Female Railway Modellers

The December edition of the Railway Modeller has gladdened my heart.  In it, a lady called Alison Barker describes her model railway, originally built by Jo Palmer, who turns out to be another lady.  Alison has been busily adding her own touches to the model. She writes: "I could see the potential for adding splashes of colour," and contrived to have herself scanned and 3-D printed in 4mm scale, wearing a bright blue and white 1950's dress.

What amazing talent! My own modelling skills are modest indeed when compared with Alison's or Jo's but reading her article has emboldened me to come clean — our model railway, photos of which I occasionally show to friends, is primarily mine.

There's no doubt about it, though; railway modelling is predominantly a male pursuit. Enter any well-stocked model shop, or approach a popular trade stand at a model railway exhibition, and you'll encounter a clutch of blokes eagerly viewing the latest offerings from Bachmann, Hornby or Peco, discussing the intricacies of Digital Command Control or seeking out model axle boxes for some carriage that hasn't run on a real railway for a century or more. The ladies can usually be found serving tea. I jest not.

My brother loved his Scalextric, but racing cars excite me very little. Rather, it's model railways that have held my fascination since I was a teenager, though I lacked both the time and the inclination to do much about it until I retired in 2012. However, that didn't stop me taking an interest in real railways, especially Cornish ones that had all but disappeared by the time I got married and started raising a family.

The model railway that now fills the 'spare' bedroom in our home has been inspired by the lines to Padstow and Bude, both of which closed in the 1960s. A long time ago Padstow was known as Petrocstow, so my station in the Land of the Saints is named St Petrock.

I like to think that everything running into my little station might have appeared on those Cornish branch lines around 1960, though experts would doubtless spot several mistakes, including a couple of rather pretty (and also rather expensive) coaches that, I'm told, never came further west than Devon.  But I am the Queen of St Petrock and if I want 'em, I 'av 'em!

The aspect of railway modelling that thrills me most is the scenery – creating hills, rivers and buildings.  Here are a few photos...

This is St Petrock Station. Only one gent (beneath the canopy) waiting for the train today. Crumbs, if it stays this quiet then some Beeching-type character may close it!

Giles & Powell were coal merchants in my home town of Newquay. Quite what they're doing here in St Petrock is a mystery, though business seems to be thriving.

St Petrock gasworks is a typical 'small town' design and nothing like the huge one in Bude. If Padstow had one, I've no idea what it looked like.

The bridge over Tredinnick Creek, under construction.  Mostly paper, polystyrene, bits of plastic, two Dapol (ex-Airfix) bridge kits and quite a lot of glue...

... and here almost complete. It was inspired by the bridge over Little Petherick Creek, on what was the Padstow branch line and is now a popular cycle track.

Finally, another model that's based on a real location – Dunmere Halt, near Bodmin. I call it Bourdon Halt as the point here is worked with an old bourdon organ stop, rescued from a Cornish church.

Three score years and ten

The days of our years are threescore years and ten; and if by reason of strength they be fourscore years, yet is their strength labour and sorrow; for it is soon cut off, and we fly away.   (Psalm 90.10)

According to that heart-warming verse from the Bible, it's downhill all the way from here, as I celebrate my 70th birthday. Not long to go now before I'm cut off and fly away.

"It's only a number," my good friends tell me, and of course they're right. In truth I'm only a day older than I was yesterday but this one does feel significant – perhaps the last one with a '0' at the end at which I will be fully fit. And I do feel fit. I'm not, nor ever will be, into sport or jogging, but I love rambling and climbing mountains, and rarely get exhausted on steep climbs.  I guess that's something of a surprise. When I was in my 30's I was sure that 70 year olds were old; I mean, really old. Now I am one, it doesn't feel like that.

One birthday card made me smile "You may be 70 today," it proclaimed, "but remember... you're still only 21 in Celsius!"  So '21' I shall be!

