The Jolly Fisherman

In 1984 I discovered that it was possible to take a family trip by train from Loughborough to Skegness, at a very reasonable cost. This particular train was called ‘The Jolly Fisherman’ and was routed via Nottingham, Sleaford, Boston and then Skegness.

British Railways (as it was then) were making good use of their diesel locomotives, normally found working on regular coal trains around the Midlands. In the summertime, due to the schools’ and works’ holidays, coupled by a much reduced demand for coal, a secondary use for them had been found.

The train comprised of two Class 20 diesel electric locomotives, and an interesting assortment of about ten coaches. The train arrived on time at ‘Skeggy’ and the family enjoyed the normal ‘experience’ expected at this seaside town; slight cloud, blown sand, deckchairs, tea in a flask and damp towels!

As the day came to an end, we all made our way slowly back to the station. I remember standing on Skegness station, with my 12-year old son, listening to the chirping howl of the waiting locomotives.

We spoke to the driver, and I did my best to get my son a short loco cab ride back as far as Boston. Sadly, the driver declined my request saying “If it was left to me I would gladly take you both, but them upstairs have put the lid on that sort of thing.” We had to accept his verdict, and content ourselves by standing in the vestibule of the first coach, taking it in turns to stick our heads out of the train window.

It is not just the steam age that has for ever passed; we have lost some of the joys that went with it. What a great shame!

David Taylor

Journey to the sea

We went for an extended weekend to Sutton, the daughter and I, to a caravan rented to us by my brother and his wife for twenty quid and a bit of brotherly banter - but I get the banter anyhow, so that’s just the twenty quid, then.

The drive there was interminable - 2 hours 40 minutes the Sat Nav predicted, in lashing rain and Friday home-time traffic, the two lanes of the A46 reducing into one this side of Newark causing mayhem, as the son had warned me it would, and stopping the travel time from counting backwards as otherwise it should've.

“I need the loo,” the daughter said as we inched forward, and we broke our ‘not until at least half-way’ rule to pull into a service station so she could go. She returned with a packet of Murray mints – most likely a 'should buy something' purchase, I thought, though they were most helpful in smoothing the journey on, not least the stretch where the Sat Nav sent us off the main drag and through hamlets with strange names we'd never heard of.

Muddy water from fields alongside cascaded down the single lanes we travelled on, collecting into pools we must ford in the bottoms. A middle-aged man in a Stetson stood to the side of one such flood with his teenage son, and we wondered if there was a reason for this and whether we should stop. But he smiled and waved us through when we wound down the window to ask him, so we did.

Cautiously, we crawled on, fearful of the unknown terrain, of sharp bends ahead and the sudden need to pull to the cusp of ditch-side tarmac built to a cliff-edge by years of re-surfacing.  Disgruntled locals crawled behind us, others sped at us head-on, these back lanes their diversion from miles of tourist-logged main roads.

A diversion that raised our anxiety levels but kick-started the unwinding of the travel time, putting us back on track - literally - and over the halfway mark. The rain stopped, and cresting the top of a hill we gasped to see the sun-flushed Lincolnshire Wolds below us.

“Not long now,” I said as we turned at last onto an A road. “The way looks fair from here.”

“No worries, Mum,” the daughter smiled. “It's gonna be great. Would you like another mint?”

AM

Summer 1955

I park my bicycle in the shade, and climb up to my preferred location, the bridge wall.

I sit and wait, and look, and listen.

The gates are closed and locked as usual, and the grass has grown higher since the last time that I sat here.

Below where I sit, the old bridge serves to cover the small stream of water that flows from the nearby fields.

The morning sun has heated the huge stone parapet upon which I am sitting, and is now warming my nether regions as I settle to my hobby.

A skylark rises almost from nowhere, and hovers in the clear blue sky, singing its heart out.

In the field, a rabbit comes to my attention and after a few moments others bob into view, ears held high.

A flash of blue turns out to be a dragonfly, closely resembling a small helicopter as it lands on the top of the nearest gate.  

I have recently seen butterflies at this location, red brown, yellow and blue. All these I’m sure are quite common, but interesting just the same.

The peace is disturbed by a local farmer with his noisy tractor, as it converts a green field into a dusty brown carpet. A flock of plovers are his enthusiastic audience.

There is a warm breeze blowing through the trees and hedges, and it always reminds me of the sounds of the sea.

A sudden plop in the water below invites investigation. It turns out to be a water vole, going about its daily chores.

Some days very little happens, but one afternoon I saw a pair of hares doing their boxing thing, just a few yards into the field.

Two bicycles have arrived, with their respective owners.

The normal greetings are exchanged.

Ay up! (Times three)

‘What’s been through?’

‘Only a couple of relics,’ I reply.

The three of us sit, swap news and look and listen.

Metallic noises and the smell of hot tar are things that we take for granted as we sit in the happy world of unspoken friendship.

