LETTING OFF STEAM; ON THE RAILS THROUGH A WESTCOUNTRY SUMMER

A timeless journey through the English countryside redresses the balance in a modern world…

Trees, hedgerows and fields flashed by in a verdant blur, a hundred shades of green blending into a harmonious oneness. Leaning out of the window a warm wind washed and whipped over my grinning face, an overwhelming feeling of childish joy cascading and pulsating through me catapulting me into a sea of blissful moments from a half-remembered bygone age.

Somerset, mid-summer and there was a soporific thickness to the air. It hadn’t rained for what seemed like weeks and the tall yellowing grasses that sprouted from the sides of the lanes were tinder-dry. We’d woken early that morning and with fervoured excitement had wolfed down our breakfast before making our way to Stogumber station in the folds of the Quantock hills. We were off on the most quintessential of English experiences; a day at the seaside. However, rather than drive the car and park in some soulless out of town car park we’d opted for the more romantic option and had decided to take the steam train to Minehead, a Victorian coastal resort nestled on the edge of Exmoor National Park.

My travelling companions were my wife, kids and my wife’s grandparents. Despite the near-century of years that separated our party we were all equally looking forward to a unique shared experience on the rails and chatted incessantly about the day’s adventure.

We bought our tickets from a kindly lady in a dimly lit wood paneled room full of rail memorabilia and paraphernalia, instantly reminding me of a simpler time, a longed for past free from the shackles of modernity and all that goes with it. My yearning was cut off in its tracks, however, as a long shrill toot came floating down the tracks. Our train had arrived and it was time to jump aboard.

The old steam engine stretched and strained and slowly pulled out of the idyllic rural station headed for the coast. Before long it was panting along in its comfortable hypnotic rhythm exactly as it had done for the last 200 years, carrying me back to a distant childhood, tooting every so often sending out an echo to be absorbed by the over-hanging trees that grew out of the top of the
steep sidings.

We leisurely chugged our way along the valley created by the fern-covered bulks of Exmoor and the Quantocks on either side until we reached the coast, the tall protruding chimneys of Port Talbot glinting across the Bristol Channel in distant Wales. Hugging the shore we continued on through the harbour village of Watchet, supposed scene of Coleridge’s Ancient Mariner’s departure, tourists and locals waving as we passed over the level crossing, barriers down. It was just after Watchet when we literally ran out of steam, the train coming to a complete standstill, stopped dead in its tracks. There was much shouting from the driver and his mate as they clambered down onto the rough gravel that held up the wooden sleepers to check on the engine. The delay certainly didn’t bother us, submerged as we were in a blissful timelessness but it wasn’t long until they got their steam up and we were moving once more.

Pulling into Minehead, we climbed down onto the platform and made our way from the station in search of the innocent joys only an English seaside town can offer, namely fish and chips, ice creams and a beer garden pint.

On the return journey our souls as well as our stomachs were full to bursting, I sat, a deep contentedness having taken hold. The kids were flaked out in my wife and my arms, lolled on the bench seats, lulled by the gentle rocking of the carriage. I looked over at our travelling companions, the Great Grandparents, lost in a reverie, a faraway look in their eyes as they stared out of the thick glass windows. It struck me that they must have had some steam train stories of their own to tell over the years and not from a re-commissioned tourist version either. Sat on that train, my spirit lifted, I was once again wrapped up in the cotton wool of the past and, for this brief moment at least, didn’t want to leave.