It was the kind of summer’s day when you are glad to be in England. The grass swayed in the warm breeze and the blue sky was gently dappled with clouds making their way lazily towards the east. We hadn’t planed this day, it just seemed like a good idea at the time to get the bus into the city and walk across the fields towards the main line. We were both interested in trains and our hobby was the main topic of conversation on our way to school every day together. But today was the weekend, a day off, time to indulge our selves in our harmless pastime, time to feed our passion.
We arrived at our favourite spot and sat down on the sloping rough ground near the top of the embankment, smoothing out a patch free from thistles and ragwort and made ourselves comfortable. Our feet pointed out towards the rails which glistened at the bottom of the cutting in front of us, a handful of metres below, two pairs of parallel lines in a gentle sweeping curve with us in its concave. To the south was Durham Station, hidden by the high banks and the mature Hawthorn and to the north the rails led to Newcastle, Edinburgh and beyond.
We set out everything we needed, all the accoutrements that were necessary for budding train enthusiasts, notebooks, pocket guides, pens, sandwiches and bottles of dandelion and burdock. We watched as the local diesel multiple units trundled by and the odd class 37 dragged their long tails of grey graffitied coal wagons slowly passed, capped off by a comical brake vans, wooden sheds on wheels. We chatted to fill in time about what we hoped we might see, which engines we needed to underline in red pen in our guide, which unusual finds would make our day but then we fell silent. We could sense that the main event was on its way.
The rails had started to sing with the faintest of hisses, the sliding sound of metal against metal, irregular at first but slowly growing in volume. We knew what it meant, we had heard it before and our hearts had stopped while the singing grew louder and louder like the voice of Sirens luring us towards the rails. It was a matter of seconds but it felt like an age and then the moment arrived. A loud visceral roar from a hundred tonne monster that shook the earth beneath us and sucked the air from our lungs as it rushed past, a blunt nosed Rail Blue machine, belching smoke and dragging its rake of carriages as it headed south. We were looking down on a Deltic, the king of the rails.
And then in a flash it was gone, an express train going too fast to stop at Durham station, leaving the vegetation swaying in its wake, the paper of our books flapping and our hair in our eyes. But we could still feel it deep down in our stomachs, it harmonic memory in our flesh and its cry ringing in our ears.
There is nothing like the sound of a Deltic, its deep animal roar and the excitement of seeing one pass at high speed. Even now after some forty years I still remember the feelings of excitement and anticipation that only those majestic engines could deliver. The Deltics have a special place in my memory, formed when I was a young boy. They were my favourites then and they are still my favourites now. Whenever I get the chance I go to see the half dozen that are still in working condition, the last time was at Locomotion in Durham last summer and the next time will be at Railfest at the National Rail Museum from 2-10 June 2012. You never know, I might see you there.
Thoughts from a Guerrilla Worker 