An inspirational encounter
Posted: Fri Apr 09, 2010 8:12 pm
“Excuse me,” said the man in the grey car. “Am I going in the right direction for the old railway?” The farmer approached, seemingly neither surprised nor bothered that the sleek saloon, its sides streaked with unfamiliar mud, should appear on the roof of England. “It’ll be the old viaduct you’ll be wanting?” His North Country accent was a mix of Lancashire, and of Durham, and of Westmorland where these kingdoms once met on the high, bleak moors. “If you want the footpath, it starts just around the side of the barn and it’s about a mile to where you want to go. It’s a bit steep, mind.” Clearly, the man in the grey car wasn’t the first to ask the question. The farmer was young, maybe in his early twenties, probably the son of the household. His green fleece bore the name ‘John Deere’ and his ruddy complexion showed that he could take the wild weather of the high Pennines just as well as his tractor. His tousled hair blew in the gusts of wind tearing across the high fell, despite the partial shelter of the farmyard. The man in the grey car, cocooned in his snug leather-and-wood box with autochanger this and sat-nav that, felt incongruous. The farmer, his border collie dog and his stick looked and felt right in this harsh upland scene. The man, feeling the cold through the open car window, did not.
“Would you prefer to go along the footpath, or walk along the old railway line to get there?” continued the young farmer. “We don’t mind letting people along the railway line if they ask.” Well, the question hadn’t been asked, but it seemed to have already been answered. The man in the grey car felt the need to ask anyway, feeling foolish and out of place in this timeless place. “Is that all right? Only I don’t want to trespass…” The farmer was in control, he would take the next steps, and grey car man and farmer both knew it. “Take your car round to the left there, through the gate. Drive along the road for about half a mile, then there’s another gate where there used to be a little bridge. Just after that, there’s a gate on the right – stop your car there, there’s a bit of hard standing where you can leave it. Walk through the gate and turn left into the old cutting. Mind you,” he said, trying not to deride the man with his eyes, “if I were you I’d walk along the top of the cutting: it gets a bit wet and muddy down at the bottom.” With that, he turned away back to his dog, the encounter finished as far as he was concerned, interchange with the city dweller over.
So the grey car edged slowly round the corner, and ahead was the gate. Stop the car. Handbrake on. Get out of the car. Open the gate. Walk back to the car. Get in. Handbrake off. Crawl forward ten yards. Handbrake on. Get out, shut the gate, back in the car, handbrake off. The tar track scythed away up, around and up again like a black ribbon across a bright-green children’s drawing of what a hill looks like – bare, steep, dome-like. But as the man crested the rise, there were the first signs of what he’d driven so far to see – an embankment, not tall, maybe ten foot or so – striking a line from left to right, the only straight line in a high world of curves and shadows.
The second gate was just where an overbridge must have been – it can’t have given more than eight foot headroom at most, but then when it was built all that would pass this way would be the farmer, and his sheep, and his dog. The cast iron deck was long gone but the masonry remained, beautifully dressed stone in which the craftsman took pride despite the thought that no one but the sheep would stay long to admire the workmanship.
Then there was the gate on the right, just where shallow embankment turned into deep cutting. Just as the farmer had said the cutting looked wet, and muddy, the marsh grass thriving along with the curlew whose cries could be heard in the distance. The man closed the gate behind him and negotiated the detritus of the farm. Could that piece of metal be some old relic of the railway? No, too new, not rusted enough – some discarded piece of tractor, or trailer. The water came over the tops of the man’s feet, not far enough to flood his boots but enough to remind him that the rains come here eagerly, and often, accompanied by their friend the biting wind. As if to remind the man who was master here, a few raindrops hit the man’s cheek, stinging him and making him put his hood up and his head down as he climbed the rising crest of the old cutting.
Despite the passing years, and the trees, the floor of the cutting was perfectly visible – looking as if the tracks had been removed last year, or maybe the year before, and not nearly half a century ago. Mud, and marsh, and stunted birch, inhabited the bottom: while the man avoided gorse and sheep droppings high above, peering down into the depth where once smoke rose from hard-working grimy freights and lightly loaded red-and-cream locals.
The man reflected on the cussedness, the determination of the Victorian engineers to make their railway. A cutting on top of a hill? The man balanced between a sheer drop five feet to his left, and a steep hillside to his right. But no, the engineer had said this way and the hardy navvies had complied, hewing the hard rock with picks and shovels. And as the man pondered, suddenly before him it was there – Belah.
“Wow”, said the man, his words lost on the wind and heard only by a few nearby sheep. They didn’t reply – they’d seen it before. The vista didn’t unfold gradually, like a mountain that’s seen in the distance and grows in texture and bulk as you crawl nearer. No, one minute the view was grass, drystone walls and short, windblown trees – and the next, a yawning chasm over the steep valley where once the great iron viaduct had stood.
