At
this time 40’s on passenger over the S&C were not particularly common and
I wasn’t overly familiar with the line but I well remember the stalwart 40065
performing in a way that bellied its disgraceful appearance. With a driver
intent on trying to keep time with the train or die in the attempt he flung it
wide open from the start and delighted in keeping it full flight to the very
last moment. The noise it produced was amazing. Howls roars, screams, and moans.
None of these but all of these would describe it. The main climb away from
Settle north was made with huge, dark trails of heavy exhaust hanging in the air
as we took on and battled the gradient. Blackening the sky against the white
snowscape on our passage to the North we settled to a steady mid 30’s assault
on the long 1 in 100. The intoxicating mixes of smell, sound and the sight from
the front window of the engine forging its way onwards was brilliant. Whatever
40065 lacked in youthful sparkle on the climbs it made up by streaking downhill
taking curves with shocking speed and buffeting round corners though the wheels
were square. Huge white clouds of billowing snow were thrown up in our wake as
we hurtled onwards. With nothing to slow us down in front of us we shot down
from Appleby with indecent speeds round the curves enough to throw you from side
to side. Triumphant
arrival in Carlisle’s platform 3 was hardly late at all.
Whatever deficit we had gained was certainly not due to the efforts of
the engine or totally manic behaviour on behalf the driver, both of whom
certainly on this occasion had gone well beyond the call of duty. I climbed out
the train and stood on the damp, miserable platform, huge wet snowflakes &
sleet billowing round my head and drank in the sight of the engine in all its
glory. Wallowing in the magnificent delights of the previous two and half-hours.
The afterglow of such a terrific run. The enjoyment of travelling over such a
classic railway behind such a beast. Going like stink and sounding, well,
sounding like no other 40 I had heard previous. Excellent. Already the engine
was being unhooked, and an 85 stood ready to take the train forward.
Only,
and interestingly as we arrived the platform supervisor had dashed up by the cab
giving instructions the driver of the class 40. ‘Engine’s wanted for t’
Stranraer over on one.
Y’ OK for fuel & water? I overheard being said. Whatever the reply
the driver gave he was off in a blast of the horn and round to the alongside
platform 1 where the mixed 7 or 8 coaches and vans forming the 15.08
Carlisle-Stranraer was stood. Engineless, cold, unlit and uninviting. The driver
stopped short with the engine, pulling up alongside the hydrant to refill the
boiler water tanks. The new crew having emerged from the warm of the mess room
joined in the replenishing exercise while the boiler was restarted. So. My luck
was still holding out. I think this was the first season that the 15.08 went to
Stranraer. Previously
it had been a stopper over the old G&SW route to Glasgow Central.
The engine and stock, plus a couple of sleeping cars from the overnight
boat train the previous day and the odd van or two formed the that nights 22.00
Boat Train, the Stranraer Euston return working. Providing 40065 made it without
exploding on the way I should be in for quite a trip. I hadn’t been to
Stranraer for a good many years and from what I could remember it was far from
an easy proposition from the start, particularly from Ayr onwards.
The
train was almost empty and I took up the prime spot by the window in the first
compartment of the leading coach as ‘065 buffered up and was coupled on.
Under a darkening, snow laden slate grey sky made even more murky with
the heavy fumes from the boiler and the smoke from the exhausts we snarled past
Kingmoor yard and the near deserted Motive Power depot.
I could see now why control were desperate to employ the engine on the
train as quite simply there was nothing else suitable on offer. Further on in
New Yard there were several freights recessed with near white, weather-beaten
40’s at their head.
Warmth from the steam heat flowed its way through the train as we pressed
onwards, curving round the left-hand fork at Gretna Junction, taking us onto the
former Glasgow and south-western route into Scotland. We paused briefly at Annan
amidst the swirl of snow and on to Dumfries where by now outside there was a
near blizzard blowing. We climbed noisily through Thornhill and up through
Drumlanrig tunnel. Despite the conditions outside I still window hung as much as
physically possible through the toplight window, bringing my head in only to
defrost my nose and dry my hair.
We breasted the summit near Sanquahar and ran downhill at quite some
speed through New Cumnock and Mauchline giving me chance to warm through and by
the time we drew to a stand in Kilmarnock darkness had well and truly fallen.
Not surprisingly there had been hardly any people about on the platforms
of all the stations we had called at as we journeyed onwards and the train still
had only a handful of passengers on board.
From
now on this would be very unfamiliar territory for me.
I hadn’t been in this neck of the woods in good many years (mainly as
there had been no reason to) and everything seemed so really strange.
An unusual sense of escapade prevailed and the uncertainty of the
situation heightened the adventure.
While
at Kilmarnock the second man had climbed into the back cab and the boiler had
gone off (not a good sign) and he had soon returned to the driver.
We were whistled away and we swung left very soon after leaving the
station to take the curve away to Birassie.
This next bit was very slow – there were a number of speed restriction
over the whole of this part of the line and it was obvious there was a lot of PW
work going on.
It was a curious feeling having powered onwards at speed all the way so
far through snow, ice and wind to be held back to just a trundle for what
appeared to be ages.
Once we had rejoined the main line down the coast from Glasgow the wind
coming in from the north-west hit us hard on and buffeted against the coaches
though there were signs of the storm blowing itself out.
Though bitterly cold at least the snow had stopped. With a roar from
40065 and with what appeared to be an even darker exhaust now picked out by what
little light was around against the dark sky we were away with a vengeance again
and hurtled through Troon and on to the stop at Ayr.
