I started a blog about my activities back in May. I put it in Stories and Nostalgia, and as with most threads in that folder, it didn't get a lot of views. This may be due to the relative unpopularity of that thread, but it may of course be due to the fact that my tales are very boring and nobody's that interested.
Anyway, I'm going to try again here, in this more popular folder. Please read and get involved by posting yr comments and your own experiences.
The Summer 2010 Bashing Season got underway by using the annual family holiday in [Northern] Ireland as a positioning move on a grand scale. Mainly family stuff during the holiday itself, but two low key bashing opportunities were deftly taken right under the nose of my faintly disapproving wife. The first opportunity came on 27th July during an excellent family day out in Portrush, Northern Ireland’s premier seaside resort. As any fule kno, this is the terminus of one of only two lines anywhere in these islands still operated by DEMUs. From the beach I could hear the classic and unmistakable 4SRKT sound reverberating through the whole town. This having whetted my appetite, I casually dropped into conversation that later I would like to take our sons to Coleraine on the train, and that it would allow her and our daughter a chance to look at the shops for three quarters of an hour. To my surprise this was accepted without issue, although I had to quash her suggestion that we would all go together, because the last thing I want is for her to find out that bashing consists of little more than sitting, apparently aimlessly (to normals at least), on trains.
Armed with my newly augmented understanding of female psychology, at 14:25 the boys and I found ourselves pulling out of Portrush station on board 450 class no. 454 for the 13 minute, 6 mile run to Coleraine. Plenty of jointed track and some 50+ mph running ensured an acceptable level of excitement. 17 minutes at Coleraine, before the 14:55 back to Portrush, and back into the bosom of my family after a brief but pleasant EE fix.
The second opportunity came two days later as a result of the family car developing a slow puncture. This necessitated a trip to Larne to get a new tyre fitted. As any fule kno, Larne is the terminus of the other of the only two lines still using DEMUs, so this seemed too good an opportunity to miss. Recent gen had suggested that the ancient 80 class 4-car unit was still frequently to be seen on its regular M-F peak hour diagram. Timing it correctly would see me in Larne in time to drop off the car and pick up the 09:57 Larne Harbour > Belfast Central, which with fate on my side would be the 80 class. After we’d dropped off the car at a place near the harbour, my five year old son and I walked through the rain to the ferry terminal, and sure enough, a few minutes later 90 and 93 rolled into Larne Harbour station at either end of the 09:41 arrival from Belfast. Joy of joys! We boarded the rattly but very comfortable train and bought day returns to Whitehead, where the trains cross on the single line.
Normal practice at Whitehead is that the up train is let into the station at xx:18, while the down train is held at a signal south of the station and let into the loop once the up train is in. It then departs at xx:20. I’ve seen this happen often enough to regard it as close to a cert, making Larne > Whitehead > Larne a very time-efficient move for bashers. However, on this day there were three TSRs in place between Larne and Whitehead, in connection with track relaying and realigning the loop at Magheramorne. Anyway, windows were wide open and heads stuck out for hellfire thrash and dense clag from both power cars as we clattered along the causeways on this very pleasant coastal run. Despite the TSRs we were only a minute down at Ballycarry (last stop before Whitehead), when some clown comes strolling down the path to the platform and starts having a chat with the guard. After a few seconds (that seemed like several minutes), he waved his arm to signal to his family who had been waiting, unseen, in the wings for his call. They proceeded to amble slowly down the path from the road, causing us to depart two down! Not looking good, because it’s only an hourly service, and I’d have to explain to my wife just exactly what had been going on to cause my late arrival back at the holiday cottage, and the noble art of bashing would be frowned upon once more. Then we got checked at a signal outside Whitehead station. WTF??!! Why oh why hadn’t I bailed at Ballycarry? By this time I was getting very jittery because this was now a minus one Man of Steel move, to be accomplished across a pedestrian level crossing with a five year old in tow. The 457 set was already in the down platform on the 09:42 Central > Larne Harbour as we pulled in, and I leapt out as soon as we stopped (I’d carefully positioned us in the rear power car to minimise distance). Dragging the boy along by one arm, and ignoring the red light on the crossing (apologies to anyone who gives a hoot about this sort of thing, but needs must), we fell in through the sliding doors of leading DTS no. 787, which the guard had kept open for us (thank you!). We moved down the train to the power car at the rear, pulled open a couple of hopper ventilators, and settled down to enjoy another 21 minutes of EE thrash back to Larne Harbour.
