point my camera through the fence and grab plenty of shots of the isolated platform, complete with Regional Railways-branded signage. There is a “Way Out” signpost on the platform with an arrow pointing to the non-existant footbridge. The only remnant of the bridge is the concrete base in the gap between tracks.

There was a small gap where the fence was lower. With some careful positioning, Ian was able to get a shot of me with one of the station nameboards in the background, which I had to accept as the Station Master picture.

We had an hour to kill before our bus back to Stafford, so we took time to explore the village (well, hamlet, really) of Norton Bridge. The brief Wikipedia article about the village states, in typical understated fashion, that it is “lacking amenities for residents”, and this is certainly true.

We walked the length of Station Road (a name now tinged with irony), and saw very little of note. There is a church, a phone box and a pub, the Railway Inn, which was closed. And that was it. Not even a village shop. An England flag fluttered gently in the breeze in one of the well-kept front gardens, and that was just about the only visible sign of movement.

Scott and Ian seemed unimpressed that I had dragged them to this isolated, lonely place. I ignored their complaints – the station was what I had come for, and seeing that was enough in itself as far as I was concerned. In search of civilisation, we wandered as far as Smithy Lane at the edge of the village, but found nothing but a field full of sheep and an older gentleman with a walking stick wandering around in a suspicious fashion.

In a final desperate attempt to find something of interest, we checked Grindr to see where the nearest fellow homosexual was (2.9km away, if you’re interested). Having exhausted the limited entertainment options available, there was nothing else to do but to trudge back to the bus stop.

The Parish council noticeboard was busy with details of meetings and social events, although I couldn’t help but think that it was a picture of a noose on the poster in the bottom right.

As we waited for our bus back, a train crawled through the station, eventually coming to a halt next to the platform, where it waited a minute or so to allow another train to overtake. I pondered: if the footbridge were still there, there would have been no time penalty to that train if the doors had been released to allow one or two people (which, realistically, is all there would ever be here) to board or alight. Unfortunately, the footbridge will never come back: the cost of a replacement could never be justified, given the low traffic potential.

Norton Bridge is almost certainly doomed. Just north of the station, there is a junction where the line to Stoke diverges from the West Coast Main Line. Network Rail is proposing to remodel this junction to improve line speeds and increase capacity. If this plan goes ahead, the platform is likely to be demolished entirely. It will be interesting to see if the formal closure procedure finally takes place.

Until then, however, Norton Bridge will remain as one of the oddest stations on the National Rail network. It’s a station whose operation complies with the letter of the law but in practice helps nobody; a monument to the myriad rules and regulations of the railway which are supposed to protect the passenger’s interests, but which in practice can be twisted to suit the needs of officialdom.

As is my style, I have absolutely no idea what’s going to happen this year. I have vague plans to “do” the bustituted stations between Stafford and Stoke (Wedgwood, Barlaston and Norton Bridge). I also hope to spend a couple of days in Cornwall visiting the branch lines there.

Beyond that, however, I have no real plans. So I’m throwing the blog open to questions from the floor. Is there an unusual station that I should put at the top of my list? A place that gets one train a week? A station inexplicably located in the middle of nowhere? A piece of rural loveliness? Comments welcome.

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.

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.

I settled down on a Transpennine Express service to Blackpool North (which, as the eagle-eyed among you may have spotted, doesn’t cross the Pennines at any point on its route). The train was busy but everyone got a seat – or so they thought: minutes before departure, the guard came through the train attaching the seat reservation labels, causing much harrumphing and shifting of luggage as passengers vacated seats which they mistakenly believed they were entitled to. As we got underway, an announcement came over the PA system that the air-conditioning in Coach B wasn’t working – cue another mass reshuffle as people tried to escape the stifling heat.

It was all very stressful and I was glad to bail out at Piccadilly. I made a beeline for the Metrolink platforms where I boarded a tram for the short trip out to my final Station Master destination. Technically it was not a station at all, but a tram stop: Woodlands Road.

Woodlands Road opened as a railway station in 1913 and was retained when the Manchester to Bury line was converted to Metrolink operation in 1992. Its slightly out-of-the-way location has always limited its traffic potential, and from April 2011 it has been somewhat usurped by the new and better-located Abraham Moss stop, a mere 300 yards further north.

