I Never Did Get The Hang Of Train-Spotting
Breathe (1975-1977)
Ten Years Have Got Behind You (1977-1979)
I remember eagerly peering over the wall at Scarborough station during a family holiday in 1974. Knowing that a school friend indulged in "train-spotting" I duly wrote down some numbers for him in a fit of boyhood camaradarie. At the end of the school holidays I was somewhat crestfallen to discover that not only were my fledgling "cops" of no use to him but also I'd written down the headcodes instead of the loco numbers. I never did get the hang of train-spotting.
Said school friend possessed unlimited enthusiasm for collecting the numbers of, it seemed to me, anything that moved. By the time my interest in all things ferro-equinological began to stir he'd moved on to goods wagons, passenger coaches and even the humble omnibus in order to satisfy his craving. Perhaps he mistook me for a kindred spirit after my Scarborough escapade, I don't know, but peer-pressure being what it was I felt obliged to try my hand at yet another in a long line of schoolboy hobbies.
In the few remaining weeks prior to his leaving school (I was staying for A Levels) he gave me a grounding in the basics of his craft. Whilst patiently explaining the difference between Ian Allen's Combined Volume and their Locoshed Book, he took me on a tour of the three main local hotspots: Bescot, Saltley and Birmingham New Street. I've seen him only once since then (in the bar at a Uriah Heep concert) so he's probably unaware of how I failed him. Nevertheless, being immune to the lure of muddy balls, I would abscond from Wednesday afternoon games lessons over the next two years and wander into Walsall in search of trains.
Once the hub of many radiating routes, Walsall had been reduced to branch terminus status by the time I knew it, but the echoing entrance hall still hinted at past glories. This gateway to a byegone age seemed to inspire respect, a natural urge to prefix all communication with a youthful "please mister," after tip-toeing to the ticket window. Having procured a return ticket to Bescot or New Street, depending on finances, a pleasant afternoon could be spent writing down numbers and generally watching the corporate blue world go by.
I know it's a great hobby for many folk, but number-taking didn't hold my attention for very long and I soon became more interested in other aspects such as photography. I never did "class" my Deltics or my Westerns, in fact I don't think I ever classed anything other than the AM4 and AM10 units that used to shake, rattle and roll between Walsall and Birmingham. I was never into "haulage" and I don't think I wore an anorak any more than the next chap. Over the intervening years I've nurtured the belief that I gave up train-spotting quite quickly, yet checking back there seem to be a good few years where I have precious few photographs to show for my efforts. I suspect I was rather busier with a biro and a notebook than I care to remember.
There, I've said it. I was a Train-Spotter. I just wasn't a very good one.
In the cool, blue heat of a summer morning a long-haired and presumably be-flared youth of 16 stepped off the wooden stairway onto the platform at Walsall station. This was my first unescorted rail foray and I was clutching a freshly purchased Midland Railtourer ticket and the obligatory duffel bag containing notebook, biro, spare biro, camera and a roll of cheap and nasty slide film. According to legend a bottle of warm Tizer should also have been standard issue, but either I'd not been told or the practice had been withdrawn along with steam. Within a few minutes a northbound Class 24 trundled through light-engine, up came my camera and with nary a thought for exposure or composition my first rail snap was in the bag. My scant regard for the fundamentals of photography remains but the rest of this scene has long since been swept away, the old Walsall station and the Class 24s having but a few short years left at the time. Yet while my recollection of many subsequent events is at best hazy the memory of this defining moment remains as vivid as ever. I was hooked.
The grimy old railway was paradoxically a bright new world to me in 1975. Loco recognition skills had to be learned and there was much else I didn't understand. Despite the predominance of corporate blue (although the odd 47 was still holding out in two-tone green) it seemed a world of infinite variety. Everything seemed to have been around forever and with youthful innocence I assumed it always would, although with the benefit of hindsight most of what I knew was about to be swept away. The Hymeks had just been withdrawn and the TOPS numbering system was so new that the Peaks were listed under their old numbers in my first Ian Allen combo. Yet at the time my impression was of permanence and dependability.
My Summer 1975 encounter with a Midland Railtourer ticket gave me seven days of (almost) unlimited travel within the Midlands and the opportunity to venture a little further afield than my meagre funds would later allow. Armed with an ancient compact camera I set off for what turned out to be a gloriously sunny week. A bewildering combination of rundown urban areas and sunny countryside flashed past the carriage windows punctuated by station stops at key locations for spotting and photography. The latter, unfortunately, consisted of ritual one-shot souvenirs combined with grab shots of anything that seemed out of the ordinary. Most of these underexposed snaps have long since been consigned to the delete bin of life, leaving a less than comprehensive record of the four digit headcode era.
Summer 1976 saw me issued (courtesy of parental finance) with a Southern Region Railrover ticket to keep me amused while the family holidayed near Eastbourne on the south cost. By-and-large another sunny week, I sampled such delights as commuting into London and 33 haulage to Weymouth. Noteworthy were the almost completely alien electro-diesels that have since become a firm favourite. Once again photography was regrettably of the holiday snap variety - little worth keeping.
The remainder of these formative years were mainly spent observing trains at Walsall, Bescot and Birmingham. These were low cost options that left funds available for LPs and concert tickets, but regrettably not for film.
By the time our long-haired and no longer be-flared youth of 18 stepped off the ladder of schooling onto the platform of further education at Birmingham Polytechnic in 1977 things were starting to become unglued. Trying to wring a decent picture from the recalcitrant compact would invariably give rise to a string of choice invective. Optically the camera just wasn't up to the job and on top of that it had begun to jam and tear film. So I scraped together enough cash for a second-hand SLR (who needs course books?) with the intention of more comprehensively recording the changing scene. A half decent camera and the availability of darkroom facilities (my unofficial alternative to lectures) at the Polytechnic opened the floodgates and photography took over completely from conventional spotting.
Wine, women and song vied with railways for my restricted funds. The faithful duffel bag was replaced by something more seventies from the Army and Navy store and the mythical bottle of warm Tizer gave way to a pint of similarly warm subsidised lager. The much loved Westerns had vanished with the 24s and 44s about to follow. Walsall station had been demolished and headcodes were but a memory. All I'd got to show for the decade was a handful of fuzzy slides and smudged biro in some locoshed books. Nostalgia turned out to be exactly what it used to be. History, on the other hand, was a more slippery customer. No-one told me when to run, as the song goes, I'd missed the starting gun.
Student finances kept my photography close to home, although I tried to use my combined bus and rail travelcard to maximum advantage. I did manage a trip to Scotland as part of a family holiday but other than this the old faithful Midland Railtourer ticket provided the only photographic opportunities outside of my local area. All-in-all an effort to make up for lost time.