Anyway, the positioning move came about because after the holiday in Northern Ireland was over, I drove my wife and kids to Dublin where they were to stay for another fortnight with her parents. One short DART ride on 2nd August was all the rail interest obtained, but the fun started later that evening when I took the boat at 21:15 from Dublin Port to Holyhead.
The collection of people on the boat was a bit of an odd assortment. Ranging from family groups to lorry drivers to a raging alcoholic chain smoking old woman whose speech was so incoherent that the only word clearly to be made out was ‘Budweiser’. Quite handy really as this was something she had a lot of use for. The crossing was smooth enough, which was quite annoying really as I would have preferred it to be several hours late in order to cut down the time to be spent waiting at Holyhead. I was a bit apprehensive about this wait because I had no idea what the facilities would be like, or even that I would be allowed to stay in the terminal at all. This was quite a sobering thought, that I would be put out on the streets of Holyhead at one in the morning. It turned out that you can stay in the terminal, but the seats are just the standard red metal benches you get at most railway stations. The ones with individual metal armrests to prevent lying down. Not good. The first train out was at 04:25, nearly 4 hours away, but I was hanging on for the 05:32 WAG train in order to get the 57. By 2 o’clock I was starting to waver and thinking that I might just say balls to the ‘snatcher, and take the 175 on the 04:25. However, this would have just resulted in a longer wait somewhere else, so I decided to persevere. At about 3 o’clock some bored scousers started having a fight and the police were called. At this point I started questioning my sanity and whether any love of railways really is worth this amount of hassle.
Anyway, come 4 o’clock most people went off for the 04:25. I watched it leave then watched the remainder of the people drift over for the 04:50 to Euston (Voyager). I was the only remaining passenger! Surely more people than just me must appreciate the delights of loco haulage? It was nice finally to be on the move at first light, in a lovely old Mk IIf BSO, with 57315 up front. All too soon we were at Llandudno Junction at 06:19 and main line loco haulage was over for the day.
My plan had been to buy a £12 North Wales Day Ticket, and get a few train rides in before getting a bus to Caernarfon for the Welsh Highland Railway. However, chaos was reigning at the Junction due to a ‘fatality’ (I assume this is a euphemism for ‘suicide’) at Chester. Since I had to be at Bangor on the 08:36 arrival in order to be able to get a bus to Caernarfon in time for the 10:00 WHR departure to Pont Croesor, I decided that trying to use trains was too messy and walked over to McDonalds for breakfast, before picking up a bus right through to Caernarfon for a mere £3.10.
At Caernarfon it didn’t take long to find the WHR station, and buy a single ticket to Pont Croesor, at an eye-watering £18.70! About half an hour later the most enormous narrow gauge loco I’ve ever seen pulled into the platform with the stock. Dark blue livered Garrett loco no 87, and what a handsome beast. The train rapidly filled up with normals (including a couple of coach parties), and at 10:00 we left on time. Even with 9 large coaches and a bogie wagon for bags and bikes in tow, this mighty machine made mincemeat of the journey along the old LNWR alignment to Dinas Junction.
The drizzle was relentless by this stage, and I was worried that the views from the train would be invisible. However, now on the WHR proper, it was heads out all the way for a mixture of smuts and rain. My hair was thick with smuts after a few minutes, and the rain was washing coal dust and filth in little rivers all down my face, so I must have looked like some sort of bedraggled monster to the other passengers. Anyway, this was a pretty exhilarating run, and the sun came out before Beddgelert and the awesome descent to the station round some really sharp reverse curves. The celebrated Pass of Aberglaslyn was just stunning, really worth every penny. When I was a child, the Welsh Highland Railway was the stuff of legend; a ghost from an impossibly distant past. Never ever could I have imagined that I, one day, could have ridden on a train through this famous pass. Well done to all who’ve made this happen: this is without question the finest preserved railway in the country, and one of the best journeys on any line I can think of.
