Night in the City

Being the third part of The Moscow Chronicles!  Follow the links for Part 1 - Moscow Calling and Part 2 - Taksi!

Stepping out from the Arrivals Hall of Moscows Domodedovo Airport into the Russian night was more of a surprise than I expected.  It was, of course, cold, this being November.  However, at an average of -5C it was, apparently, relatively spring-like by Muscovite standards.  The real shock to the system was stepping out of a relatively modern airport building, which could have been anywhere in the world really, onto what appeared to be a building site.  There was a makeshift tarmac path which petered out after a few yards into rough ground, which we clambered over to reach the car, parked, with loads of others, on the side of a sort of road designated by wire fencing.  To be fair, I have since learned (thank you Wikipedia) that Domodedovo was upgraded substantially in 2005 and I must have arrived there in the middle of all of this.  Nevertheless, the sudden switch from modern building to rough and ready ground was unexpected.

We set off for the City Centre, with me trying to find something to say that might be internationally comprehensible, and largely failing.  The relative silence did give me chance to observe the road and traffic in more detail than I perhaps would have done.  I was surprised to find we were on a busy six lane highway which did not appear to have any central reservation or safety barriers, just three lanes of traffic going hell-for-leather one way and three lanes doing the same in the opposite direction.  The other surprise was that there was no hard shoulder, or rather, if there was it wasn’t used in the way we would expect.  Cars that had broken down or stopped, for whatever reason, just stopped right where they were, in the lane in which they were travelling.  This made for an interesting journey when you suddenly realise you were approaching a parked car at some speed and had to switch lanes in a marked manner.

Moscow itself seemed, reassuringly, much like any other city, with the same advertising hoardings, neon lights and traffic jams.  We parked at the front of my hotel and I walked into the lobby, which apparently doubled as the hotel bar, to find a table full of my colleagues from university.  I pulled up a chair and gratefully accepted a Baltika beer.  Around the table were the two senior lecturers whose programme this was, a colleague of mine who was part of the teaching team and who had just completed her first day of teaching the students in Moscow, and Cliff.  Cliff (not his real name) was the local ‘fixer’ whose company held the licence for the course and with whom our university was partnered for the course delivery.  Cliff was an amiable and charming English chap in his 30s who lived and worked in Moscow and had done for several years.  He knew his way around the city and its bureaucracy and was, therefore, the ideal link for us.  My ‘taxi driver’ was, in fact, Cliff’s right-hand man here in Russia and was rumoured to be ex Special Forces.

I recounted my travails at the hands of British Airways, Domodedovo Airport and putative taxi drivers, which they found amusing.  After a couple more Baltikas, I was more amenable to seeing the funny side too.  I collected my key and set off for the lift to go up to my room.  Beside the lift was an English version of the local Moscow paper, the headline warned of possible trouble ahead.  Apparently, the following day, Friday 4^th November, 2005, had been announced as a Public Holiday at relatively short notice (Unity Day, I think) and there were concerns that there might be some demonstrations as the public were expecting to be celebrating a different event on a different date.  This did not bode well for me as I had Friday at leisure, was due to teach on Saturday and Sunday, then returning to the U.K. on Monday.

I repaired to my room, which was not unlike a student’s bedroom in the Halls of Residence at home - bed, desk, T.V., small en-suite shower room, wardrobe.  I knew, from discussions before at the university, that the cost per night for this room was eye-wateringly expensive and had only been reduced to this exorbitant level by virtue of one of the two course leaders staying on for a few days to deliver some free management training to the hotel staff.  To find that all we were getting for this amount was this tiny room, was a bit of a surprise!  Still, I would be able to review my teaching materials here in my spare time tomorrow.  Now it was time to call my wife and let her know I was safely installed and then to collapse in a heap at the end of a long and stressful day.  Tomorrow, I could explore my new surroundings.

Watch out for Part 4 of The Moscow Chronicles coming soon.  You can find a lot more from Philip here

Taksi!

Being the second part of The Moscow ChroniclesI  Follow the link for Part 1 - Moscow Calling

I'm not a big fan of flying.  If I could manage it on my own, I might probably be just about alright, just as long as I didn't go too high.  Terry Wogan used to have a correspondent (Willie Gofar, I think) who aimed to circumnavigate the world by hot-air balloon, the only problem was that he didn't like heights, so he had to keep one foot on the floor at all times and he also had to be back home for his tea each day.  By and large, I had some sympathy with him.