The sun is getting lower, and I feel that tea time is drawing near.

‘I’m off home’.

‘See you’, chorus the chaps.

‘What have you been doing, and why are you so filthy?' my patient mother is asking.

‘Train Spotting’ I say truthfully.

 

David Taylor

 

Unexpected guest

I opened the door
once
to find a squirrel
in the hallway
up on hind legs
frozen mid-run
with a look that said
‘who the hell are you?’

I screamed and dropped
my shopping
the kids screamed
because I'd screamed
and the squirrel bolted
into the living room
around the living room
back into the hallway
and once we stepped away
to give it room
past still
screaming children
and into the street
to freedom. 

The house was a tip
of broken ornaments
torn curtains
up-turned waste bins
one half-eaten apple rocking
on kitchen windowsill.

I tidied up
but it was many
days before the son
would go to bed without
asking if we were sure
it had gone.

We were sure.
That same day it had come
their dad bought
two terracotta chimney caps
so neither squirrel nor
its brethren
would ever
get inside
again.

A Mott

Coming Home

It was my last week in Paris then I was coming home.

Paris had been my home for two years, and I was beginning to feel that Paris was my home, my real home. I had done all my growing up there, it had been my refuge.

I fled to Paris after a bad experience and it had become a place of adventure and new beginnings from which I emerged older, wiser and able to face the world of home.

Paris is a beautiful city, its architecture, skylines and the vibrant cultural undercurrents were, to me, an elixir which I drank in thirstily every day. Even the bad days were better lived in this atmosphere of upbeat celebration of the good life.

Everything was booked. Eurostar would take me to St Pancras; a night spent in a London bed and breakfast; then a train to Beeston, Nottinghamshire, would take me home to Granny, who had already taken delivery of a large crate containing most of my belongings which had been shipped by Norbert Dentressangle and paid for by my American employers.  

Some of the Americans’ friends were travelling back with me, so I would have company, very good company as it turned out to be, and my last days in Paris were spent enjoying the sights with them, including my first trip ever up the Eiffel Tower.

I had numerous memories, mostly good ones, and felt reluctant to leave Paris, but that time had come to shed my chrysalis and fly free in the sunlight.

Jean T

Grandma’s accessories

My gran was a Justice of the peace (JP) and a County Councillor (CC), also a District Councillor. And a mother of one. She was unable to have more children and so threw herself wholeheartedly into useful and public work.

She had never been a one for glitz and baubles – tatt she called it, but during her period of office she had to look good when she was being followed by a camera. This happened at least twice weekly.

Her big thing was hats. She had a good head for hats and most hats suited her. She mostly wore the round variety, like an upturned plant pot, wider at the brim, narrow across the crown, but she also favoured boater-style hats, dish shaped ones and the smaller round stand-up hats like the ones the Queen wears.

Her colours were never outlandish, always muted - shades of green, pink, black white and grey - to match the formal outfit for the occasion which was usually a suit or dress and coat.

Gran had numerous handbags and even more shoes. The formal shoes matched the handbags, and, even if it was an evening photocall, had to be put on when she got up in the morning. She suffered from swollen ankles

and would never have been able to squeeze her feet into the shoes after lunch. Her everyday shoes were infinitely more varied in size, shape and colour, so that she had shoes that would fit every stage of the swelling ankles.

Jewellery was not important to her, with the exception of her chain of office, and her taste in jewellery was, like her political stance, conservative. Nothing flashy for my Granny. She preferred marcasites to diamonds and silver to gold. The only rings she wore (and never took off) were her plain silver wedding ring and engagement ring with 5 marcasites in a line. Her very few brooches were elegant but unremarkable, as were the 2 necklaces she occasionally wore.

I have most of her jewellery, and wear it sometimes, especially a brooch which was her favourite.  As a small child I loved to entertain the grownups by dressing up as Granny, with her hats, handbags, shoes and jewellery, and I am sure that I looked just as silly in them as she looked elegant.

Jean Taylor, June 2021

All Bloody and Torn Apart

It was during 1984, when I was driving my mother to Hinckley Hospital (where my father was undergoing a small operation) that an unexplained event occurred.

It was a dark and wet night and the country road ahead was illuminated by the headlights of my then new Datsun 100A car.

Passing through a heavily wooded area, I was suddenly obliged to brake hard as a ‘brown shape’ loomed into view, impacted with the front offside wheel, and then struck the driver's door with a huge thump.

Having stopped and made reassuring comments to Mum, I walked back down the road to investigate the incident.

I was expecting to find a large dog in the centre of the road, dead, all bloody and torn apart.

To my amazement I found nothing at all, and after a few minutes I returned to my car quite puzzled.  The only evidence that anything had happened was a huge dent in the driver’s door.

As required by law, I filed the event with Loughborough Police the following day, but I heard no more.

David Taylor