Annoyingly though, the line is still short of Porthmadog, despite the track being laid throughout. I set out on a 3 ½ mile walk to the Ffestiniog station, carrying a rucksack weighing at least 40 lb. I could have waited for the open top bus connection (Bristol VR), but two things prevented this: (i) it doesn’t connect very well; a half hour wait despite being the only reason it runs (?), and (ii) meanness; this day was costing a small fortune and a couple of quid saved was most welcome. By the time I got to Porthmadog I was pretty tired, but presumably somewhat lighter. The weather was perfect for walking, and I shudder to think what would have happened to me had the sun been belting down as I carried my heavy pack and beer gut for 3 ½ miles. I’d have probably dissolved in a pool of sweat in the street in Tremadog. I met my father at Porthmadog, who’d travelled that morning from York via Manchester, Shrewsbury and Machynlleth. His 158 from Machynlleth had dodgy doors, and was 22 minutes late at Porthmadog, so he had to jog down the road to meet me. He could have done the Minffordd Leap, but he only wanted to do this as a last resort. More open wallet surgery as I parted with £12.35 for a single fare, and Earl of Merioneth was waiting to take us and more coach parties of dreary, grey haired normals up to Blaenau.
The Ffestiniog was always my favourite Welsh narrow gauge line, but after the Welsh Highland it seemed pretty tame I have to say. Still, it was pleasant enough, and my father and I chewed the fat up to Blaenau, where we got on board 150208 for the run up the very pleasant Conwy Valley line back to the Junction (£6.40). Hordes of people boarded at Betws-y-Coed, and the train was pretty full from there on. A short wait at the junction for a 2-car 175 and standing room only (luckily we got a seat) on to Manchester. It really isn’t good enough having such inadequate stock on such a journey, and to add to the general level of discomfort the heating was inexplicably on. Madness. The train remained busy pretty much all the way to Piccadilly, where we arrived 5 early at 18:23 instead of 18:28. This enabled us to dash over the bridge (although the 175 terminated right at the east end ramp at platform 13, maximising passengers’ walk to the bridge. Why?) and pick up the 18:27 York train instead of the expected 18:42 to Hull. This was better for my dad as he was returning to York, and also gave me 4 minutes at Leeds to get on the 19:26 Skipton train instead of the planned 19:56. By this time I’d been up for over 36 hours, with only three unsatisfactory 20 minute dozes, and in my semi-delirious state getting home half an hour earlier suddenly seemed the most important thing in the world. ‘Irritated’ therefore does not come close to describing the state of my emotions as we trundled from Dewsbury into Leeds, suffering repeated slowing down for double yellows etc. No idea why this was happening as the previous stopper was well in front. I walked back to the rearmost door as we rolled into Leeds almost 2 down, and then sprinted up the bridge escalator and ran for all I was worth, still carrying the 40 lb rucksack, all the way to platform 2b. The guard had just closed all the doors except his as I sprinted the last 30 yards or so and, for the second time in a few days, almost fell into a train just in the nick of time. I could hardly speak for a couple of minutes, but I triumphantly texted my dad to let him know I’d made it
Tired but content I bailed at Saltaire on time at 19:40 and was back in the house before 8.
To sum up, I will never, ever do the Holyhead move again. I don’t regret it, as it allowed me to position myself for an outstanding day of enjoyment, but I have reluctantly come to the conclusion that, at 39 years of age, I am now simply too old for this sort of thing
I’ve suggested this move to other people on the forum, and although I wouldn’t retract that suggestion, I’d warn anyone who is planning to do it to brace themselves for a pretty awful time. Anyway, it’s now just a memory and a good anecdote about stereotypical scouser behaviour, and facilitated a great start to the Summer Bashing Season. There’s plenty more to come over the coming week before I return to Ireland to collect the family next Wednesday
Anyway, I'm going to try again here, in this more popular folder. Please read and get involved by posting yr comments and your own experiences.
