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 70th 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.