I
had no idea where we stood in terms of if we were on time or not but as we drew
to a stand there was literally no one in sight at all. No station staff or any
passengers, not even anyone visible on the streets or on the station forecourt.
An odd door opened and I think what passengers other than myself soon
braved the squall outside and disappeared.
The driver and Second Man climbed out the cab, the door closing with a
slam and walked back, entering the front coach to shelter from the wind and
leaving 40065 behind.
They looked hospitable enough, so I asked what was going on.
It turned out that they were not certain if the engine would be going any
further. The
turn forward to Stranraer didn’t have a second man booked to it to work the
boiler, allocated as it was to have been an EH class 47.
As we had left Carlisle control had been informed of the situation and
were trying to sort something out not least of which may have involved getting
an engine sent down light from somewhere to work the train forward. There
wasn’t even a relief driver or any station staff about to let them know what
was going on. I
suddenly felt pretty unhappy having got this far and at the chance of my not
getting any further, particularly in as wild and as out the way spot as Ayr. Not
a strong position to be in, to say the least.
As we had passed the MPD on our way in there was nothing other than a
handful of locos about – just some NB type 2’s and class 20’s so what the
plan was I couldn’t suggest.
I
sat back down feeling quite confused when a few moments later a further
whistling higher in tone than that of 40065 came into earshot.
A class 20 had drawn up alongside us and a set of men was climbing out.
The driver and second man taking refuge in the train joined them on the
platform and as quick one of them was under uncoupling the engine, which was run
off the train. I was out in a shot to find out what was going on.
40065 was to be fuelled and watered on the Depot and a driver and second
man had been found to take us forward.
My lords! We were to be away again!
In
what felt to be no time at all ‘065 reappeared and backed onto the train. Both
Second man and the driver – looking like Refugee from Dr Zivago such was he
dressed jumped out.
The boiler was already percolating away and with the pipes connected and
the engine coupled up we were ready to depart.
As if by magic station staff had appeared onto the platform and what even
looked like more passengers had joined us.
Through the darkness whistles were blown and green lights shone down the
platform. With
a soft chirruping 40065 got hold of the weight of the train behind it and then
with a roar of field diverts, load regulators and fan howl making the noise that
only a 40 can produce we were off. From is return 40065 certainly appeared to be
far fitter and more purposeful machine.
Perhaps in some way it sensed it was back home, North of the Border.
It’s
quite a climb away from Ayr – I remember passing a gradient board saying 1 in
70 – and we soon gained height giving a terrific view over the coast and the
Irish Sea to our right. The moon picking out the white head of the high rolling
waives on the windswept, shadowy water. Once over the top we quickly gained
speed as we powered away high up on the ridges of some rolling hills. By now the
weather outside had cleared noticeably.
The gale-force wind had dropped but was still a cut you to the bone
Arctic breeze.
The sky had emptied of storm clouds and left behind sub-zero blackness
speckled by stars.
All around the countryside was no more than a rolling snowscape of deep
drifts and dark images of frozen, leafless trees laden with heavy frost or
shapeless hedges whitened by the heavy snowstorm picked out by the brilliant
light of an icy full moon. We plunged onward with the engine kicking up huge
clouds of powdery frost which hung behind like the vapour trail of a comet lit
up by the lights of the carriages to our rear.
Emphasised by the odd wisp of steam escaping from between the coaches and
the roar from the engine.
I was truly in my element now.
This was fantastic.
As
if in no time we drew to our next stop at Girvan.
There has long been a school of thought by enginemen at Ayr that if any
road were to test a loco to the limit it would be the 40 miles of so from here
to Stranraer. It
was only many years after this event when I was privileged to ride a number of
times in the cabs of Class 40’s over this wild and desolate railway I
understood what they meant, though tonight would be a taste of things, many
years later, to come.
From Girvan the line becomes single track and lifts like a cliff face.
Initially 5 miles of gradients like 1 in 54 set on an evil reverse curve right
from the platform end.
No advantages of flying start or benefit from momentum. No run-up to give
you an advantage.
This was to be a straight off slog right from the start. The semaphore
signals glinting like a line of lights in through the night showing how steep
the line climbs.
This is indeed a merciless railway.
From the point the guard gave the tip 40065 set itself against the gradient and forged away. I doubt if we made more than 20mph as we pounded into the night without a hint of a slip or struggle. The engine set itself to the ascent and with an almost minimum of fuss but maximum volume lunged onwards through the darkness. Its unique engine noise had settled more to the tone akin to a Class 40 no doubt its throat being cleared by being thrashed relentlessly though the colour of the exhaust had ominously darkened considerably. Over the summit at Pinmore it was like we were on a hump backed bridge such was the change in the gradient and as we heaved over the top it looked like the drop on a Big Dipper. We twisted down to Pinwherry, the driver holding the train in check a number of times with the brakes. As we neared the site of the station we slowed down and stopped as a DMU was waiting, bound for Glasgow, for us to pass. Without doubt there could be no more an inconvenient place to restrain the trains progress than here, at the foot of a further eight miles mainly at 1 in 65. From the moment we started away the engine flailed away to some tune as 40065 got stuck in, hammering away furiously with a marvellous growl. Round reverse curves, through dark, deep tree-lined cuttings that forced the sound round from snow draped branches and knocking the pack ice into your face with the blast from the exhaust. Yet again, a few miles further the brakes came on for Barrhill, about half way on the climb. I don’t know why we stopped here unless it was to get permission from the signalman to proceed. Before we slowed I certainly don’t think we had hadn’t accelerated to a speed higher than the mid twenties, the engine still hard at it. Once more the howl of the fan motors and the din of the engine was heard to full advantage as the loco took off.