If you remember, from the first blog-post, I'm currently, and rather reluctantly, on a flight from Heathrow to Moscow's Domodedovo Airport on a mission to teach Human Resource Management to a cohort of students on behalf of my university.  I'm travelling alone but the seat next to me is occupied by a young, very well dressed, Russian gentleman.  We've exchanged pleasantries, as you more or less have to when crammed together for four hours, eating like a Praying Mantis (by which I don't mean a diet of insects but rather the position you have to adopt if you're to avoid elbowing your fellow passengers) but nothing more.

When we finally landed at Moscow, somewhere around 20.00 local time, I discovered the first snag of the trip.  British Airways in its own inimitable way had forgotted to give out the Landing Cards necessary to get through Russian Passport Control.  These were available on a table as we approached the Passport Control Desks but, there was only one English translation available for the entire flight, so the whole thing took on something of the air of a rugby scrum.  I began to despair of ever getting any further into Russia than this Arrivals Hall until my Russian travelling companion very kindly stopped and guided me through the completion of the card.  I was pathetically grateful for this help given that I was wound up like a coiled spring long before I arrived and I was really not in a good place for things going wrong. 

I then proceeded to the Passport Control Desk and cheerfully produced my UK Passport, complete with the requisite Visa stamp allowing me to visit and work in Russia.  Obtaining this stamp had been a major exercise in the first place and there had been some doubt about whether my passport would be returned by the Russian Embassy in time for my trip, which had done nothing to calm my underlying panic.  I think all Immigration Officers are trained to treat you with a certain disdain but I don't think I've ever been regarded as if I was something that the cat had dragged in, in quite the way that this Officer did.  She peered at me and my passport with open hostility and then, clearly against her better judgement, stamped the passport viciously and returned it to me with the air of one who thinks 'on your own head be it'.

Delighted to have jumped this particular hurdle, I hurried to collect my luggage from the carousel and was chuffed to find it was all there.  One of my chief worries had been that all or some of my luggage would go missing.  This wouldn't have been the end of the world if it was just my clothing but my pilot's case had all of my teaching materials, videos and laptop inside and I would have been completely up a gum tree without those.

 Up to now, my experience of Domodedovo Airport had not been markedly different from that of any other airport, even the Immigration Officer hadn't been all that unusual, you can get surly Passport Officials everywhere.  However, that was all about to change.  I went out through the double doors marked Exit and was immediately engulfed in a wave of people, apparently taxi drivers, all yelling and shouting at me.  Some were holding name cards for those they were to collect from the airport but most were not.  I was expecting to be greeted by someone at the airport so I surveyed the scene hopefully, but my heart sank when I realised there was no card with my name on it.  In the meantime I was being assailed by all these men offering to take me to Moscow, for a price.  I explained that I had someone coming to collect me but this didn't seem to dissuade them.  I eventually fought my way through the melee and sat down on one of the benches disconsolately, still under siege from the massed ranks of taxi drivers.  It dawned on me that I had not taken the precaution of getting the phone numbers of my colleagues who were already here in Moscow and, therefore, I had no way of contacting them to ask what was happening.  Then I realised that, with the time difference, it was possible that the Subject Administrator for the course back at my university might still be at work.  I rang her and, glory be, she was!  I explained my situation, against the babble of orbiting taxi drivers, and she said she would get in touch with my colleagues and find out what was going on.  I rang off, much relieved.  The taxi driver phalanx had thinned out whilst I had been on the phone, presumably having hijacked further passengers after me.  I settled down to wait but there was one remaining taxi driver from the previous horde who clearly did not believe in taking "No" for an answer, as he kept asking me if I needed a taxi.  Out of interest (and inadvisedly I suppose, but I wasn't at all sure that I would be collected) I asked him how much it would be to take me to my hotel, he then quoted a figure that would only have made sense if it had been a gold-plated limousine.  This was laughable not only because I didn't have that sort of money but also because I was sitting opposite the Airport Taxi Desk, behind which were quotes for typical fares to various places, which showed an amount about half of that being quoted my persistent friend, for a trip to Moscow City Centre.

The phone rang and it was my colleague in Moscow who was the Course Leader.  He apologised that I hadn't been met at the airport but assured me that my driver was on his way.  All I had to do was wait and beat off the entreaties of my circling taxi driver.

