This August, I was allowed to share the best-kept secret in England. A part of the world best hidden from the usual tourist tramplings. A part of the world that is wild, natural, exciting, untouched and awesome in its beauty. My 11-year-old daughter, Heidi, and I had the singular privilege to travel on the Cumbrian Mountain Express, behind the Blue Peter, along the Settle-Carlisle line.
August 8, 1992, in London at least, dawned bright and promising. While Heidi and I had arrived at Euston early, our train had not. Finally, the CME pulled in. We found our seats and settled in. Doors banged, footsteps mounted stairs, and shuffled along the aisles. Hearty greetings bounced up and down the coaches. Snatches of train trivia sprinkled back to us from both directions. We were strangers in a special world, with a language of its own.
Our friend, Gordon Keers, would be joining us, most likely in Wigan. Gordon, who had met us at the Geneva train station the year before, had arranged for this trip. Over the past year, Gordon kept in touch. He sent me a calendar from the Settle-Carlisle Line. When I mentioned how beautiful it seemed in pictures, he decided that we had to see it in person. And here we were.
Doors slammed shut. Conductors shouted. Windows quickly shut. The train moved out of Euston on time at 8:20 am. Slowly, it lurched its way through Willesden Junction and stopped at Watford Junction. To our immense surprise and relief, Gordon made it to Watford.
We had traveled, by train—of course, with Gordon from Orange, France to Breganz, Austria only two weeks earlier, so we only had a little catching up to do. Heidi adores Gordon and brought along the stuffed bear he bought her in Switzerland. She in turn taught him card games. He hates card games. He is a very tolerant friend.
The further north we journeyed, the worse the weather became. It was downright unpleasant at times, rain lashing our coaches and fogging our windows.
In Crewe, we picked up our other seat mates, Gary and his brother from outside the Crewe area.
Tall, lanky Alan, a volunteer with the Flying Scotsman Service, journeyed up the aisle, checking on his passengers and obstenably collecting rubbish. Mostly, he was dispensing and collecting stories and making the trip even more memorable to we neophyte steam travelers. He was a gold mine of train lore and wonderful tales.
Next stop: Lostock Hall Junction. The electric engine decoupled and pulled away. Blue Peter backed into place. We could feel the change of engines as the movements vibrated through the coaches. With each puff of steam, with each pull of Blue Peter's crankshafts, smiles grew and conversations were more animated.
At Blackburn, we stopped for water. Rain pelted us as we dashed out from the cover of the station. Alan loaned Heidi his enormous mac so she see the engine.
We started up The Long Drag. By now, the trip went by so quickly. Steam drifted by our windows. I'd lean out of the window, take a picture, and upon sitting down, discover the entire lens was pocked with drops. Hopefully, the pictures would be sharp. This was a once-in-a-lifetime deal.
We stopped at Garsdale. The clouds were merciful and the train emptied as everyone took the opportunity to photograph Blue Peter in his glory. My pictures show a proud engine on the top of a rise, framed against a white-fog sky, steam hissing from pipes near the front wheels. Trainmen gesticulate at each other and crawl over the coal tender behind the engine.
Alan told me more train stories. He looked for Heidi to ask her if she would like to climb into the platform. We couldn't find her. By the time I did, she was in the coach and we had to continue.
We cruised through Appleby. Because of a earlier problem watering our train, we had to skip our scheduled photo-stop in Appleby. Lucky for us our stop at Garsdale.
One by one the stations and mileposts slid by. As I leaned out of the window, rain drops pricked my face like pins, I marveled at the people lining the tracks, waving, shooting pictures and videos, and grinning. Weren't we the lucky ones! They were everywhere. From the time Blue Peter joined us until his departure at Carlisle, there were people lining the tracks: at crossings, at stations, opened and closed, and along the roads near the tracks. Gordon told me this would be a special trip. Now I understood.
In Carlisle, before Blue Peter left us, Heidi and other children were hoisted onto the platform. She loved it and came down with tales of cups of tea heating on the engine housing. Alan told us about the engineer's breakfast: eggs cooked on shovels stuck in the fire.
And then it was time. We watched as our friend, Blue Peter, decoupled and puffed away, taking the past with him.
Back to today. The exciting part was over. In Crewe, Alan, Gary, and Gordon left us.
We were alone again. It wasn't the same.
© 1991 Kitty Werner