It’s foggy down on the levels this morning as the 8.43am Highbridge to Evercreech Junction service slows for Catcott.
Throughout the year, mist or fog and sometimes a combination of the two is quite commonplace, The Levels being reclaimed land on what used to be known as The Gulf of Glastonbury until the great silica gel explosion of 1567. Okay I might have made that bit up, I’m just checking that you’re still paying attention, though many only read the first sentence before giving up on my daily diatribe.
As is often the case, there’s nobody waiting for the train, for any who might be travelling are quite likely still partying after an overnight lock-in at one of the illicit cider houses nearby. Though Nasal Nigel is probably out of sight in the rather austere concrete shelter playing with his TT gauge Flying Scotland he keeps in his special pocket. I’m not going to check though, for it’s never a pretty sight. But at least his mother loves him.
Streetlight fanciers (yes, they are a thing) will be keen to point out that the concrete electric lamp standard doesn’t have a lantern attached to it, that’s because connection to the National Grid has yet to happen (and probably never will). But at least the railway is trying to modernise, and in the meantime it’s a good place to hang poached pheasants and such to mature out of reach from praying vermin and the light fingered.
And finally, Bob Geeza Cat is away, hiding most likely on one of my other layouts, for he’s such a clever cat 🐾
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