Railway Man

Any more steam engines at this location seemed unlikely, so I drove to Lancaster station in the early evening hoping for more activity. On Lancaster’s Down platform, I joined three other railway enthusiasts, including a boy of about twelve years, where we would be blessed with a rapid succession of steam movements. First, a lengthy express freight stormed by on the Up Main handled with ease by a Black Five. What greater final tribute to the power of steam could there be than a fiery Black Five roaring by at fifty miles per hour hustling a long fitted freight? Next, an 8F-hauled mixed freight approached from the south. It diverted off the main line, took the Down platform line and slowly passed right in front of us. We could not believe out luck! With brakes grinding, the engine came to a gentle halt in a bower of softly swirling steam in front of a red colour light signal at the platform end. The locomotive now stood a short distance from the band of steam lovers. Oddly, not one of us approached the footplate crew to ask their destination, their home shed, or reason for their quiescence. Perhaps if only one of us had been there, an approach might have been made, but in the presence of others we exercised restraint. No one wished to appear juvenile - not even the juvenile. Neither did we talk to one another. Self-consciousness, insularity or diffidence may have impeded conversation. A more likely explanation is that such discourse would have been communal appreciation, which does not come easy, for the love of steam (like love for a woman) is intensely personal. An explosion of steam on the Down Fast announced a northbound express freight. In little time the steam engine tore by, but we saw only a narrow slice between stationary freight wagons in front of us; only one short blast of steam found its way between the gap as the locomotive flew by. All too soon the speeding freight with guard’s van swaying in the rear was gone. It left four people standing on the platform stunned by the speed at which the locomotive swept its urgent, rattling train through Lancaster. It left them frustrated at being deprived of a better view and saddened by the thought they would soon never, ever again be able to enjoy the exhilarating, breath-taking, unstoppable charge of a steam-hauled express freight train. Why did it all have to end? After a short while, the colour light signal at the platform end changed from red to yellow revealing that the train in front of us had been sidetracked in favour of one that had just torn through. Seconds later, a small audience enjoyed the rare privilege of witnessing close-at-hand the incomparable drama of a steam engine starting from dead stop. With the driver’s first tug on the regulator, a deafening bark from the 8F’s chimney was followed by another, then another, then another, each blast of wriggling grey smoke coming quicker than the one before. Four besotted spectators admired the smoothly gyrating system of rods, glistening with grease, attached to the driving wheels that controlled steam intake to the cylinders, the Walschaerts valve gear. The goods train triumphantly snaked out onto the main line, accelerated, and, under a reddening northern sky, the twilight of steam slogged resolutely into the twilight of the day. With no more steam traction in sight on this pleasant July evening, I left Lancaster station for home.