In recognition of this fact, GMPTE Transport for Greater Manchester started closure proceedings for Woodlands Road earlier this year. Final approval from the Department for Transport is still awaited, but Metrolink management have not waited for the legal niceties to be dealt with. The service at Woodlands Road has already been drastically cut back, with trams now only stopping there on weekdays between 10am and 4pm.

As I wandered around the station (sorry, stop) with my iPhone in hand, I recalled with slight apprehension the contents of GMPTE’s submission to the Department for Transport in support of closure. It included happy mentions of “a significant level of crime, with many incidents of vandalism and assaults on staff and a passenger” along with a bit of drug dealing for good measure. I was a little apprehensive at the possibility that I was alighting from a tram at Manchester’s equivalent of Dodge City, but at 3pm on Friday afternoon, all was quiet.

Woodlands Road is not going to win any beauty contests. It’s located on a concrete viaduct, necessitating a climb up a long flight of steps or a steep ramp to access the platforms. The station environment is certainly “retro” – with closure imminent, the stop has not benefited from the refurbishment that the rest of the network has received, so the platforms and signs are still in the original 1992 style. The ugly bus shelters — once the hallmark of the Metrolink system and now largely vanished — remain in situ here.

The only sign of the new Metrolink corporate identity is in the signs advertising the new limited service at the station.

There wasn’t much to see, so after grabbing the photo under the faded Metrolink sign, I crossed over to the city centre-bound platform for a tram back to Piccadilly. A couple of schoolchildren got off as I got on – so there’s at least two customers who are going to miss the stop when it has gone.

Some local residents are not taking the impending closure lying down. One of them, Sylvia Blye, has constructed an amazing web site to campaign for the stop’s retention.

That was my last station of the day, and I headed back to Manchester Piccadilly, where I made a Starbucks Frappucino my reward for a job well done. It had been a good day, helped by the excellent weather. Although it’s unlikely I’ll make any more trips before Christmas, I’m already looking forward to the adventures 2012 will bring.

“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.

I was not happy with my itinerary, which included a ten minute connection at Piccadilly. Normally I would not be bothered by this, but missing this train would cause problems. On weekdays Styal receives just three trains a day in each direction – if the 1246 train left without me, I had a five hour wait for the next one.

I was relieved to see my train arrive at Northwich almost exactly on time. I was very displeased, however, when we ground to a halt just outside Plumley and stayed there for an extended time. The guard wandered through the train in an orange high-visibility jacket and joined the driver in his cab. Whatever they did, we eventually got moving again, after what seemed like an eternity. In fact the wait was only about 15 minutes, but that was long enough to leave my planned connection in tatters.

At first I was despondent — would I have a Station Master FAIL on my hands? However, I resolved to make the best of things and pulled out my iPhone (RIP Steve Jobs), calling up National Rail Mobile to find an alternative route. It transpired that there was another way: if I alighted at Stockport, I could take a train to Wilmslow, then another to Manchester Airport in time to meet the Styal train en route from Piccadilly.

It worked – a couple of nimble platform changes later, and I found myself at Manchester Airport, where the Styal train glided in at 1307. A few minutes later I was at Styal, my plans literally back on track.

Poor old Styal. Until 1993 it enjoyed a frequent service to Manchester and Crewe. Then, however, British Rail decided to build a branch line to Manchester Airport. This would have been excellent, were it not for the minor detail that most of the trains which served the Styal line were diverted away to run to and from the Airport station instead, leaving Styal as yet another station with a token handful of trains per day.

And yet, it’s a station crying out for a better service. Not only is there a decent population in the village itself who would surely appreciate better links to Manchester, there are footpaths leading off from the station into the surrounding countryside, ideal for ramblers. The station is also well placed to serve Quarry Bank Mill and HMP Styal (do they do two-for-one admission?).

The only activity in the vicinity was some small industrial operation which appeared to have occupied part of the station yard. The passenger car park was empty, and this generous provision for cyclists was, sadly, going unused:-

And really, that was all there was to see of Styal station, so I trekked up to the road to get my ugly mug under the BR logo.

I have a new found respect for The Mersey Tart, who has been doing this for years and has got the up-the-nostril station sign shot down to a fine art. I, on the other hand, am still learning. It took ten goes to get an acceptable picture and the results can be seen to the left. I didn’t realise until I got home that there is a telegraph pole sticking out of my head, but it’ll do.