My family are being secretive about the birthday celebrations, though I do know that they'll mostly take place tomorrow when, I presume, my sons are not working. They all know and love me enough for me to be sure that I won't be embarrassed; I'm not one for boogieing into the night. Good food, I trust, will feature strongly.

Even the DVLA joined in the celebrations, bless 'em, by insisting that I have a new driving licence. However, they seem to have doubts over my longevity as they want me to renew it again in 2021. O ye of little faith.

I was born in 'Royal Week', just two days after Prince Charles. The newspaper article (left) goes on to record that my parents were presented with National Savings certificates (which I remember cashing in just before my wedding day) and enjoyed "a buffet supper, and the social continued with games and dancing to the music supplied by the Elite Players."  O my, they sure knew how to enjoy themselves in Bognor, though my dad wasn't much into dancing. Perhaps he just propped up the bar.

Since those heady days, as you may have noticed, the lives of the prince and I have followed different paths. I reckon that I've worn at least as well as him but I'll let you be the judge with this pair of 'then' and 'now' photos.

Father Forgive

"Wear your poppy with pride," they told me. But all I feel is sorrow and loss.  One hundred years after the guns of the Great War fell silent, my family still bears the scars... and we got off very lightly; very lightly indeed.

My great uncle Dan paid the highest price. Conscripted into the East Yorkshire Regiment, he was killed in France on April 23rd, 1917. His body lies we know not where, but he will be remembered tomorrow, along with 34,816 of his colleagues, at the Arras Memorial. What a tragic waste!

My grandfather Elijah was badly wounded in the Great War but didn't succumb to his injuries until 1926 – too late for my grandmother to claim a widow's pension. Fortunately for her, she must have had some influential friends (my family wasn't dragged up!) and she secured a post with the Cunard Line, sailing in the Mauritania II and later the Caronia. But that left my dad at home, mostly in the care of aunts. Consequently he grew up not knowing the love of a father or mother and was always the poorer for it.

Hindsight is such a wonderful thing. With hindsight, we see that the burning desire for retribution, and the reparations required of the German nation after the Great War, contributed in no small part to hyper-inflation, terrible hardship and a rise in Nationalism that would see the Nazi Party swept into power. Whatever we may think of the European Union, and the Common Market before it, let us at least acknowledge that it was built on the desire that its founding states would never go to war again.

Real peace – lasting peace – only comes when hatred is defeated by forgiveness; when former enemies become friends; when Americans and Europeans can buy Japanese and German cars without a twinge of conscience. It only comes when all concerned realise that there is far more to lose through war than to gain.

A few years ago I stood in the bombed-out ruins of the old Coventry Cathedral. There in the stonework at the east end are engraved two words – Father Forgive. I don't mind admitting that I cried when I saw it. And tomorrow, as the Last Post is sounded in our little parish church, I know I will cry again.

A land between two rivers

There's a land between two rivers

where the Severn meets the sea

and the silver Wye runs laughing

on her journey to be free.

That's an oft-sung song in these parts about the glories of the Forest of Dean, but I have a different land between two rivers in mind – one that lies between the Tamar and Tavy in South Devon.

I readily admit that this 300 mile foray into the glorious Devon countryside for a pub meal, a night in an AirB&B establishment and a 7 mile walk was a bit mad, but I'm a firm advocate for being crazy once in a while. Life is for living! We also took the opportunity to drop in on my poorly sis-in-law, just over the border in Cornwall.

For a leisurely Monday morning ramble I mapped out a route from the railway station in the little riverside village of Bere Ferrers, along the banks of the River Tavy.

Berealston is usually written Bere Alston these days. As for Beretown, no such name appears on the maps. I think it's an old name for Bere Ferrers, which in turn sometimes get written as Beerferris. Clearly it took a long time for folk to agree on place names in these parts. 

It had rained for most of Sunday. Monday promised to be dry but overcast, so my photos were hardly likely to sparkle. Bere Ferrers Quay is home to just a few small craft.

