Wednesday was to be my last day in Hull so I packed quickly when I woke. With not much bought since my arrival there was still plenty of room in my bag. After that I walked across the street to the Tesco convenience store for the morning paper. My choice from the dozen available was The Hull Daily Mail. The morning headline story in all the papers was an evisceration of Kevin Spacey and his predatory sexual habits. In past visits I’d have got the paper from John at the newsagent’s shop, he’d run the old style shop for decades. In addition to newspapers he also carried cigars and cigarettes, and rows and rows of jars of candies. Next to the candies had been rows and rows of questionable magazines. Sadly once the flashy competition opened next door it wasn’t long before he’d had to close up.
The other shops in the old terraced house conversion now include a vet, a hairdresser, a Chinese restaurant and a law office. When I came to England on my first visit in 1994 the shops were owner occupied with the upstairs rooms lived in by the shopkeepers. Today the block has been completely renovated and I only ever noticed lights on the second floor above the Chinese restaurant.
When I got back to the house I found my eighty-five year old aunt putting the finishing touches to a full English breakfast. Sausage, eggs, bacon, tomato and beans. I was soon stuffed like a Christmas goose but feeling a little morose, and I sensed my aunt did as well. Neither of us knew if we’d see each other again.
Our plan was to take a city bus to the terminus at Hull’s central Paragon Station. Handily Paragon also housed the hundred and sixty year old train station where I’d be catching one to King’s Cross Station in London. The plan would conclude with Sheila being assured I was safely aboard before taking the bus back home. Both of us were prepared for a bittersweet morning.
As with all the best laid plans of mice and men things changed. Just as the breakfast dishes were done up there was a knock at the front door. My cousin Judith was outside with Sheila’s great-grandson Carter in his stroller. It is hard to be sad when there is a two year old about. Suddenly there was a new plan. The four of us would be taking the bus downtown, but with a couple of wrinkles.
Unknown to us Judith’s son David, his wife Ellis and daughters Mia (5) and Evie (1) would be surprising us at the station. For good measure David’s dad Trevor would be there as well with Carter’s four year old brother Jake in tow. A few minutes’ later we were standing at the bus stop when David and family drove by. Judith casually told us they were off to Trevor’s downtown apartment to help set up bunk-beds for his grandchildren. Sure enough when the bus drove by the apartment building Ellis and the kids were out front waving to us from the curbside. It was only when we got to the station and a gaggle of people showed up that Sheila and I became aware of the amended send off. To be fair they were mostly there to support Sheila who they expected to be sad when I departed. They were all going out to lunch when I was safely on my way.
We all stood about joking and taking pictures for a quarter of an hour while the kids stuffed themselves with candy. When it was time to head to the train platform there was another ten minutes of hugs and saying so long, bye, til next time. Then everyone quietly stepped away so Sheila and I could say goodbye. We were crying by then and I was drying my eyes when I stepped aboard and waved goodbye to my aunt standing alone outside the window.
I’d been on this train before and so had booked a seat in the Quiet Car. This meant lap tops, tablets, and mercifully cell phones weren’t allowed. In my experience it is a policy that is rigidly observed by passengers and needs only passive monitoring by rail staff. Although, a woman did board a couple of stops down the line and immediately used her phone for a minute or two. She put it away when a nearby passenger silently motioned to a sign on the window.
As the train pulled out I wiped away the last of my tears.
I like travelling on trains by myself and was looking forward to the two and half hour trip south. Hull Trains numbers its carriages alphabetically and I was sitting in A. The carriage had been last on the train coming into Paragon Station which meant it would be first heading back to London. There was no turning of trains around on this line. Once arrived at a station the driver simply walks the length of his train and takes the controls for the return journey, very efficient.
I was facing forward on the River Humber side of the train and once underway we were quickly up to speed heading west. The mighty Humber Bridge soon came into view as we hurtled along. The bridge is a 2.2 kilometre single span suspension bridge which opened to traffic in 1981. It remained the longest such structure in the world until 1998; progress is relentless and today it’s the eighth longest. The toll bridge connecting the East Riding of Yorkshire with North Lincolnshire can be seen for miles and carries over 120,000 vehicles a week.
