Memories of Steam Trains

In late October, the BBC ran a series of programs about the demise of steam locomotives in England which were killed off by the Minister of Transport of the time, Beeching. These nostalgic programs brought back some memories of when I was a little girl. The closest train track was about a 2 mile walk from our house – down the road, down the lane, across the main road, down another road which also turned into a lane, across a field, over a style then across another field to that magical place – the bridge over the railway line. My brother Mick and I often used to escape the constant beatings handed out by the woman who called herself our mother, by walking to “our” railway bridge. There, we would just lie on the grass, staring up at the sky and waiting for the sound of a train. Then we’d jump over to the bridge, take a deep breath, lean over the bridge, shut our eyes and felt the tingle of
glowing soot particles on our faces as the train passed beneath us. Then we’d breathe in again and then soon there would be the silence again, broken only by the sound of skylarks hovering in the sky. It was a great thrill for us if the driver saw us and the train whistled for us.

Another time, we were still very small, we heard that the legendary streamlined, “Class A4″ locomotive, Mallard would be coming to our nearest big station pulling the coaches of the Seaside Express. Fortunately it was a fine day, so off we set for the 5 mile walk to the town to see the Mallard. We didn’t have any money for bus fare, but our Nan had given us 1 penny each for Platform Tickets (you needed a ticket to go onto the platform back then). As it turned out, we were allowed onto the platform for free by the very kind guard, and he told to not to get too close to the edge, when I told him we wanted to see the Mallard.

Even thinking back to it, I get teary-eyed. Here we were, two little kiddies, all on our own like something out of a Dickens novel staring open-mouthed in awe, as this stunningly beautiful blue and black locomotive slowed down and chugged its regal way past us. I wanted to touch it, because it looked like something from another world. But I didn’t have the nerve. Mallard is now in the National Railway Museum in York, NE England and one day I will go and see it, and I will touch it.

But until then I can re-live those days of steam thanks to an excellent website which has not only pictures, but sound files to listen to, or to download. The website is http://www.fleetsteam.co.uk and if you want to hear a real train whistle, listen to the Oliver Cromwell whistle as it thunders towards the site owner, David.

 http://www.fleetsteam.co.uk/sitebuildercontent/sitebuilderfiles/70013_farnboroughdown620_140908.mp3

David has been extremely kind and has sent me a short version of the whistle and train, so I can hopefully put it as a ring tone on my mobile phone.

Other sounds of steam locomotives can also be found on

http://www.steamsounds.org.uk/

Support your local…

We used to have a butcher in our 2000 inhabitants village. His products were fantastic, fresh, direct from local farmers and you could get exactly as much or as little as you wanted. He  trimmed the fat off the meat, prepare cordon bleu as you waited, made his own lasagne and if you got unexpected guests on a Sunday (most shops here are closed on Sunday), he’d meet you at the back door of his shop and see what he could do to help. Gristle was unheard of, and he always had a little bag of something for customers with cats or dogs.
I used to buy all my meat from him, plus other stuff he sold, such as his aforementioned, to-die-for lasagne, herb butter for steaks, even a simply fabulous Gruyere cheese which he also used to buy from a local farmer.
He closed down his shop over 2 years ago and I still miss him.
The problem was, that there is a Co-Op almost opposite and a huge Migros supermarket only a mile or so away. And people think that if, say, the supermarket’s lamb chops are 35 Swiss Francs a kilo and the butcher’s lamb chops are 38 SFr a kilo, then obviously the supermarket’s meat is better value. But that’s not necessarily the case. These customers don’t calculate the difference in price when they have to cut the fat off themselves, and have to leave chunks of gristle at the side of their plate. Look at it like that and the butcher’s meat – besides probably being fresher, and most likely coming from more naturally raised animals than most  supermarkets’ offerings –  is better value for money.

The same applies to bakers. We still have a baker’s shop in the village and I still go there to get my bread. And if it’s late in the afternoon and she has too many small cakes left, she’ll give them away to customers in the shop, or to passing schoolchildren, rather than let them go to waste.