1½ miles into the walk I spotted Maristow House on the opposite side of the Tavy. Once a rural pile of the gentry, for a while after the Second World War it became a retirement home. Any hopes that I might end my days there have been dashed as it's now been converted into 12 luxury homes. The East Wing residence is currently on the market, a snip at £950,000.

This is Lopwell Dam, though I'd have called it a weir.  It was built in the 1950s to boost Plymouth's water supply and marks the point where the fresh water of the Tavy flows into the tidal estuary. The causeway across the river looks a bit scary but is perfectly safe, as this party of school children demonstrated.

My turn now. Safe it may be, but that didn't dissuade me from showing off a bit.  From here we made our way down the river bank to Blaxton Quay, opposite Bere Ferrers, where there's a ruined tidal mill... and a lot of mud.

If you're ever tempted to follow in my footsteps then check the tide times first as the Lopwell crossing floods for a couple of hours either side of high spring tides. Returning from Blaxton Quay, we picnicked at Lopwell and watched the tide gradually rise, then strode across at the last possible moment.  What fun!

Finally we returned to Bere Ferrers railway station – a place with a very sad history.

On September 24th 1917 a troop train was making its way from Plymouth to Salisbury. The New Zealand troops on board had been told that the train would stop in Exeter for rations. Unfortunately, it had to make an unscheduled stop at Bere Ferrers and many of the troops, believing they were in Exeter, left their carriages on the wrong side – the side on which they had boarded. In those days the line was 'double track' and they were struck by a Plymouth-bound express. Ten soldiers were killed.

The station is now home to a small railway museum, hence the signals with their conflicting indications.  The Fat Controller would not approve!  

The New Zealand flag is a nice, respectful touch though. We shall remember them.

Feeling the pressure

A month ago I attended the Health Centre for my annual check-up – a luxury that all of us of a certain age may have. A week before, Nurse Julie had taken some blood samples and this time she was pleased to tell me that all the results were 'normal'. She was particularly pleased with my cholesterol result of 4.2, just over a year after I'd stopped taking statins.  "You must be eating pretty healthily," she remarked.  Yes indeed; Slimming World has dramatically changed my eating habits.

Next Julie checked my weight and that was fine too – a little above my Slimming World target range of 11st:4lb - 11st:10lb – but actually a couple of pounds lighter than last year. Hay ho, I was on a roll!

The final check was my blood pressure. This was going to be interesting. Last time it had been a healthy 120:80, but that was only a few weeks after my doctor declared me free of hypertension (following my weight loss with Slimming World) and told me to stop taking Lisinopril. And the result this time?... 145:84. We both looked glum and Julie tested it again, but there was no mistake. My systolic pressure was definitely high and the diastolic was hardly great.

It might, Julie explained, just be a 'blip' so she loaned me a blood pressure monitor and asked me to check myself every day or so. If the systolic pressure remained above 140 I was to book another appointment. The results were interesting:

date    time   sys dia
Oct 9 1200 145 84   << exactly the same as the Health Centre result
      10 0900  140 75
      11 0845  134 72
      11 1710  132 69
      12 1230  140 79
      13 1400  138 74
      14 1645  138 75
      15 1100  148 73
      16 1130  140 73
      17 1350  142 75
      18 1100  141 73
      19 1100  142 75
      20 1800 124 65
      21 1720 131 69
      22 1650 118 72
      24 0800 129 73

All but 3 results had been 140 or below, so I cancelled my nurse appointment. I was, however, sufficiently concerned that I followed Julie's advice and bought my own blood pressure monitor.

I chose this one for £14.95. Adding a birthday present for one of my granddaughters ensured that I wouldn't have to pay postage – so hardly a vast outlay for some peace of mind.

I am now resolved to check my blood pressure weekly, around mid-morning. Last Friday's was 128:75 which is much better. I'll also try harder to get my weight back into the Slimming World range, as I know that (for me) there is a definite link between weight and blood pressure. Maybe less salt on my chips or rice too.  Yes, that would be sensible.