Quite some time passed and I began to wonder if I would ever see civilisation again.  I must have cut a lonely figure, surrounded by my luggage in a deserted Arrivals Hall, just me and my pet driver.

Just then, a tall young man in a leather jacket appeared and produced a piece of card with a variant of my name on it.  Overjoyed I picked up my luggage and went over to him explaining volubly the trials and travails of my recent past.  He smiled blankly, took one of my cases and we headed off to find his car.  I realised that there was every likelihood that he didn't speak any English and, of course, I don't speak any Russian.  This was clearly going to be an interesting journey.

Watch out for Part 3 of The Moscow Chronicles coming soon.  You can find a lot more from Philip here

Moscow Calling

Part 1 of The Moscow Chronicles

The darkening skies all around the aircraft rather match my mood.  It’s only 15.00 GMT but it’s already as black as night out there.  This, I suppose, is only to be expected as it is November and I’m flying eastward, away from the setting sun.

I’m on a flight from Heathrow to Moscow - Domodedovo Airport to be precise. It’s the year 2005 and I’m not doing this for fun, as you will have probably guessed, it’s part of my work.  This may come as a surprise to those whose last encounter with my work-related exploits was in 1976 when I was a Statistical Clerk at Harold Wesley Ltd. In Burton upon Trent.  Trips to Moscow were not a feature of that employment.  In fact I never even made it as far as their Head Office in Harlesden!  29 years have sailed by and quite a lot of water has been passed under the bridge since Wesley’s.

I’m now working at a leading university in the MIdlands.  I’ve been doing odd bits for their Department of Human Resources ever since 1999, when I completed my studies there but now, as of 2005, I’m actually on the payroll and leading a course of my own.  Why then am I flying out to Moscow?  Well, there’s a bit of a scramble amongst the universities to set up overseas courses and attract foreign students, largely because they pay full fees and therefore help top up the coffers but also because there is a certain prestige in having the worth of your courses recognised abroad.  Our Department has stolen a bit of a march on its competitors by establishing our Postgraduate Diploma in Human Resource Management course in Moscow with the blessing and authorisation of the Chartered Institute of Personnel Management (CIPD) whose professional qualifications this leads to.

The course has recently successfully completed its first cohort and the university and the Department are keen to involve as many of the Department’s teaching staff as possible in the delivery of the programme.  I am not one of life’s intrepid travellers and never have been, so I’ve been trying to keep a low profile on this one but it has been made clear to me that it would do my new-found teaching career no harm at all to be involved with this. 

I’m also at a disadvantage because, being new to the game, even with my course leadership and associated teaching responsibilities taken into account, I still don’t have enough ‘hours’ to my credit to match the amount that I need to fill my part-time teaching contract.  Don’t think, for a moment, that I’m spending my days with my feet up on a beach somewhere. I’m actually working more hours than I’m being paid for but you only get so many ‘hours’ allocated to each activity and these don’t necessarily bear any relation to the actual time it takes to, for example, prepare lessons or mark students’ work.  As a consequence, I need to find more teaching opportunities to beef up my notional hours, so I’m in no position to turn down the chance to teach on the Postgraduate course in Moscow.

A number of us in the Department expressed an interest in the course.  Some because they relished the idea of foreign travel, others like me because they have been ‘guided’ towards this.  One of the beauties of working for a university is that they are never short of experts on pretty much any subject and so a resident expert on living and working in Russia was wheeled out to give us a half-day introductory course on Russian culture, norms and values, along with some basic knowledge of Cyrillic script so that we could have a stab at understanding any signs we might come across.  Never optimistic about my involvement, my gloom deepened as the course progressed and sank further when I bought the great man’s text book on the topic.

In the fullness of time, I was offered a Module Leader’s spot on the course.  This was a good thing in many ways because (1) it meant more notional hours and (2) because it was a module I had already taught in the U.K. and therefore had lessons pre-prepared.  Module Leadership often meant that you were in charge of a number of lecturers who were contributing to that module, but that wouldn’t be the case in this instance because I would be doing all of the teaching.

My module would be taught in two two-day sessions, the first in November and the second in January.  The university would arrange my accommodation and transfers to and from the airport, I just had to arrange my own flights.  The deal was that I could fly out on the Thursday, have a day to do whatever I wanted to do in Moscow on the Friday, teach on Saturday and Sunday and then fly home on the Monday.