While still on the platform Judith had slipped me a meat pie from my now favourite bakery on earth, Coopland’s, to have for my lunch. I couldn’t wait and soon ate it. The train was quiet and smooth and riding alongside the river I recognized a number of landmarks. The Humber’s tide was out exposing at least thirty metres of thick black mud. Just then we passed a park where I’d gone on a hike with an ambling group years back. The park is a memorial to the famous Ferriby boats which were discovered in the low tide mud of the river by brothers Ted and William Wright. It is not too much of a stretch to decipher ferry from Ferriby. It has long been known that in ancient times boatmen would ferry passengers the mile across the Humber to the Lincolnshire shore.
In 1937 the first of three Bronze Age sewn plank-built boats was discovered. It was sticking partly out of the shore mud in North Ferriby. The Wright boys dug it out exposing the boat bottom and one nearly complete end. It was nearly two metres wide and thirteen long constructed of oak planks ten centimetres thick. A flat rockered-bottomed boat it had been stitched together with yew withies and caulked with moss under oak laths. There was room for eighteen paddlers and it was dated to1700BC. Very few examples of this type of construction have ever been found and this is one of the earliest known examples in Europe. Three years later Ted found the remains of another boat sixty yards away and in 1963 he found part of another with the help of his two sons. That third boat was estimated to be from 2030BC.
The original two boats were fully excavated in 1946 and though sadly cut were successfully relocated and can be seen today in National Maritime Museum, Greenwich. I’d seen them on a previous trip to England.
At quarter to one our train was slowing down for Brough Station. The town was known as Petuaria during Roman times and was the southern end of the hundred and sixty kilometer Cade’s Road that started at Pons Aelius, now known as Newcastle. Brough was created a town in 1239 and one of its claims to fame is being the home of highwayman Dick Turpin. Home that is until his execution for horse theft in 1739.
Outside my window was a raised roadway between the tracks and the river, likely a dike I thought. Between the roadway and the train were fields with people walking dogs and sharing space with dozens of sheep, some all white, some with black legs and faces, the sheep not the dog walkers. This is a country of walkers and you can seem them everywhere. I mention that what we’d call hikers in Canada bear none of the specialized equipment deemed mandatory at home. Stout boots and a warm coat is all you need here.
Watching as the world travelled by I noticed the farmland varied from heavy clay to rich black soil within just a few miles. I also thought some fields were showing a winter wheat crop, but that’s just a guess. There were also fields covered in a low growing succulent green crop. I assumed it was a vegetable of some sort and that forms the extent of my agricultural guesses. In addition to the cultivated fields there were many pastures home to horses, donkeys, ponies, and goats whiling away the day as they munched on the verdant green grasses.
As we travelled along and the train passed over level crossings the driver would always give two blasts on his horn, though not in larger centres, only in the countryside. Ten minutes later we pulled into Howden where the lady got on who was soon to use her cell phone in the Quiet Car. There were only half a dozen passengers at this point so I guess she thought she could get away with it. William the Conqueror gave the town to the Bishops of Durham in 1080 by the way.
It was here at Howden that the conductor made her first appearance to check tickets. She would reappear after every other stop or two for the rest of the trip. I thought to myself it would be possible to get a free train ride if you had your wits about you.
On the horizon near Howden were twelve cooling towers suggesting a large nuclear energy generating plant. There are some who claim that nuclear power came to the forefront in Britain in the 1980’s because of Margaret Thatcher and the Tory government’s hatred of Arthur Scargill the leader of the coal miner’s union. It was a bitter near five year violent battle that the miners ultimately lost, and they lost everything. Coal mines closed, coal fired plants were shuttered, thousands lost their jobs and nuclear plants popped up all over the country.
Leaving Howden there seemed to be a greater number of wooded areas with many trees covered by an almost pastel like green coloured moss. At one point a large flight of birds madly took off as we passed by. Merely a dozen minutes after Howden we pulled into Selby which boasted a substantial covered platform signifying a larger centre. Most stops are of only a couple of minutes in duration and are not a distraction to my ride. Sitting there recalling my last trip on this train it seems this one is passing by quicker.