The next village to us still has a cobbler. Remember cobblers? Usually dark shops smelling gloriously of leather and polish. Fortunately local farmers and horse riders go to him to have bridles, saddles and other leather goods repaired so I hope he’ll be around for a long time to come.

These small local shops and businesses are the true lifeblood of communities and they deserve everyone’s support to help them survive in this modern world of superstores and supermarkets. So if you’re driving through a village, don’t look for a supermarket to do your bit of shopping – look for the small shop where you are treated with old-fashioned curtesy and have the satisfaction of supporting part of our world which is being elbowed out of existence by megastores.

Letters to the emperor

I am currently reading the book “The Letters of Pliny The Younger” and have reached Book X (=10 to those who weren’t paying attention in history class). This section comprises of some of Pliny’s letters to the Emperor Trajan and the replies he received. In many of them Pliny seeks advice about how to deal with certain situations in his job as Governer of Bithynia – a province which had previously suffered from corruption and poor administration.

Trajan was a very “approachable” emperor, even for common people when they needed his help. This led to one of the happier and more peaceful times of the Roman Empire. A couple of these letters can be read here (in English) (though the book has many more).

http://www.fordham.edu/halsall/ancient/pliny-trajan1.html

Now, here in Switzerland we have a similar system concerning the approachability of those “in power”. I remember many years ago when we turned down the offer of having cable TV (even though the cable runs through our land) because we felt that satellite TV was preferable for us (more freedom of choice) and had a 1,5m dish on our roof (the first private dish in Canton Berne as it happens).

Once the cable TV system was up and running our local (village) administration sent a letter to everyone telling them that external antennas has to be removed by a certain date – most people didn’t need them any more anyway. But we did. So I wrote to them and said we still needed our Swiss TV antenna and our dish, as we weren’t on their cable system. The letter was ignored. A month or so later we received a registered letter saying that our dish was to be taken down from our roof or they would send someone to forcibly remove it at our expense. Now, if our house was an ancient monument (it’s ancient but it ain’t no monument!) or in a historically protected or “listed” area, I could understand them, but it’s not. I called them and said again that we needed our dish because we’re not on their cable system, but they practically said “that’s your own fault” and “remove your dish or it will be removed”… The fact that they pulled the cable over our land, did a lot of damage to our land and never paid us a penny compensation didn’t matter to them.

So I called the National Government in Bern. Switzerland doesn’t have a king or a single president in the usual manner. We have – at the top of the chain of power – a group of seven people called the Bundesrat, who basically have the main power (apart from the people, when we vote by referendum on whether we agree with the Bundesrat wants to do). Anyway, I called Bern and immediately got through to the secretary of one of the most approachable and popular Bundesräte of his time – Willy Ritschard. She put me through to Mr. Ritschard Himself (and I didn’t even realise until half-way through the conversation that it WAS him.)

When he heard of our predicament he was furious and practically cursed petty local government politicians and, thanks to a letter signed by him on our behalf and sent to the chairman of our community government, they “decided” to allow us to keep our dish.

Mr Ritschard came to our aid yet again a couple of years later when our daughter, then 9 years old, was forbidden from riding her bicycle to school. Local school by-laws allowed only children over 11 from riding to school. I protested that a local government was not allowed to say who could or could not ride on National roads. They countered by saying that she would not be covered by the school’s insurance. I lobbed the ball back saying that Swiss law states that ALL children have to be insured by the school for their way to and from school, no matter whether they walked, rode, skated, or flew. And that if they are saying that their insurance did not cover our daughter, then they were breaking the law and I would do something about it. They ummed and aahhhed and then said that if she rode her bike to school, she would not be allowed to ride it on school grounds but would have to leave the bike elsewhere.. So Mr Ritschard again stepped in, told them not to be so petty and to allow our daughter, who lived at just over the “legal” distance of 1 km away, to ride her bike to school.

Things have changed in our village since then. You see kids who live only a few houses away, going to school on bikes, skates, skateboards and scooters and nobody is stopping them. Maybe Mr Ritschard and ourselves finally made them see how petty they were and change the rules.

So for me, it was rather like writing to the Emperor.