Not to be outdone, here's a railway poem that always brings a lump to my throat.

On Whit Saturday, 1955 Philip Larkin, who was Librarian at Hull University, set out on a train journey from Hull to London and he described what he saw as he passed through the stations en route, one of which was my home town of Goole. For me it evokes many memories, particularly of my own wedding day a few years later but essentially the same as those he describes and also of the many train journeys I made to and from Hull as a day-release student in the mid 1960s. The 'smell of the fish dock' was always there as you passed Hessle Road.

The Whitsun Weddings – Philip Larkin

That Whitsun, I was late getting away:
Not till about
One-twenty on the sunlit Saturday
Did my three-quarters-empty train pull out,
All windows down, all cushions hot, all sense
Of being in a hurry gone. We ran
Behind the backs of houses, crossed a street
Of blinding windscreens, smelt the fish-dock; thence
The river's level drifting breadth began,
Where sky and Lincolnshire and water meet.
All afternoon, through the tall heat that slept
For miles inland,
A slow and stopping curve southwards we kept.
Wide farms went by, short-shadowed cattle, and
Canals with floatings of industrial froth;
A hothouse flashed uniquely: hedges dipped
And rose: and now and then a smell of grass
Displaced the reek of buttoned carriage-cloth
Until the next town, new and nondescript,
Approached with acres of dismantled cars
At first, I didn't notice what a noise
The weddings made
Each station that we stopped at: sun destroys
The interest of what's happening in the shade,
And down the long cool platforms whoops and skirls
I took for porters larking with the mails,
And went on reading. Once we started, though,
We passed them, grinning and pomaded, girls
In parodies of fashion, heels and veils,
All posed irresolutely, watching us go
As if out on the end of an event
Waving goodbye
To something that survived it. Struck, I leant
More promptly out next time, more curiously,
And saw it all again in different terms:
The fathers with broad belts under their suits
And seamy foreheads; mothers loud and fat;
An uncle shouting smut; and then the perms,
The nylon gloves and jewellery-substitutes,
The lemons, mauves, and olive-ochres that
Marked off the girls unreally from the rest.
Yes, from cafes
And banquet-halls up yards, and bunting-dressed
Coach-party annexes, the wedding-days
Were coming to an end. All down the line
Fresh couples climbed aboard: the rest stood round;
The last confetti and advice were thrown,
And, as we moved, each face seemed to define
Just what it saw departing: children frowned
At something dull; fathers had never known
Success so huge and wholly farcical;
The women shared
The secret like a happy funeral;
While girls, gripping their handbags tighter, stared
At a religious wounding. Free at last,
And loaded with the sum of all they saw,
We hurried towards London, shuffling gouts of steam.
Now fields were building-plots, and poplars cast
Long shadows over major roads, and for
Some fifty minutes, that in time would seem
Just long enough to settle hats and say
I nearly died,
A dozen marriages got under way.
They watched the landscape, sitting side by side
—An Odeon went past, a cooling tower,
And someone running up to bowl—and none
Thought of the others they would never meet
Or how their lives would all contain this hour.
I thought of London spread out in the sun,
Its postal districts packed like squares of wheat:
There we were aimed. And as we raced across
Bright knots of rail
Past standing Pullmans, walls of blackened moss
Came close, and it was nearly done, this frail
Travelling coincidence; and what it held
Stood ready to be loosed with all the power
That being changed can give. We slowed again,
And as the tightened brakes took hold, there swelled
A sense of falling, like an arrow-shower
Sent out of sight, somewhere becoming rain.

I don't mind being outdone.

Here's one of my favourites:

There was a young lady named Harris
Whom nothing could ever embarrass
'Til the salts that she shook
In the bath that she took
Turned out to be Plaster of Paris.

We used to 'convert' halfpennies into pennies to use in the new-fangled 'Beech Nut' chewing gum machine outside the shop in our street.

Happy days.

convert' halfpennies

Oh YES. Didn't he play well today








(Rugby Joke)

For one of my more memorable birthdays (50th, I think) Mrs Calder bought me a day's engine driving experience on a preserved line at Quainton in Buckinghamshire. We stayed overnight at a lovely pub in the village and on the Saturday morning I received a grounding in the theory of steam locomotives before being paired with another chap with whom I took turns firing and driving.

The locomotive was an ex London Transport pannier tank either 0-6-0 or 0-6-2 and we drove it up and down a length of of preserved track until I became quite proficient at stopping at just the right place on the platform. The feeling of power from even such a small engine was incredible and it felt like a living creature that had to be cosseted and persuaded to perform. Magic!

The highlight of the day came, however, when the two very enthusiastic volunteers who were instructing us asked Mrs C if she'd like a go. I'll never forget the look of joy on her face when she took the controls and we set off down the track.

I'd recommend the experience to anyone. It was a brilliant day out..