Flights to Moscow from the U.K. could take you to one of two airports.  Sheremetyevo was the oldest airport, I was told, and tended to be the one that indirect flights took you to, whereas Domodevedo was more modern (having recently been reconstructed) and direct flights from Heathrow on B.A. took you there.  I don’t really like flying at the best of times and so the idea of catching not one but two planes didn’t appeal.  Hence, on the relevant Thursday morning, I was being driven to Heathrow Airport by my brother-in-law, accompanied by my wife, who was to stay with her brother and sister-in-law in Ascot over the weekend whilst I was in the frozen wastes, and then return home with me when I returned on Monday.

Which brings me back to where we started.  My flight left Heathrow at lunchtime and was scheduled to arrive at Domodedovo around 16.30 GMT, which would be around 20.30 in Moscow because of the four hour time difference.  My day was being shrunk which the encircling gloom testified as we travelled remorselessly eastwards.  I wondered what was in store for me?  My knowledge of Russia had been framed, over the years, by spy films and bleak documentaries from the Soviet era.  Was this what I had to look forward to?  What would my Russian students be like?  Would we understand each other?  Would they laugh at my jokes?  Would I be able to work the display equipment wherever I was teaching?  What would I do if it all went wrong??

These and a whole host of other concerns were churning through my mind throughout the flight and I knew that only time would tell.

Watch out for Part 2 of The Moscow Chronicles, coming soon.

The Nostalgedy Collection

http://mybook.to/nostalgedycollection

Mortimer

I'm leaning against the playground wall with an air of studied indifference and boredom.  A number of my friends are standing with me affecting the same pose.  We are watching the antics of the younger pupils.  In particular, we are watching the antics of Mortimer, who is not actually a younger pupil, he is a contemporary of ours.  Mortimer is being a plane.

It is 1970, it's my last year at Anglesey Secondary Modern and my friends and I are contemplating our future.  Except for Mortimer, he's being a plane.  

The purpose of Secondary Modern Schools was to prepare those who had failed the 11+ exam for a world of work in which they would be, all  being well, engineers, printers, draughtsmen or mechanics, if they had shown aptitude, or factory workers and labourers if they hadn't.  This relates to the boys, of course.  If you were a girl you could hope to be involved in secretarial or clerical work at best or shop work or factory work at worst.  In fact, many of our class have already left school to take up apprenticeships or trainee positions in such illustrious places as Rolls-Royce, the CEGB (Central Electricity Generating Board) or one of the breweries.  We who remain are the ones who have stayed on to study for our GCE and CSE exams and are now bound for Sixth Form studies at either the Grammar School or Burton Technical College.  I'm heading for the Technical College for two reasons.  Firstly, the Grammar School didn't want me and, to be fair, I didn't want them.  The idea of going back to school uniform and compulsory sports didn't, somehow, capture my imagination.  Secondly, I can smoke at Technical College (yes, I know, I know, it just happened to be important then!)

I'm not at all sure what is going to happen to Mortimer (not his real name).  He has something of an aptitude for maths, but not much else.  I think Mortimer's parents have great hopes for him, which I suspect are going to be dashed. 

Throughout his school life, Mortimer has always attended in immaculate school uniform.  He is clearly loved and doted upon.  In the environment of the Secondary Modern, this would be enough to make him the target for everything going, and he is.  There are a number of different coping strategies for this.  Firstly, you can attempt to ingratiate yourself and be everyone's friend.  Secondly, you can attempt to blend into the background (this was my chosen strategy, sometimes I didn't notice myself) or thirdly, you could be belligerent and chippy and try and face your tormentors down.  Mortimer chose Option 3.  I can only imagine that his parents had told him to 'stand up for himself', which is very laudable but likely to end in tears.  What's more, Mortimer wasn't just chippy and obnoxious with his adversaries, he was quite capable of being like this even with those of us who had his best interests at heart.  He didn't make it easy to like him.

What I admired about Mortimer was his absolute refusal to fit in.  Here we all were, pretending to be grown up, cool and disinterested in play and here was Mortimer being a plane.  Our futures were uncertain, the only thing we knew for sure was that we were leaving school behind and taking the first step on the road of becoming whatever we were going to become.  Mortimer didn't think about the future, he was too busy being a plane.

I remember this moment so vividly because I recall how I felt at that time.  I realised, as I watched Mortimer, arms outstretched, making airplane noises and leading a crack squadron of first years, that right now I would give anything to pack up the whole idea of growing up and, just for a minute or two, join Mortimer and be a plane.