As I walked from the station to the bus stop, I met a chap carrying a fishing rod, who asked me for directions to the river. I was clueless of course, but rather than shrug apologetically and move on, I pulled out my iPhone (RIP again Steve Jobs) and used the map function to point him in vaguely the right direction. Google Maps showed a road and a river, but did not include any detail on what fences, gates or famers with shotguns the chap might encounter, so my advice may have been less than helpful. I’m not entirely sure why I tried to help at all. Maybe I wanted to avoid the incident on my previous trip to Clifton, where I was called a “useless twat” by the local wildlife.

On the off-chance that fisherman bloke is reading this: I’m sorry if I accidentally directed you into a military firing range, or something.

Styal itself is lovely, but like many villages is sadly rather lacking in amenities, apart from the aforementioned National Trust property and prison. There is a war memorial, which was nice. I saw a sign pointing to a café, but decided not to risk any further disruption to my itinerary for a drink.

So that was Styal. The railway situation seems bleak, but there is hope for the future. There is an active campaign for improved services over at the Styal Railway Station Web Site, and they have already achieved some small victories. The station now has a two-hourly Sunday service, and from December 2011 there will be an extra two southbound trains on weekdays. It doesn’t seem like much, but any improvement will surely be appreciated by the good citizens of Styal.

However, I couldn’t wait until December 2011 for an improved service, so I settled down at the bus stop to wait for my onward transportation. My third and final Station Master destination was unusual. In fact, strictly speaking it wasn’t a station at all.

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.

When I arranged, a few weeks ago, to take September 30th off work, I had no idea what the weather would be like. Autumn can be a wild time and there are no guarantees – sunshine can turn to pouring rain and back again in the space of a few hours. I was thrilled, therefore, when a mini-heatwave struck in the final few days of September, and my train raced through the Cheshire countryside under cloudless skies and a blazing sun. It was barely 9.15am but already it was getting very warm.

Getting to Acton Bridge required careful planning. Although it is on the West Coast Main Line with trains roaring past every few minutes, only a few trains on London Midland‘s Liverpool to Birmingham route actually call. Rather than wait for a direct train, I decided to get an earlier service to Crewe, then retrace my steps on a stopping train. At 10.16am I arrived at my first Station Master target of the day.

I had pondered whether Acton Bridge qualified to be included in my itinerary at all. Its service (eight trains per day Monday-Friday, five trains on Saturdays) is much better than some of the other stations I’ve visited or are planning to go to. In fact, I’ll stick my neck out and say that it’s actually useable. There are two departures an hour apart in the morning peak and equivalent evening return journeys, allowing 9-to-5 commuters to travel to work. The few daytime journeys which run are more than suitable for shopping excursions. There is also a late-evening service Monday to Friday which means Acton Bridgians can have an evening out in Liverpool and return home by train.

The un-Parliamentary nature of the station was underlined when I alighted from the train and saw other people get on. Yes, people actually USE the station. This will never do.

In the end I rationalised my decision by focusing on another quirk of the station – although Acton Bridge is on the West Coast Main Line, it is impossible to travel to Warrington Bank Quay, the next station north, as there is no direct service (you must double-back via Crewe, or travel via Liverpool South Parkway to Warrington Central).

Acton Bridge is otherwise unremarkable – two platforms, basic waiting shelters and a footbridge.

The station building housed the shuttered-up remains of a ticket office, and also a hidden prize – a genuine British Rail Permit to Travel machine. They used to be common at unstaffed stations in Penalty Fares areas – the idea being that you put in some coins and get a slip of paper to prove to ticket inspectors that you’re not a filthy fare dodger, honest. They have gone out of fashion somewhat as more stations get fully-functional ticket machines, but this one was still active. Unfortunately it rejected any coins I tried to put in it, so I couldn’t get a souvenir permit from the machine.

The station entrance is located on a terrifyingly narrow road bridge over the railway line. I braved the medium-sized lorries which were taking the blind bend far too fast, and grabbed some photos.

Acton Bridge doesn’t have a large totem sign, so I had to settle for the nameboard on the station building.

As with many small stations, a community group tends to the station. Their efforts have not gone unnoticed: Acton Bridge won a Cheshire “Best Kept Station” award in 2003. It still looks well-cared for and it’s pleasing to see such a minor station being looked after in this way – a pleasant station environment, even at a station with a limited service, can leave a lasting good impression on potential travellers.