The Summer 2010 Bashing Season got underway by using the annual family holiday in [Northern] Ireland as a positioning move on a grand scale. Mainly family stuff during the holiday itself, but two low key bashing opportunities were deftly taken right under the nose of my faintly disapproving wife. The first opportunity came on 27th July during an excellent family day out in Portrush, Northern Ireland’s premier seaside resort. As any fule kno, this is the terminus of one of only two lines anywhere in these islands still operated by DEMUs. From the beach I could hear the classic and unmistakable 4SRKT sound reverberating through the whole town. This having whetted my appetite, I casually dropped into conversation that later I would like to take our sons to Coleraine on the train, and that it would allow her and our daughter a chance to look at the shops for three quarters of an hour. To my surprise this was accepted without issue, although I had to quash her suggestion that we would all go together, because the last thing I want is for her to find out that bashing consists of little more than sitting, apparently aimlessly (to normals at least), on trains.
Armed with my newly augmented understanding of female psychology, at 14:25 the boys and I found ourselves pulling out of Portrush station on board 450 class no. 454 for the 13 minute, 6 mile run to Coleraine. Plenty of jointed track and some 50+ mph running ensured an acceptable level of excitement. 17 minutes at Coleraine, before the 14:55 back to Portrush, and back into the bosom of my family after a brief but pleasant EE fix.
The second opportunity came two days later as a result of the family car developing a slow puncture. This necessitated a trip to Larne to get a new tyre fitted. As any fule kno, Larne is the terminus of the other of the only two lines still using DEMUs, so this seemed too good an opportunity to miss. Recent gen had suggested that the ancient 80 class 4-car unit was still frequently to be seen on its regular M-F peak hour diagram. Timing it correctly would see me in Larne in time to drop off the car and pick up the 09:57 Larne Harbour > Belfast Central, which with fate on my side would be the 80 class. After we’d dropped off the car at a place near the harbour, my five year old son and I walked through the rain to the ferry terminal, and sure enough, a few minutes later 90 and 93 rolled into Larne Harbour station at either end of the 09:41 arrival from Belfast. Joy of joys! We boarded the rattly but very comfortable train and bought day returns to Whitehead, where the trains cross on the single line.
Normal practice at Whitehead is that the up train is let into the station at xx:18, while the down train is held at a signal south of the station and let into the loop once the up train is in. It then departs at xx:20. I’ve seen this happen often enough to regard it as close to a cert, making Larne > Whitehead > Larne a very time-efficient move for bashers. However, on this day there were three TSRs in place between Larne and Whitehead, in connection with track relaying and realigning the loop at Magheramorne. Anyway, windows were wide open and heads stuck out for hellfire thrash and dense clag from both power cars as we clattered along the causeways on this very pleasant coastal run. Despite the TSRs we were only a minute down at Ballycarry (last stop before Whitehead), when some clown comes strolling down the path to the platform and starts having a chat with the guard. After a few seconds (that seemed like several minutes), he waved his arm to signal to his family who had been waiting, unseen, in the wings for his call. They proceeded to amble slowly down the path from the road, causing us to depart two down! Not looking good, because it’s only an hourly service, and I’d have to explain to my wife just exactly what had been going on to cause my late arrival back at the holiday cottage, and the noble art of bashing would be frowned upon once more. Then we got checked at a signal outside Whitehead station. WTF??!! Why oh why hadn’t I bailed at Ballycarry? By this time I was getting very jittery because this was now a minus one Man of Steel move, to be accomplished across a pedestrian level crossing with a five year old in tow. The 457 set was already in the down platform on the 09:42 Central > Larne Harbour as we pulled in, and I leapt out as soon as we stopped (I’d carefully positioned us in the rear power car to minimise distance). Dragging the boy along by one arm, and ignoring the red light on the crossing (apologies to anyone who gives a hoot about this sort of thing, but needs must), we fell in through the sliding doors of leading DTS no. 787, which the guard had kept open for us (thank you!). We moved down the train to the power car at the rear, pulled open a couple of hopper ventilators, and settled down to enjoy another 21 minutes of EE thrash back to Larne Harbour.