Belah – a name that means nothing to millions, perhaps just an obscure river in an obscure valley in the wild, wet hills between the north of England and the sky with its fast-travelling clouds scudding across the horizon. But to a few, it means triumph over the elements, determination to fuse Furness iron ore with Durham coal, and lonely tracks winding their way over the spine of the country from Barnard Castle to Tebay and Penrith. It means Sir Thomas Bouch, Stainmore summit, ‘Snowdrift at Bleath Gill’, hardy men stoking hardy engines – and above all the iron viaduct, a quarter of a mile long, two hundred feet high, striding over the steep sides of the Belah valley.
But the viaduct is long gone now – blown up, taken away for scrap. All that remains are the abutments, in rich brown stone, and grainy photos of that last special train in 1962. And a few other signs too – what was the purpose of that little brick stage by the cutting wall, the old sleepers on top gently rotting but still bearing the marks of rails and chairs long since melted down? And in the far distance, at the other end of where the bridge had stood, the derelict stone signalbox. What stories could it tell? How many hours had lone signalmen stared out into the stormy night, waiting for the lights of the train to appear to tell him that the up goods was safely through the snow? And indeed, how had the signalman got to work in this strange place, miles from anywhere?
Once, this place was untouched by man. Then the engineers came, and for just a hundred years the twin ribbons of steel cut through the countryside like silver threads across a wide, green cloth. The everyday clutter of the railway came here: stations, signals, little huts where the permanent way men sheltered from the rain, the smell of creosote and ashes, the far-distant scream of the J39 as it descended carefully from Stainmore with 50 unbraked wagons behind. Now it was all gone.
Standing up here, the man felt like someone who was the first to ever step this way. But he knew it couldn’t be true. Once, the ganger had walked along here daily, checking his track and using his hammer to drive in a loose wooden key or tidy the edge of neatly-kept ballast with a shovel marked ‘NER’. Or the stonemason had come, to make a few repairs to the stone wall at the base of the steep cutting. And above all the trains had come, breathlessly crossing the hills with their cargoes of coal, or iron, or eager holidaymakers who ignored the Pennine beauty but dreamed of Blackpool, and dances, and the sea far below this hilly fastness.
And so, after half an hour walking, and photographing, and just drinking in the heady brew of clean air, and hard-edged grandeur, and nostalgia for an era he was born too late to know, the man turned and started the empty walk back to the grey car and its warm leather. He would not come this way again, as the trains will not come this way again, but what remains is the beauty, and the loneliness, and the memories.
The view north from the farmer’s gate, towards Barras
Looking south from the gate, the cutting begins that ends at the site of the viaduct
‘Wow’ – the sudden vista
Looking slightly to the left of the previous view – note the brick stage with rotting sleepers on top
The yawning chasm – looking south across the gap
Looking north along the cutting towards the gate a quarter of a mile away – the viduct site is directly behind the photographer.
The classic view – compare with the last picture below.
A bridge to nowhere –the north abutment.
Look at the workmanship! The north abutment again.
The south abutment in the far distance.
The north abutment stands sentinel over the lonely moor.
The sign stops reckless ramblers from falling off the edge of the abutment – one hopes.
Belah in all its glory.
“Would you prefer to go along the footpath, or walk along the old railway line to get there?” continued the young farmer. “We don’t mind letting people along the railway line if they ask.” Well, the question hadn’t been asked, but it seemed to have already been answered. The man in the grey car felt the need to ask anyway, feeling foolish and out of place in this timeless place. “Is that all right? Only I don’t want to trespass…” The farmer was in control, he would take the next steps, and grey car man and farmer both knew it. “Take your car round to the left there, through the gate. Drive along the road for about half a mile, then there’s another gate where there used to be a little bridge. Just after that, there’s a gate on the right – stop your car there, there’s a bit of hard standing where you can leave it. Walk through the gate and turn left into the old cutting. Mind you,” he said, trying not to deride the man with his eyes, “if I were you I’d walk along the top of the cutting: it gets a bit wet and muddy down at the bottom.” With that, he turned away back to his dog, the encounter finished as far as he was concerned, interchange with the city dweller over.
So the grey car edged slowly round the corner, and ahead was the gate. Stop the car. Handbrake on. Get out of the car. Open the gate. Walk back to the car. Get in. Handbrake off. Crawl forward ten yards. Handbrake on. Get out, shut the gate, back in the car, handbrake off. The tar track scythed away up, around and up again like a black ribbon across a bright-green children’s drawing of what a hill looks like – bare, steep, dome-like. But as the man crested the rise, there were the first signs of what he’d driven so far to see – an embankment, not tall, maybe ten foot or so – striking a line from left to right, the only straight line in a high world of curves and shadows.
The second gate was just where an overbridge must have been – it can’t have given more than eight foot headroom at most, but then when it was built all that would pass this way would be the farmer, and his sheep, and his dog. The cast iron deck was long gone but the masonry remained, beautifully dressed stone in which the craftsman took pride despite the thought that no one but the sheep would stay long to admire the workmanship.
