THE TRAIN MEN

“I’m actually quite glad the age of steam is over,” said Dan, twinkling. George, the train enthusiast to whom he was talking, flared his nostrils and wiped black grubby fingers down his overalls.

“Yeah, I wanted to be a train driver,” Dan continued, “But apparently you had to be a fireman first, and that meant shovelling five tonnes of coal a day! I couldn’t have done that.”

I watched. George didn’t think it would be that bad. Dan was unaware that he was trampling on George’s one and only dream in life. The awkwardness puffed into the air and in a moment, the sky was blue again.

 

I’m not sure that was the thing to have said to someone who lives for steam trains.

I was at the home of a centenarian who used to own a company that made fine cast models. In the 50s and 60s, if you didn’t have Hornby, you probably had Wills Finecast, and from the models I saw, you’d have had quite an exquisite product around your model track.

Bob Wills, an old man now, sat in a comfortable chair looking out across his garden. Beyond his green grass and distant pond, beyond the outhouses and farm sheds, and above the far away fence, waved the trees of Ashdown Forest. And every now and again, Bob’s view must have been interrupted, or perhaps completed, by a cloud of glorious white, and the cheery poop of his 18-inch-gauge steam engines.

“You’re a music man then?” sparkled Bob, looking back at me.

“Yes, I suppose I am,” I said, clearly. I’d never really felt embarrassed by that before.

“Not a train man then!” he chuckled.

Bob is, obviously. Over the years, he’s built the little railway line that circles his house. And until he needed George, I imagine he ran those engines to polished perfection himself. I rather liked how he implied that being a ‘train man’ rather meant there could be no space in your heart for anything else. I like trains, I wanted to say, but no, I could not claim to be a train man.

Most of the others, like me, were along for the ride. Tim (the friend who had invited me) was happy to steam round in the cab of the little blue tank engine. George sat full square behind the smart red engine, and spent the afternoon pulling passengers around Bob’s fields, while Bob and his wife enjoyed the view.

There is something delightful about steam - even in miniature. My highlights were the distinctive sound of the engine as it built up speed. As we rattled around the fields, the steam chuffed into the air, chugga chugga chugga chugga over the sleepers. The boiler sang happily in the sunshine. Then there’s the excitement of the whistle - a sort of timeless, fulsome sound, a poop-poop of purest joy. And then the hiss of steam at the stopping point. It billowed out under the wheels, rushing along the grass and gravel, just as it must have done on station platforms up and down the land. Beautiful.

The age of steam isn’t gone at all for the likes of George and Bob. It lives on wonderfully in nostalgic afternoons by Ashdown Forest, when in the distance, over the hills, a white puff of steam shoots up against the green, ready to linger for a moment in a long wispy cloud.

I had a really great day, and I drove home with a smile on my face. I might not be a train man, but I think it’s okay to say I like trains. Because I really do.