So that was Acton Bridge. I liked it. Whereas many of the stations I’ve visited so far have been neglected and depressing, this one had a different, positive feel to it. Yes, it has an infrequent service, but given the size of the place it serves, that is reasonable enough. It’s certainly a lot better than the token bare minimum service that many other stations get.

By now it was 10.30am, but with no train due until 12.14, I set off for my next destination using that most unnatural of conveyances… a bus.

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.

The road ran more-or-less parallel to the former railway, but the trackbed itself remained just out of view behind buildings. That is, until we arrived at a new-looking development of apartments, where the line was visible at the end of a car park.

Every apartment had a balcony, where residents would have an excellent view of three slightly strange men wandering around with cameras. Nevertheless, I scrambled up a little grass verge to take a photo of the rails through the fence. Like the stations, the track itself is surprisingly intact at this point, although very rusty.

I was sure that one of the flat’s residents was about to call the police, so we quickly moved on.

The line begins to climb onto an embankment at this point and shortly afterwards crosses the Grand Union Canal via this bridge.

Beyond the soulless apartment blocks we came to a soulless retail development, with a Premier Inn and Brewer’s Fayre pub competing to out-bland each other in the boxy nondescript building stakes.

After that we had to cross a busy dual carriageway, Ascot Road (the road that killed the railway when it cut straight through the embankment carrying the line).

A sign indicated that we were nearing the end of our trek as we entered the village of Croxley Green itself.

And indeed, moments later we found ourselves at our ultimate goal: Croxley Green railway station. The station entrance is located just off a busy roundabout and while Ian, Scott and myself took photos we had to contend with a series of motorists hooting their horns. Not quite sure why they were doing this, but I’m choosing to interpret it as a gesture of approval.

Croxley Green, like Watford West, has steps. In this case they lead upwards, as the line is on an embankment at this point. They are, however, equally derelict.

There wasn’t much more to see or do, apart from getting the standard picture for posterity.

Job done, we set off in search of lunch. The first option available to us was a Harvester across the road from the old station. We passed up that choice and headed into the main village.

En route we saw an interesting sign advertising “CROXFEST”. Check out this blurb from the event’s web site: “10 local bands will perform to their adoring fans as the community come together for what is being billed as one of the most popular new events to be held on The Green in recent years.”

We could certainly hear some… interesting music coming from the direction of the Green as we looked for a suitable eatery. I was briefly tempted to go and check it out, but my hunger was palpable at this point and we continued our quest for food instead.

We found a pub near Croxley Underground station, where the stressed-looking man behind the bar seemed to be having trouble coping with the volume of orders (aside from ourselves, there were two, possibly three other customers in there). When he eventually got his till working, we ordered some pub grub and settled down for a welcome rest – we had been walking for two hours by this point.

Whilst eating, I ran my ideas for blog titles past Ian and Scott. My preferred choice was A New Dream Every Day, Croxley Green (Oink Oink). However this relied upon knowledge of the late 80s CITV show Huxley Pig – specifically, its theme tune. Despite calling up the (surprisingly detailed) Wikipedia entry on my iPhone, it soon became clear that this programme is far from a universal pop-culture reference point, and I decided not to pursue the matter further.

Suitably satisfied, we made our way to Croxley station and the welcoming environs of one of the lovely (and soon to be withdrawn) Metropolitan Line A Stock trains.

This far flung outpost of the London Underground network may prove to be the Croxley Green branch’s salvation, for even as trees and shrubs sprout up in the trackbed, plans are afoot to reopen the route as part of the Metropolitan Line. The Croxley Rail Link project would see the closure of the Underground station at Watford, with trains diverted over a new viaduct and onto the Croxley branch towards Watford High Street, from where they would share the London Overground’s tracks to reach Watford Junction.

It’s not a done deal yet – it’s a Transport for London line but located in Hertfordshire, which means two local authorities have to sign off on the project. However, a consultation is running now and it is possible that trains could be running again by 2016.

All of which means that the Croxley Green branch – that strange little railway that refuses to die – may come back to life again. John Barrowman would be proud.

Ian’s write-up of the day’s events can be found on A Railway Runs Through It, while Scott’s is on his Mersey Tart blog.

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.