Anyway, the positioning move came about because after the holiday in Northern Ireland was over, I drove my wife and kids to Dublin where they were to stay for another fortnight with her parents. One short DART ride on 2nd August was all the rail interest obtained, but the fun started later that evening when I took the boat at 21:15 from Dublin Port to Holyhead.
The collection of people on the boat was a bit of an odd assortment. Ranging from family groups to lorry drivers to a raging alcoholic chain smoking old woman whose speech was so incoherent that the only word clearly to be made out was ‘Budweiser’. Quite handy really as this was something she had a lot of use for. The crossing was smooth enough, which was quite annoying really as I would have preferred it to be several hours late in order to cut down the time to be spent waiting at Holyhead. I was a bit apprehensive about this wait because I had no idea what the facilities would be like, or even that I would be allowed to stay in the terminal at all. This was quite a sobering thought, that I would be put out on the streets of Holyhead at one in the morning. It turned out that you can stay in the terminal, but the seats are just the standard red metal benches you get at most railway stations. The ones with individual metal armrests to prevent lying down. Not good. The first train out was at 04:25, nearly 4 hours away, but I was hanging on for the 05:32 WAG train in order to get the 57. By 2 o’clock I was starting to waver and thinking that I might just say balls to the ‘snatcher, and take the 175 on the 04:25. However, this would have just resulted in a longer wait somewhere else, so I decided to persevere. At about 3 o’clock some bored scousers started having a fight and the police were called. At this point I started questioning my sanity and whether any love of railways really is worth this amount of hassle.
Anyway, come 4 o’clock most people went off for the 04:25. I watched it leave then watched the remainder of the people drift over for the 04:50 to Euston (Voyager). I was the only remaining passenger! Surely more people than just me must appreciate the delights of loco haulage? It was nice finally to be on the move at first light, in a lovely old Mk IIf BSO, with 57315 up front. All too soon we were at Llandudno Junction at 06:19 and main line loco haulage was over for the day.
My plan had been to buy a £12 North Wales Day Ticket, and get a few train rides in before getting a bus to Caernarfon for the Welsh Highland Railway. However, chaos was reigning at the Junction due to a ‘fatality’ (I assume this is a euphemism for ‘suicide’) at Chester. Since I had to be at Bangor on the 08:36 arrival in order to be able to get a bus to Caernarfon in time for the 10:00 WHR departure to Pont Croesor, I decided that trying to use trains was too messy and walked over to McDonalds for breakfast, before picking up a bus right through to Caernarfon for a mere £3.10.
At Caernarfon it didn’t take long to find the WHR station, and buy a single ticket to Pont Croesor, at an eye-watering £18.70! About half an hour later the most enormous narrow gauge loco I’ve ever seen pulled into the platform with the stock. Dark blue livered Garrett loco no 87, and what a handsome beast. The train rapidly filled up with normals (including a couple of coach parties), and at 10:00 we left on time. Even with 9 large coaches and a bogie wagon for bags and bikes in tow, this mighty machine made mincemeat of the journey along the old LNWR alignment to Dinas Junction.
The drizzle was relentless by this stage, and I was worried that the views from the train would be invisible. However, now on the WHR proper, it was heads out all the way for a mixture of smuts and rain. My hair was thick with smuts after a few minutes, and the rain was washing coal dust and filth in little rivers all down my face, so I must have looked like some sort of bedraggled monster to the other passengers. Anyway, this was a pretty exhilarating run, and the sun came out before Beddgelert and the awesome descent to the station round some really sharp reverse curves. The celebrated Pass of Aberglaslyn was just stunning, really worth every penny. When I was a child, the Welsh Highland Railway was the stuff of legend; a ghost from an impossibly distant past. Never ever could I have imagined that I, one day, could have ridden on a train through this famous pass. Well done to all who’ve made this happen: this is without question the finest preserved railway in the country, and one of the best journeys on any line I can think of.