Then there was the gate on the right, just where shallow embankment turned into deep cutting. Just as the farmer had said the cutting looked wet, and muddy, the marsh grass thriving along with the curlew whose cries could be heard in the distance. The man closed the gate behind him and negotiated the detritus of the farm. Could that piece of metal be some old relic of the railway? No, too new, not rusted enough – some discarded piece of tractor, or trailer. The water came over the tops of the man’s feet, not far enough to flood his boots but enough to remind him that the rains come here eagerly, and often, accompanied by their friend the biting wind. As if to remind the man who was master here, a few raindrops hit the man’s cheek, stinging him and making him put his hood up and his head down as he climbed the rising crest of the old cutting.
Despite the passing years, and the trees, the floor of the cutting was perfectly visible – looking as if the tracks had been removed last year, or maybe the year before, and not nearly half a century ago. Mud, and marsh, and stunted birch, inhabited the bottom: while the man avoided gorse and sheep droppings high above, peering down into the depth where once smoke rose from hard-working grimy freights and lightly loaded red-and-cream locals.
The man reflected on the cussedness, the determination of the Victorian engineers to make their railway. A cutting on top of a hill? The man balanced between a sheer drop five feet to his left, and a steep hillside to his right. But no, the engineer had said this way and the hardy navvies had complied, hewing the hard rock with picks and shovels. And as the man pondered, suddenly before him it was there – Belah.
“Wow”, said the man, his words lost on the wind and heard only by a few nearby sheep. They didn’t reply – they’d seen it before. The vista didn’t unfold gradually, like a mountain that’s seen in the distance and grows in texture and bulk as you crawl nearer. No, one minute the view was grass, drystone walls and short, windblown trees – and the next, a yawning chasm over the steep valley where once the great iron viaduct had stood.
Belah – a name that means nothing to millions, perhaps just an obscure river in an obscure valley in the wild, wet hills between the north of England and the sky with its fast-travelling clouds scudding across the horizon. But to a few, it means triumph over the elements, determination to fuse Furness iron ore with Durham coal, and lonely tracks winding their way over the spine of the country from Barnard Castle to Tebay and Penrith. It means Sir Thomas Bouch, Stainmore summit, ‘Snowdrift at Bleath Gill’, hardy men stoking hardy engines – and above all the iron viaduct, a quarter of a mile long, two hundred feet high, striding over the steep sides of the Belah valley.
But the viaduct is long gone now – blown up, taken away for scrap. All that remains are the abutments, in rich brown stone, and grainy photos of that last special train in 1962. And a few other signs too – what was the purpose of that little brick stage by the cutting wall, the old sleepers on top gently rotting but still bearing the marks of rails and chairs long since melted down? And in the far distance, at the other end of where the bridge had stood, the derelict stone signalbox. What stories could it tell? How many hours had lone signalmen stared out into the stormy night, waiting for the lights of the train to appear to tell him that the up goods was safely through the snow? And indeed, how had the signalman got to work in this strange place, miles from anywhere?
Once, this place was untouched by man. Then the engineers came, and for just a hundred years the twin ribbons of steel cut through the countryside like silver threads across a wide, green cloth. The everyday clutter of the railway came here: stations, signals, little huts where the permanent way men sheltered from the rain, the smell of creosote and ashes, the far-distant scream of the J39 as it descended carefully from Stainmore with 50 unbraked wagons behind. Now it was all gone.
Standing up here, the man felt like someone who was the first to ever step this way. But he knew it couldn’t be true. Once, the ganger had walked along here daily, checking his track and using his hammer to drive in a loose wooden key or tidy the edge of neatly-kept ballast with a shovel marked ‘NER’. Or the stonemason had come, to make a few repairs to the stone wall at the base of the steep cutting. And above all the trains had come, breathlessly crossing the hills with their cargoes of coal, or iron, or eager holidaymakers who ignored the Pennine beauty but dreamed of Blackpool, and dances, and the sea far below this hilly fastness.
And so, after half an hour walking, and photographing, and just drinking in the heady brew of clean air, and hard-edged grandeur, and nostalgia for an era he was born too late to know, the man turned and started the empty walk back to the grey car and its warm leather. He would not come this way again, as the trains will not come this way again, but what remains is the beauty, and the loneliness, and the memories.
The view north from the farmer’s gate, towards Barras
Looking south from the gate, the cutting begins that ends at the site of the viaduct
‘Wow’ – the sudden vista
Looking slightly to the left of the previous view – note the brick stage with rotting sleepers on top
The yawning chasm – looking south across the gap
Looking north along the cutting towards the gate a quarter of a mile away – the viduct site is directly behind the photographer.
The classic view – compare with the last picture below.
A bridge to nowhere –the north abutment.
Look at the workmanship! The north abutment again.
The south abutment in the far distance.
The north abutment stands sentinel over the lonely moor.
The sign stops reckless ramblers from falling off the edge of the abutment – one hopes.
Belah in all its glory.