All of this comes under the general heading of 'nostalgedy' which you can find a lot more of here.

Wise About Morecambe

This is a story that begins with a touching faith in the power and scope of the internet and ends with some very old technology indeed.

I've always had a lot of faith in the ability of the internet to answer just about any odd or bizarre question you can throw at it.  No matter what peculiarity you happen to be interested in, you can pretty much guarantee that someone, somewhere has been interested in it too and has already done the necessary research.  Therefore, when I posed a simple question about parking arrangements, I was shocked to find no clear answers and some very conflicting ones.

Put quite simply, later in the year we're going for a short break in the Isle of Man.  This is a place I've always wanted to visit, so it's somewhere else to tick off my bucket list.  For reasons best known to ourselves, we've chosen to go by ferry (it turns out that it would probably have been cheaper and easier to fly, but I do love a ferry crossing) and we're going as foot passengers.  This means I need to leave my car at the port, which is Heysham.  I decided to check on parking availability, charges etc. and to see if it was possible to pre-book.  This is where the internet let me down.  One site said there was ample parking and it was £3 per day and this was the site we consulted when we made our ferry booking.  Looking again, and this time at the ferry company's website, it seemed that there was limited parking and it was £12 per day!  The various travel advice websites were no better, with no clear indication of what the situation actually was coupled with some dark stories about rapacious parking site operators.  No matter where I looked, I could not get a clear and definitive answer about how much parking there was, how much it was going to cost or whether you could pre-book.  I did learn that someone had a driveway about half-a-mile away that I could book at a price but that didn't appeal.  Frustrated with the whole process, I announced that there was only one way to sort this out and that was to have a trip up to Heysham and see for myself.

In all honesty, this wasn't my sole reason for the trip.  I had also realised the Morecambe was just a few miles away and I'd never been there.  Why the interest in Morecambe?  Well, because of the statue at the top of this article, mainly.  I'll come back to that in a moment.

We found Heysham Port and the mysterious car park.  Not the biggest I've ever seen, I'll grant you, but certainly not full to bursting and I doubt it ever would be, except possibly when the TT races are on.  Signs about parking charges were pretty limited but the £12 per day thing seemed to be correct (unfortunately).  It took a little while but I finally tracked down the parking ticket machine which is cunningly hidden on the railway station platform.  This seemed relatively straightforward and purported to be able to cope with credit and debit cards as well as hard cash, so I was reassured that, one way or another, we would be able to pay for our parking on our return.

With the business of the day disposed of, we pottered up to Morecambe.  I have to say I was pleasantly surprised.  I don't quite know what I expected, probably a lesser Blackpool I suppose, but it was nothing like that.  Miles of perfectly clean beaches, spotless promenades that also go on for miles, generally quiet and understated.  Yes, a little run-down in parts, as unfortunately you could say about most British seaside resorts that enjoyed their heyday in the late Victorian/early Edwardian period.  Nevertheless, there were some nice touches, for example the old Victorian railway station hasn't been flattened and replaced by a concrete pill-box (as it was in Burton upon Trent, and I'm still bitter about it) but has been preserved and is now split between a performing arts centre and a Greene King pub.

The fact that it was a beautiful sunny day with a nice cooling sea breeze probably helped my view of the resort and I dare say I wouldn't have been quite so well-disposed had the rain been coming down sideways.  

I came across the statue I had been looking for, almost by accident.  Typically, there were no signs to show where to find it, that I could see, yet it must be one of the main draws for people coming to Morecambe.  

I have been a devoted fan of the late Eric Bartholomew for as long as I can remember.  I don't believe there has ever been anyone with such a complete knack for delivering hysterical lines with panache and brilliant timing.  He was the archetypal British comedian and I doubt whether we will ever see his like again.  One of the plaques that adorn the small square in front of the statue makes the point that the Morecambe and Wise Christmas Special of 1973 was watched by 29.5 million people.  In other words, roughly half of the British population tuned in to see that show!  Can you imagine any other act having that sort of pulling power?  Famously Eric was once asked what they would have been had they not been so successful and he said "Mike and Bernie Winters" and I think the gulf between those two double acts speaks volumes.

Toward the end of his career, everyone knew his health was poor and I think we were all hoping and praying that he would stay with us but not push himself too much.  When he died, I think the whole country felt the loss quite keenly.  It wasn't a surprise but there was a huge hole now in British Light Entertainment that would never be successfully filled.  It must be quite something to be loved and adored by so many people.  The only other comparable national affection for an entertainer I can think of was for Terry Wogan, although I know he irritated as many as he enthralled.  I was one of those who thought he was unbeatable as a radio presenter, and still do.