It must have rained heavily around Selby as the fields were quite sodden. Just before we entered the station was a large parcel of land given over to allotment plots. Judging by the tumbled down fencing and weathered sheds this land given over to locals for vegetable gardens has been here a very long time. My carriage was still half empty at this point due I’m sure to the ban on electronic devices as there were always a group of people waiting to board at each station stop.
This town which was once had a major shipbuilding industry on the banks of the River Ouse was once a Viking settlement. Called Seletun it was first recorded in the Anglo-Saxon Chronicle of 779. For a Canadian prairie boy the age of the places I visit and pass by in England always astounds me.
On our way again and just east of Selby we passed the confluence of the rivers Ouse and Trent, by Trent Falls near the hamlet of Flaxfleet. At this point the flow becomes the River Humber and it begins its sixty mile journey to the sea. Up to now we have been travelling westward and when we shortly do turn south we will do so without crossing the mighty Humber. Out my window three metres away are long abandoned railway tracks overgrown by brush and trees. At first glance they seemed to be of a narrower gauge than those we are travelling today.
All along the route the homes in the villages and hamlets we pass are constructed of the red clay bricks seen all over the country. In addition to the red bricks all wooden trim is white, like it’s a zoning requirement. Interestingly many houses are built without over hanging eaves and not all houses are clustered in hamlets and villages. I regularly see detached and semi-detached houses plunked down on a country lane all by themselves. There also a number of canals in the area with their uniformly built banks heading off into the distance as straight as an arrow. With the advent of train service the substantial canal service in this country quickly went into decline only to be revived in the twentieth century as waterways for pleasure boaters. The tow paths alongside that horses used to drag the canal boats along are now groomed pathways for amblers to enjoy.
I’d guess we are doing about a hundred kilometres an hour when at speed and we reach Doncaster at nearly half past one. As we pull into the large station under a covered platform a large gothic church in the centre of town looms into view flying the Cross of St. George from its steeple. Then just blocks away are a couple of modern high-rise apartments that look for all the world like a couple of towers not far from my home in Canada. Doncaster is the largest centre we passed through since Hull and a large number of people entered the carriage. The city grew from a Roman settlement in the first century and is famous in part for horseracing. The first Doncaster Gold Cup was run in 1766 and today The Doncaster Cup is the oldest regulated horse race in the world.
On the other side of Doncaster the topography of the land changed back to woodlands with a bit of a surprise at its suddenness. But it wasn’t long before forests gave way to rolling cultivated fields dotted with what appeared to be manmade ponds. There weren’t many ponds that didn’t have a person or two alongside the bank with a line in the water trying to catch supper. While most had a lawn chair out enjoying the day there were a number of fishermen who had tents set up planning on a longer stay, assuming the fishing was good.
People have been living in these parts for centuries and we pass many ancient stone arched bridges over streams and rivers. Many of the old houses in the countryside are close enough to the tracks that if I could open my window I could rap on their kitchen window. In one field an old faded red bricked cottage with no roof stood defiantly. It had been abandoned for years and a large tree was growing out of what may have been the living room. The tree’s braches were reaching up into the sky.
As with most stops on the line we no sooner reached speed than we’d start slowing down again. Next up was Retford, at quarter to two and the place seems a decent sized community. Retford is what’s known as a market town. To be a market town one needed a charter from the King. Henry the Third granted Retford a charter to hold a fair in 1246. In 1275 Edward 1 extended the town the right to hold a Saturday Market.
Here like everywhere you go in England there are walkers out and about in every field or along the many trails that head off in every direction. In one field on the outskirts of town were a handful of amblers sharing space with a flock of domestic geese. I have had a similar experience and can attest that you don’t want to be in close proximity of an enraged goose.
Just like at home many fields are crossed by electrical transmission towers that all seem to be headed south. Also like home farmers have cultivated their fields as close to the transmission towers as they dare. A number of fields were in fallow and the soil appeared to be heavy greyish clay. As is the norm most fenced fields are accessed by way of a “kissing gate”. These ingenious things don’t have a door like gate. These conveyances to the other side are a triangulated affair that allows people to move between fields without the worry of leaving it open and risking sheep escaping into the neighbouring field.