The line always had a chequered existence, being hampered by competition from the nearby Metropolitan Line. The Underground provided a direct service to London, while the best the Croxley Green branch could offer was a shuttle service to and from Watford Junction.

Some attempts were made by Network SouthEast in the 1980s to revive the branch. However by the early 1990s the management had given up: the service on the line was reduced to Parliamentary levels, with a single return journey each morning at around 7am.

In 1996 the fatal blow came when a new road bypass was built across the route of the railway. With the cost of a bridge being unjustified, the railway was severed and the train service finally ceased.

However, this was not the end of the line; British Rail, as usual, did not want the expense of the formal closure procedure. The token train service was duly replaced by road transport, but a bus was considered too extravagant for the expected passenger numbers and a taxi was used instead.

For five years this situation persisted, with the newly privatised Silverlink Metro forced to continue paying for the taxi until June 2001 when approval was finally given to officially close the line.

The official closure would normally be the end of the story. However, for some reason the stations on the line were left untouched after closure: little or no demolition work took place and signs and furniture were left intact. Ten years later and the stations are still there, albeit damaged by the ravages of time and vandalism. This bizarre situation fascinated me and I was keen to see it for myself.

An experience such as this is always better shared and I was pleased to be joined on the trip by two companions: first, the intrepid Mersey Tart himself – semi-regular fellow traveller, Scott Willison. Also accompanying us was Ian Jones, who has been a frequent commenter on both this site and my personal blog. Ian writes about his railway experiences at his To the End of the Line and A Railway Runs Through It blogs, while also finding the time to record an album and contribute to TV Cream.

I had planned my trip well in advance – well, I looked up the stations on Wikipedia and transferred the given locations into Google Maps. We wandered away from the High Street into the suburbs, with me holding my iPhone aloft like Beverly Crusher would wield a tricorder, trying to, as Commander Riker would put it, “get a fix on our location”.

There was little sign of life until we stumbled across this poster in a bus shelter:

BARROWMAN! There is simply no escaping the man. Not content with seducing lithe Italian men on Torchwood, he is now preparing to unleash his unique charms on the denizens of Watford. Tickets are still available, so to avoid disappointment, don’t book now.

We passed Watford FC’s Vicarage Road stadium (home of The ‘Orns!) and a few minutes later reached the station which once served it. Watford Stadium Halt was opened in the 1980s, a welcome but ultimately futile show of faith in the line’s future. Built to cater for football crowds – at a time when Watford were enjoying an Elton John-inspired moment of glory in the top flight of English football – its fortunes declined along with the club’s and it closed along with the rest of the line.

There was not much left to see. Fifteen years without a train had left the station exposed to nature, with the former trackbed well and truly colonised by trees and shrubs. A platform could be seen poking out of the undergrowth together with a lamppost in faded Network South East red, but there was no station sign, or even any hint of where the entrance might once have been.

Slightly dejected at the lack of visible signage, we moved onwards, passing through an estate of charmless 1980s flats. Each block had been named after islands (“Sark House”, “Jersey House” etc) in a seeming attempt to give the buildings an air of rural idyll. The rotten wooden window frames told a different story.

I was worried about getting lost and stopped to refer to Google Maps. While I used my iPhone, Scott used his eyeballs and spotted something ahead. “Station sign!”

Jackpot.

Watford West station was last served by a train in 1996 and closed officially in 2001. But to the casual observer, it looks like it is actually still open.

At least, it does until you peer through the locked entrance gate:

The line here is in a cutting, with a flight of steps down to the single platform. As at Watford Stadium, nature is rapidly reclaiming the line for its own purposes. The whole place resembles the set of a post-apocalyptic sci-fi film, with the familiar features of a railway station still more-or-less intact but now neglected and covered in weeds.

There’s even a phone number to call for train service information. I was sorely tempted to phone it and see what happened, but as I’m not the wacky presenter of a local radio breakfast show, I decided against it.

A quick spot of after-the-event online research reveals that 01923 245001 is no longer a railway number. Ironically, dialling it these days will connect you to a car rental firm.

Getting the required Station Master pic proved to be a long-winded process. With Ian, Scott and myself each wanting our own memento of the place, we had to form an orderly queue in front of the sign. On the plus side, having two people along with me avoided the need for any awkward self-portraits (see my Salwick blog for a prime example of that).

Happy at the pickings on offer at Watford West (at least in comparison with the Stadium station), I struck a cheerful pose beneath the battered sign.