Of course, being British, the visitors to Morecambe didn't queue up to have their photo taken with Eric's statue.  They sort of hovered in the general vicinity, not wishing to show any untoward enthusiasm.  When they finally did take the plunge and line up for a snap, it was almost as if it was an afterthought, rather than the whole purpose of their visit.  I know because I did exactly the same!

Trudging back to the car park with my precious picture safely stowed in my phone, I noticed a second hand bookshop across the road.  Bookshops are a magnet to me and this looked particularly promising.  Old books were arranged on some shelving that spilled out onto the pavement and, when I went inside, the whole place was crammed from floor to ceiling with books of all descriptions.  It would have been a marvellous place to lose yourself for a day and I'm quite prepared to believe that you might never be found again if you went down some of the aisles.  Terry Pratchett's 'L Space' writ large.

Unfortunately, I didn't have the day to devote to idly browsing.  My quest in bookshops is to find old P.G. Wodehouse editions (I'm trying to collect all his works but, as he wrote 96 books in his long life, it's something of a daunting prospect).  Fortunately, the bookshop owner was able to point me in the direction of quite an impressive collection of Wodehouse books of mixed vintage and I was chuffed to bits to find two that I had been looking for.  If you're ever in Morecambe, I would highly recommend a visit to The Old Pier Bookshop on Marine Road - you won't be disappointed.

Clutching my purchases, I reflected on how it was odd that the internet had let me down but that had led me to having my photo taken with one hero and getting a couple of sought after books by another.  Perhaps the internet hadn't completely let me down, after all.

When he's not trying to track down car parking facilities, Philip has been known to write the odd thing.  You can find it all here.

On Volunteers and Victorians

A couple of events over the Bank Holiday weekend set me thinking (which is a novelty).  

The first was on Sunday, when I attended my second day of training, as a volunteer, to learn how to man the Ticket Office at the Staffordshire Narrow Gauge Railway (SNGR) at Amerton Farm near Stowe-by-Chartley https://amertonrailway.co.uk/, better known as Amerton Railway.

Just before you start thinking 'Two days! Strewth he must be slow on the uptake!', there's more to it than you might at first think (certainly more than I had anticipated).  

I actually feel something of a fraud because, whereas the other volunteers can, and do, talk knowledgeably about engines and how they work, along with signals and points and stuff, I can't.  I'm only here because I, along with many others I suspect, like being in and around trains and I think I'm reasonably OK in customer-facing roles (I haven't bitten anyone yet, anyway).

It was a relatively quiet day given that we had typical English Bank Holiday weather but, nevertheless, there must have been about 100 adults and children through the gates all told.  For the Santa Specials as many as 800+ adults and children can be processed in a day - I know, as I was on mince pie warming duty one day last Christmas!  

It occurred to me that there must be thousands of organisations like Amerton Railway up and down the country, wholly or mostly run by volunteers, providing a much-loved service at a reasonable price, and I think that's something to celebrate in a world where there's often not too many reasons to be cheerful.

On Bank Holiday Monday, I visited another example of this phenomenon.  For years I've lived in and around Burton upon Trent and I've often said to myself 'I really must visit there' and have never got around to it, but now I have and I'm glad I did!  Where?  I'm talking about Claymills Victorian Pumping Stations http://claymills.org.uk/

If you haven't been to this yet, you really should.  Built to carry the thousands of gallons of effluent created by the Burton brewing industry to somewhere else other than Burton, and to avoid bringing the River Trent to a standstill as had been the previous practice, this is a testament to the engineering ingenuity and brilliance of the Victorian era.

You can say what you like about the Victorians but they certainly knew how to build things on a grand scale.  These four massive beam engines had a clear function and were not involved in a truly glamorous occupation but, nevertheless, they are housed in absolute splendour.  Just look at those columns!  They could, and probably should, have been entirely functional.  They were not intended to be gawped at by the general public and I doubt they would have been on the itinerary of any visiting dignitary but that didn't stop the Victorian designers from celebrating the wonder and magnitude of the engines with the exuberance of their architecture.  The Victorians were leading the world in their engineering ingenuity and innovation and they wanted to venerate their industrial might, and why not?

