Terry’s Irritating Pole

With much wheezing, rattling and entirely unnecessary enthusiasm, Driver Andrew-Barclay powers his trainload of freshly liberated coal away from Whimsy Pit and Wharf.

National treasure Uncle Bob rubs his hands together in absolute delight, looking for all the world like a man who has just discovered an extra sausage at breakfast. Even the elderly steam freighter recently arrived from Flat Holm joins in the celebrations by producing a magnificent cloud of sooty black smoke, because unlike Uncle Bob it has no hands to rub together and must express joy through industrial emissions.

Meanwhile, part-time conspiracy theorist Tin Hat Terry, who is on shunting duties today despite several objections from reality, repeatedly stomps his pole into the boggy ground with excitement. Unfortunately, he is completely out of time with the rhythm of the engine, the local church bells, and indeed the known laws of music.

And finally, the ever-present Bob Geeza Cat watches proceedings with narrowed eyes and considerable disapproval. He secretly hopes Terry's pole becomes permanently embedded in the bog, mainly because Terry is extremely irritating and also because, despite carrying it everywhere, he has never once used the pole for anything remotely connected with shunting. Terry claims it detects government mind-control beams. So far it has only detected mud.

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Banjo Trouble at Combwich

Here we are at Combwich on the hottest afternoon of the summer of 1959, and the little tank engine unofficially borrowed from Shrewsbury shed refuses to move another inch until someone finds the station cat, which is just one of Bob Geeza Cat’s many roles.

“He were here this morning,” declares Driver Wilkins, wiping soot from his brow. “Sat on the coal bunker like Isambard Kingdom Brunel.”

Nobody questions this, for Bob Geeza effectively runs the railway.

The stationmaster searches the parcels van. The porter searches the waiting room. Old Ernie searches inside a milk churn for reasons nobody fully understands.

Meanwhile, the locomotive simmers impatiently beside the platform, puffing little sighs of smoke into the enormous cotton-wool clouds drifting above the Levels. A dachshund named Cecil barks furiously at a suspicious clump of grass near the rails, convinced it is either a hedgehog or the Archbishop of Canterbury.

Then comes the strange sound.

“Banjo music,” whispers the fireman.

Sure enough, faint banjo playing drifts across the yard from somewhere beyond the distant lorry.

The railwaymen follow the tune and discover Bob Geeza Cat balancing on top of a shiny rail while an elderly traveller plays banjo just out of shot to the right.

“Well,” sighs the stationmaster, “that explains the delay.”

Nobody asks how.

Bob is returned to the engine with full honours, the banjo player is given tea and two custard creams, and at precisely three twenty-seven the little train finally departs for Highbridge at the magnificent speed of almost eleven miles an hour.

Cecil continues barking at the grass for another forty minutes.

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A Hazy Summer Sunday at Catcott Crossing

Here we are back in the olden days on a hazy summer Sunday deep in the Somerset Levels at Catcott railway crossing.

Mavis the crossing keeper wandered off a short while ago to inspect a suspiciously enormous marrow, leaving the gates half-shut and the kettle boiling itself into a fury indoors.

Her husband, Arthritic Arthur, meanwhile, is convinced he’s seen a Highbridge-bound train made entirely of custard drift past earlier that morning, though this may well be connected to the moonshine-laced cider served at the church fête the evening before.

Bees zigzag lazily through the foxgloves, the telegraph wires hum like sleepy banjos in the heat, and somewhere beyond the trees a brass band plays a version of “Greensleeves” that sounds as if every musician has learned it from a different dream.

Nobody is in a hurry. Even the clouds seem to be loafing about.

And if you wait quietly by the gate long enough, the locals say you might just spot the legendary Catcott Bog Express — a secret Sunday train carrying picnickers, runaway elves, and at least three bewildered hippies from nearby Glastonbury all bound for the seaside.

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Manning Wardle L Class 0-6-0 Saddle Tank

Old Bernard Manning-Wardle the engine driver was having a terrible day.

First, his little green locomotive sneezed coal dust all over Bob Geeza Cat. Then the milk tank wagon started making mysterious spirit/ghost like noises every time the train stopped. Nobody could explain it.

“Haunted tank wagon,” whispered the shunter nervously.

But when they finally opened the hatch, they discovered that it had been filled full of moonshine instead of milk.

Within minutes, the locomotive was puffing along twice as fast, the driver was singing sea shanties, and three chickens had somehow boarded the parcels van for the trip back to Whimsy Pit.

To this day, locals still talk about the only train in history that ran late because the driver stopped to hug a scarecrow.

LSWR T3 Class 4-4-0 No. 563

Here we are at Catcott Burtle again, a remote halt with a single siding in the middle of a bog on the Highbridge line. 

Not a great deal happens here, other that the collection of cider, cheese and hooch. And of course bird spotters, or twitchers as they like to be known. 

But today, national treasure Uncle Bob is here to watch preserved T3 class 4-4-0 No. 563 power through with an SLS Special (Super Locomotive Society) rail tour which is travelling all over the place, as well as some lesser known places. 

It looks like the great Ivo is here too, that’s his Bentley parked up, and of course we have Bob Geeza Cat, who as always does his best to balance and add feline interest to many a photograph taken in a the Land Of The Inch High. 

And finally, Nasal Nigel is hiding in the concrete shelter getting extremely excited because the locomotive is a very similar colour to his very own TT gauge Flying Scotsman that he keeps warm in his special pocket. Though he really should book an appointment with a doctor about such a condition and get some suitable ointment to avoid further complications further down the line. 

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Collieries Have Talent Competition

Terry Tuttle Thomas Smythe hosts the very first ‘Collieries Have Talent’ competition, that’s our favourite smarmy chap stood on the engine announcing the next act. Liz & Margo have also been invited as celebrity royal judges for this inaugural event. 

Kicking things off, we have the The Railway Guards’ Barbershop Sing & Dance Troupe from nearby Midsomer Norton about to perform their short set of coordinated dance to Lonnie Donegan’s Rock Island Line playing on the gramophone in the weighbridge office. 

Somehow or other Nasal Nigel has managed to get on to the ‘stage’, that’s him in the sticky green bus-spotter flasher-mac (it has special pockets with holes on the inside to allow him to adjust himself surreptitiously in public) on the right. 

Secretly he’s thinking of entering the competition next year with a bus-spotter flasher-mac dance troupe. The thought of that is pretty horrific to be honest, for Collieries Have Talent we all know is a family show. 

As always, click, swipe, tap, lick, wiggle or whatever you do to enlarge, the photo that is, not your Flying Scotsman. 

And finally, you can secure your spot in Nigel’s dance troupe next year www.buymeacoffee.com/Nevardmedi3

New Level Crossing Barriers

Saturday morning and Barry Bullhead from the Ministry of Mayhem has come to inspect the new level crossings barriers that have been installed at this former open crossing. 

They’ve been put in place after several incidents involving those who’ve imbibed too much hooch laced cider in the pub, some of who were playing chicken with passing trains, of simply sleeping between the rails. 

It’s very much a work in progress, for the set up here could cause lengthy delays for road traffic as it’s opened and closed. However those who are completely inebriated can now be safely carted across the crossing in a wheelbarrow. 

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