We stopped at a newsagent across the road for a drink before continuing on. I was sure that the second half of our journey would prove just as interesting as the first…

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.

To add insult to injury, the direct Preston to Salford train which I had so casually dismissed was mocking me by running on time.

Suitably dejected, I set off in search of the Gents, giving me a chance to see a bit of Bolton station. It appears to be in the middle of a refurbishment – it certainly looks much better than it did the last time I was there (in 2006), with a new extension to the platform canopies and the station freshly painted in Northern Rail corporate colours. Despite the new look, this wonderful sign – with pictograms and colour scheme that scream “80s British Rail” – survives.

I returned from the loo to discover that the Manchester Airport train had slipped a further few minutes. However, there was also a 1725 to Manchester Victoria which was now expected to arrive first. Under normal circumstances it would get me to Salford at 1738, with five minutes to spare. Unfortunately this train was also running four minutes late. It was going to be a photo-finish.

The train arrived and, after sorting out a few confused passengers wondering where their Manchester Airport train had gone, we were off for the short journey from Bolton to Salford Crescent. We made good progress most of the way and I actually began to think that we would easily make it. I was thrilled when the train started to slow down well before its expected arrival time at Salford Crescent. Perhaps there was a few minutes slack in the timetable, or maybe our skilled driver had been able to make up time?

Frustratingly, this was not the case – we were actually slowing to stop at a signal, and the train came to a halt just outside the station. The total wait was only about a minute, but those 60 seconds, to me, could have meant the difference between getting Clifton and missing it.

We got going again and the train crawled agonisingly slowly into Salford Crescent station. There was a train on the opposite platform and instinctively I knew it was the one I needed. I also knew that the time was 1743 and it was ready to depart.

After what seemed like an eternity, the door buttons lit up and I leapt out and straight across the platform. The train dispatcher was on the platform, just about to raise his paddle to give the right away signal to the guard. I didn’t even pause to check if it was my train, but a nanosecond glance at the electronic display on the platform enabled to pick out shapes that looked vaguely like “1743″ and “Clifton (Manchester)”. I opened the nearest door and dived aboard.

I slumped in a seat and tried to send a triumphant Tweet, but couldn’t – my hands were actually trembling, such was my anxiety about the situation. I had no time to pull myself together, however, as just five minutes later the guard announced the Clifton stop. I was, unsurprisingly, the only person to alight.

After all that kerfuffle, Clifton station could only be an anticlimax. While Salwick had a certain rural tranquility to it, the same could certainly not be said for this slightly scruffy residential outpost of Salford. As expected, the station itself was bare with the only feature on each platform being a rudimentary shelter.

A sign on the road bridge told intending passengers where to go for “Trains to Manchester” and “Trains to Bolton”. To be more accurate it should read “Train”, singular, for Clifton station receives precisely one per day in each direction. There is a morning service at around 7am to Manchester and a return journey (the train I used) in the evening. In theory, these trains are quite well-timed for a commuter journey. In practice, however, I suspect few office workers would take the risk of missing the only train and being stranded. This is reflected in the usage figures – in the 2009/10 financial year just 278 people used this station.

Again, I found myself questioning the reasons for the sparse service. The station itself is in a residential area, there are plenty of local trains passing through every few minutes. I would assume there is enough potential traffic to justify a more regular service.

There was one small highlight – Clifton appears to have escaped the mass Transport for Greater Manchester rebranding exercise, and the roadside sign still proudly bears the original GMPTE logo in the hideous orange colour they used during the late 1980s. Look how pleased I am to be standing underneath it!

So that was Clifton station. With no prospect of another train stopping here until tomorrow morning, I had to walk to Swinton, just over a mile away, from where I could get a train back to Manchester or, even better, to Kirkby for an onward connection to Liverpool.

As I walked, I became aware of a small group of teenage boys on mountain bikes nearby. They were not overly aggressive, but my upbringing has taught me to treat anyone wearing a tracksuit and a baseball cap with suspicion. They pulled up alongside me.

“Where’s the nearest shop to here, mate?” one asked.
“Sorry, I don’t know,” I replied, truthfully, doing my best to hide my Scouse twang.
Disappointed, they pedalled off, but not before one of them yelled at me. “Useless twat!”

I’m guessing they’re not used to tourists around there.