Nowhere is Perfect

Our second home had a railway track running directly behind the back garden. We had decided to move with our young baby son and toddler daughter, away from the maze of terraced streets in the centre of Leicester.

The house’s proximity to the railway had been no deterrent. The first few weeks, however, made us conscious of every speeding passenger train as they whistled by, here then gone in an instant. Goods trains with their heavy loads and great lengths of carriages trundled by at a much slower rate, shaking the house as they went. Within a short time, we grew accustomed, and barely noticed the noise or the vibration. Trains then only became a bother if the crossing gates closed as you approached when you were late for an appointment in the town. Overnight visitors would have a disturbed night, but we were deaf to the noise and could only assure them that you soon got used to it.

A special event involving the railway was when “The Flying Scotsman” was to pass through on its final journey. Tracy’s bedroom provided the ideal platform to view over the six-foot fence as the green flash of the engine screamed past.

A neighbour - and train buff - had bought his house specifically for its location next to the line. He invited us around one evening for supper and drinks with the promise of showing us his railway memorabilia. We expected a train set or a few photos. He treated us to endless tape recordings of various engines, puffing and chugging into various stations. “The 17.49 to Basingstoke” was indistinguishable from any other to the uninterested ear. This experience was one for us to avoid in future.

Our next house sat alongside the A46. Traffic was continuous and ran at all hours of the day and night. For a few weeks we were mesmerised. A stream of white headlights lit up our lounge. These changed to a red hew of taillights once they passed or halted in traffic jams and queues at traffic lights. Again, we quickly attuned to the busy road, only noticing it when trying to find a gap in the traffic to exit our drive in the mornings.

By far the hardest sound to accept was when we moved to Barlestone. The house was perfectly situated with three sides of countryside and farmland. There was silence. Nothing to get used to - or so we thought. Our first night saw us collapse into bed. Exhaustion from lifting furniture, cleaning the house we’d left and also this dusty, brand-new build. Off to sleep with not a disturbance, just the sweet smell of fresh paint and cleanliness – bliss ...

… until 4am, that is. The farmer’s cockerel made himself known before daylight every morning. He, by some considerable distance, took longer to learn to tolerate. Two people who could kill nothing larger than a wasp hatched elaborate plans of how we could finish him off in those small wee hours!

Carolyn Wheatley

Photo by Nick Fewings @jannerboy62 - sourced from Unsplash.com