AT LAST - 65 YEARS ON, I REALISE EVERY LITTLE BOY’S BIG DREAM

It was a mighty close thing, I tell you, but I finally made it. Never mind the Great Train Robbers, it now looks as though I could earn my place in history  as one of the last Great Steam Engine Drivers!

 

That’s stretching things a bit, I confess, but there’s a big question mark hanging over the future of heritage steam railways now that Cop26 has signalled red for coal.  

 

Fortunately for me, after a lifetime of waiting, I finally got to realise every little boy’s big dream a few weeks ago – to drive a steam engine.  Here’s the proof, courtesy of the Helston Railway Preservation Society:--

 

Talk about build-up. As readers may recall from a 2019 blog post, my 70^th birthday presents in that year included a voucher for a steam engine footplate ride on the Helston Railway the following summer.

 

But that was duly shunted into the sidings, of course, by Covid.  The society extended the voucher’s life, though, and, more than a year later than planned, I finally made it.

 

And it well and truly compensated for my heartbreak back in the 1950s.  Then, during one of my occasional trips to Truro Station with my Dad, a local tank engine involved in shunting operations pulled in alongside us and Dad and I got chatting with the driver.

 

“Come back next week,” said the ever-so-friendly driver, “and you can join me on the footplate and we’ll go for a little ride.”

 

Dad quietly cautioned me on the way home:  “Don’t get too excited, old son; he just might not be there next Saturday.”

 

My Old Man was right – he wasn’t.  Cue tears.

 

And so to 2021 and the UK’s most southerly railway, specifically the new Trevarno Station and the reinstated Truthall Halt, along with a few surprises.

 

I had imagined that I would simply stand back and watch while the “real” driver did his stuff, albeit probably allowing me to shovel in some coal when necessary and no doubt letting me  pull the whistle.

 

Well, there was plenty of the latter for me – couldn’t resist it – but I also assumed the all-too-real role of driver, pulling and pushing at those controls, with expert guidance, of course.

 

I can’t deny that it was a bit of a hairy-scary experience, and I felt for daughter Lisa and son-in-law Greg, the birthday gift providers, who were passengers in the coach that I was pulling.  

 

Talk about jerking along and stopping-and-starting in what was not exactly the smoothest of rides on that lovely little line.

 

But those I really feel sorry for now are all the “little boys” who, thanks to our Prime Minister declaring the “death knell” for coal, may never realise their lifelong dream as I have been lucky enough to do.  

HOW THIS TOWN SUFFERED IN ONE OF CORNWALL’S WORST BOMBING RAIDS

Eighty years ago this month (May 2021), Penryn was the scene of tragedy and devastation on an epic scale as the town suffered one of Cornwall’s most lethal bombing raids in the Second World War. 

 

Eighteen people were killed, many more died later from their injuries and buildings in the Borough were reduced to rubble.

 

On the 30^thanniversary of probably the deadliest event in the proud town’s long history, I spoke to several of the survivors and the man who led the local fire brigade’s response.

 

Mrs Sadie Jennings told me:  “The bombs dropped at about one o’clock in the morning.  They dropped five sticks in all, and one fell on the corner of our front garden at 10 The Green. A second dropped at the top of Quay Hill, a third on The Square and two more on Norman Dale’s fields.”

 

Mrs Jennings said it was usual for her family to go down to the air raid shelter, but they didn’t go on that night as her three-year-old son Terry (later to be a Penryn town councillor) had been ill with bronchitis.

 

She recalled:  “We heard the whistling and then the house came down on top of us. We didn’t have time to be frightened. There was my father, my brother, my husband, Terry and myself in the house.

 

“As soon as we realised what had happened, we heard people trying to dig us out.  We are lucky to be here as it could have been much worse.  It was the beams that saved our lives.

 

“My father had his arm badly injured, but Mrs Violet Blank, who lived opposite in Mill Lane, saved his life by giving him aid before he went to hospital.”

 

Mrs Ida Lobb, who was living in Dunvegan Road, had four members of her family killed in the raid.  She recalled the sound of the bombs dropping and initially thought they had fallen on Mabe.

 

Accompanied by her young daughter, she walked down into the town to see if there had been any damage.  She found ARP (Air Raid Precaution) workers desperately trying to rescue people from damaged buildings.  She called out to them:  “Is The Green all right?”

 

In response, there was a deadly hush.  Then one of the men recognised her and said:  “Far from all right.”

 

Mrs Lobb’s mother’s house at 3 The Green, where her sister, niece and brother-in-law also lived, had suffered a direct hit and all its occupants were killed.

 

“All that remained of the house was a kitchen chair and a few pieces of crockery,” said Mrs Lobb. “It was grim and life stopped for a couple of years.”

 

Harold Curgenven, chief of Penryn Fire Brigade, said:  “We found the streets crowded with people who were digging in the rubble to try and find the survivors.

 

“I went down to the bombed area with 13 other local firemen and we dealt with two small fires that resulted from the bombing. Some of the firemen returned to the fire station in case of another alarm, while others remained to assist the air raid wardens recovering bodies from damaged buildings.

 

“It was a terrible thing to happen to a small town.” 

(FALMOUTH)BAYWATCH 0730hrs-ish

As hinted at a little while backalong, I’ve been dragged screaming out of retirement - sort of - to ghost-write the autobiography of a guy who made it all the way to the top as a Premier League footballer.  (No, not Bruce Rioch.)

Well, football is my passion after all, and it will help swell the Cancer Research coffers as per usual.

 

The book’s working title is LIVING THE DREAM.

 

I thought of this as I set off from home nearly two hours ago. Six or seven minutes’ walk from my home to Falmouth seafront . . . to rendezvous at Castle Beach . . . for a quality-time sea swim with my daughter Lisa . . . with yet another blindingly brilliant sunrise over the bay, the crystal-clear sea lapping right up against the wall, high-tide.

 

I thought . . . I’m in my eighth decade, and this is the way I get to start my day.  (Quite a few times already this year, actually.)

 

And it doesn’t cost me a penny.

 

I thought . . . yes, I would like to have been a Premier League footballer, but if THIS isn’t living the dream, I don’t know what is. (Okay, I admit I could do with a Premier League player’s money, too, but I don’t want blood.)

 

There were already a few like-minded souls in the vicinity – the regular walkers, a yogi doing her thing on the slope down to the water, and others doing their physical jerks along the mini-prom before taking the plunge.

 

As we got changed afterwards, I thought Lisa was a bit quieter than usual and I asked if everything was all right.

 

“Yes,” she replied, “I’m just in a bit more of a hurry than usual; I want to get to the wedding on time.”

 

I left her walking over to the eastern end, where she was going to park herself on the rocks, open up her laptop (or could have been phone, not sure) - and watch one of her best mates getting married in Germany, on Zoom!

 

Here endeth one more little snapshot of life

as we currently know it, via Covid and high-tech