Annoyingly though, the line is still short of Porthmadog, despite the track being laid throughout. I set out on a 3 ½ mile walk to the Ffestiniog station, carrying a rucksack weighing at least 40 lb. I could have waited for the open top bus connection (Bristol VR), but two things prevented this: (i) it doesn’t connect very well; a half hour wait despite being the only reason it runs (?), and (ii) meanness; this day was costing a small fortune and a couple of quid saved was most welcome. By the time I got to Porthmadog I was pretty tired, but presumably somewhat lighter. The weather was perfect for walking, and I shudder to think what would have happened to me had the sun been belting down as I carried my heavy pack and beer gut for 3 ½ miles. I’d have probably dissolved in a pool of sweat in the street in Tremadog. I met my father at Porthmadog, who’d travelled that morning from York via Manchester, Shrewsbury and Machynlleth. His 158 from Machynlleth had dodgy doors, and was 22 minutes late at Porthmadog, so he had to jog down the road to meet me. He could have done the Minffordd Leap, but he only wanted to do this as a last resort. More open wallet surgery as I parted with £12.35 for a single fare, and Earl of Merioneth was waiting to take us and more coach parties of dreary, grey haired normals up to Blaenau.
The Ffestiniog was always my favourite Welsh narrow gauge line, but after the Welsh Highland it seemed pretty tame I have to say. Still, it was pleasant enough, and my father and I chewed the fat up to Blaenau, where we got on board 150208 for the run up the very pleasant Conwy Valley line back to the Junction (£6.40). Hordes of people boarded at Betws-y-Coed, and the train was pretty full from there on. A short wait at the junction for a 2-car 175 and standing room only (luckily we got a seat) on to Manchester. It really isn’t good enough having such inadequate stock on such a journey, and to add to the general level of discomfort the heating was inexplicably on. Madness. The train remained busy pretty much all the way to Piccadilly, where we arrived 5 early at 18:23 instead of 18:28. This enabled us to dash over the bridge (although the 175 terminated right at the east end ramp at platform 13, maximising passengers’ walk to the bridge. Why?) and pick up the 18:27 York train instead of the expected 18:42 to Hull. This was better for my dad as he was returning to York, and also gave me 4 minutes at Leeds to get on the 19:26 Skipton train instead of the planned 19:56. By this time I’d been up for over 36 hours, with only three unsatisfactory 20 minute dozes, and in my semi-delirious state getting home half an hour earlier suddenly seemed the most important thing in the world. ‘Irritated’ therefore does not come close to describing the state of my emotions as we trundled from Dewsbury into Leeds, suffering repeated slowing down for double yellows etc. No idea why this was happening as the previous stopper was well in front. I walked back to the rearmost door as we rolled into Leeds almost 2 down, and then sprinted up the bridge escalator and ran for all I was worth, still carrying the 40 lb rucksack, all the way to platform 2b. The guard had just closed all the doors except his as I sprinted the last 30 yards or so and, for the second time in a few days, almost fell into a train just in the nick of time. I could hardly speak for a couple of minutes, but I triumphantly texted my dad to let him know I’d made it
Tired but content I bailed at Saltaire on time at 19:40 and was back in the house before 8.To sum up, I will never, ever do the Holyhead move again. I don’t regret it, as it allowed me to position myself for an outstanding day of enjoyment, but I have reluctantly come to the conclusion that, at 39 years of age, I am now simply too old for this sort of thing
I’ve suggested this move to other people on the forum, and although I wouldn’t retract that suggestion, I’d warn anyone who is planning to do it to brace themselves for a pretty awful time. Anyway, it’s now just a memory and a good anecdote about stereotypical scouser behaviour, and facilitated a great start to the Summer Bashing Season. There’s plenty more to come over the coming week before I return to Ireland to collect the family next Wednesday 
Hopefully I'll also find time to comment next time too 
). At Perth the atmospheric surroundings of the station were eerily familiar, and I got my head out one last time as we pulled out, and then I retired to my berth for the night.