Grantham Station came up at 2pm after we’d gone through a longish tunnel, the first on the trip. The town of forty-five thousand is the birthplace of Margaret Thatcher. It also is where Isaac Newton was enrolled at King’s School. Grantham with this spelling is recorded in the Doomsday Book of 1086. I can only attest to what I saw out my window but the homes I did see were much larger than what I’ve seen since leaving Hull. Walmart’s English operation is called ASDA and there was a very large store near the station. The covered railway platform had about a hundred people milling about when we pulled in but not all got on our train. There were tracks on our right so I assumed there was another train on its way.
It was at Grantham that an older lady with a wheel chair entered our car and began to struggle getting settled. As I rose up to help the guy opposite beat me to it. Out the corner of my eye I noticed a couple of other passengers who checked their own rise to provide assistance. It was nice to see such group kindness. By that time we were already out of town and the fields were now mostly separated b y hedgerows suggesting much older fields. It takes a long time to cultivate a hedgerow to separate fields and pastures. This now rolling countryside reminded me a bit of the area around Brandon, Manitoba. The fields were cultivated with a low growing green crop that I had no idea of. By this time we were really barrelling along and there will be no more stops until Kings Cross.
With a beautiful clear blue sky overhead we fly past Peterborough with two prominently badged Amazon warehouses close to the rail line. The two building are easily the largest such things I have ever seen. As I’d noticed on a previous trip the closer to London the greater the amount of graffiti on buildings and fences. Not only lots but increasingly more elaborate designs.
A wind farm of giant slowly turning propellers stretches across my horizon. We also pass a field covered in solar panels that went on for at least a kilometre. The landscape is now scrubby and I don’t know if it is the local weather or smog but it is suddenly hazy. The ride has become bumpy and there is a small airplane circling around just off to my left. A farmer working his field with a tractor has a hundred landed seagulls nibbling whatever has been turned up by the tilling. There are also railway tracks on either side of us as we get closer to the home of nearly nine million people.
With twenty-five minutes to go we are in a more densely populated area and the number of tracks running alongside is ever increasing. Just after passing the little village or Woolmer Green we entered another long tunnel and I’m getting keen to arrive. At Welwyn North we crossed over a high viaduct that looks down on hundreds of houses in the valley below. Known as the Digswell Viaduct it routes train traffic over the River Mimram. It is four hundred and seventy- five metres long with forty arches that span nine metres each. At its height it is thirty metres above the valley floor. Built of brick fired from clay quarried on the site it took two years to build and opened in 1850.
At 3pm while there is some open land about suburbs are more common as are tunnels. Suddenly we come across a very large railway yard full of commuter carriages. Arsenal Football Club Stadium and the London Metropolitan University come into view and we are in London. Now we are below grade and the banks are walled with brick, the brickwork has arches and regular deep niches that I assumed were once arches.
Twelve minutes later and three minutes early we pull into King’s Cross Station. The station built in 1852 is one of the busiest in the Kingdom. The train empties very quickly and as instructed by my cousin Gillian I move to the front of the platform at the head of the train to await my brothers and her husband Geoff. The three of them had spent the day in London and are to pick me up. Unfortunately they did not have the same instructions as I.
A quarter of an hour later I’m considering calling Gillian to see if there’s been a ball up. I’m not worried; St. Pancras Station the seventeen years younger sibling to King’s Cross is just across the street. St. Pancras is where one catches the fast train to Gillian’s home in Gravesend, or the Eurostar to Paris if you’re so inclined. That all said I can’t really do anything without finding out what’s what.
I was just about to dig out my phone when my brother Graham shouted from ten metres away. Seems their instructions were that I’d meet them outside the station.
My train trip reinforced what I’ve know for a long time. It doesn’t matter where you go in the world everything is the same, oh the lampposts may be of a different shape but the way we humans live is the same.
And now no matter where you are in this world it is not hard to see Maersk Sealand metal containers on the backs of trucks or the decks of ships full of product coming or going.