I've droned on before about how much we've lost and how little we gained during the architectural vandalism of the 1960s and 1970s.  Take Burton railway station, for example.  We did have the Victorian anthem to rail travel, which looked like this:

Now, to me, that says 'We're going to take you on an adventure and you're going to love it!'  Clearly that wasn't the message that British Rail in the 1960s wanted to convey, so they demolished that and replaced it with this:

Which, I think, says 'If you're lucky, we're going to take you from A to B and you're going to hate every minute of it'.  At best, it looks like an early draft for a gentleman's W.C.  Mind you, when the Victorians designed a gents' urinal, they came up with this:

See what I mean?

Back at Claymills, if you get the chance to visit here when it is 'in steam', then you're in for a treat.  It doesn't matter if, like me, you haven't got a clue about the nuts and bolts of the engineering in front of you, just glory in the wonder of Victorian mechanisation at its best.  This is muscular mechanics, fabulously functional yet truly beautiful.

Once again, Claymills is staffed entirely by volunteers and a wonderfully enthusiastic and knowledgeable bunch they are, too.

I suppose the point about volunteering is that, not only are you keeping something working that private or public enterprise probably wouldn't, but you are also getting the chance to work in and around something that you might not have got anywhere near in your normal working life.  With that in mind, if you fancy playing with trains on a much larger scale than your average train set, then Amerton Railway are always interested in hearing from people who want to volunteer on the Operations side of things.  Check out their website:

https://amertonrailway.co.uk/

When he's not playing at trains, Philip has been known to write the odd thing.  You can find it all here.

And finally...Cyril!

Continued from Cyril and More Cyril

We first encountered Cyril when we kept our pub, The New Talbot.  Mum and dad rather collected ‘waifs and strays’ and seemed to have a weakness for odd characters.  It was not unusual to have a living room full of people, after closing time on a Saturday night, enjoying an after-hours drink on the house.  On these occasions, mum often put on a bit of supper because she was concerned that a number of her ‘characters’ didn’t eat properly.  This was almost certainly the case with Cyril, who appeared to exist on a diet of cigarettes and tea.  Whenever she provided a cooked meal, you have never seen anyone eat with such concentration and attention to detail as Cyril.  It was a standing joke, in our family, that you had seen nothing until you had seen Cyril chasing an errant pea around his plate!

To the best of my knowledge, Cyril didn’t drink an awful lot, confining himself mostly to the odd half pint.  However, these after-hours sessions often involved the consumption of one or two shorts and, probably because of the meagreness of his diet, these seemed to ‘get over’ Cyril quite rapidly.  In the exuberance of alcohol, he was known to adopt an Italian character and pursue my mother around the room, all the time entreating her with a stream of mock Italian.  This had my mother in fits of giggles.  I didn’t think much of it as a ten-year-old but, then again, inebriated adults were never much of a source of humour at that age.

At these same soirees, Cyril was often encouraged to ‘do his party piece’.  Apparently, at some point in the past, he had made the mistake of admitting that he frequently spent time standing on his head, because he believed that this improved the circulation to the brain.  Thereafter, he was forever being entreated to demonstrate this, and I think he was nagged into it on a few, rare occasions, but I never witnessed it.

Another one of Cyril’s all-consuming hobbies was entering newspaper competitions.  He even took the ‘Competitor’s Journal’ every week and used to let me have back issues of this, when I once expressed an interest.  My interest soon waned when I realised that, although it was apparently possible to win such competitions on a regular basis, you more or less had to devote your every waking moment to tracking competitions down, clipping out tokens and devising witty tie-breaker answers.  My heart wasn’t in it, but Cyril never gave up, although I can’t recall him ever winning anything.

Cyril’s other love was The Royal Antedeluvian Order of Buffaloes, or The Buffs, for short.  Cyril always attended his local lodge and had an encyclopaedic knowledge of the Order’s rules and regulations.  Many people, I believe, used to attend The Buffs for the social side of it and many didn’t take all the ritual and regalia too seriously, but Cyril did.  Because of his encyclopaedic knowledge, along with his memory for what had transpired at previous meetings and what precedents had been set, I believe he rose to quite a high position in the Order.

In many ways, Cyril was an eccentric’s eccentric.  He had a sense of humour (see his ‘Italian’ exploits above) but this did not extend to seeing anything remotely funny about his own beliefs and practices.  If anything, he took himself rather seriously.  Nowadays, I suppose Cyril would be regarded as being on some spectrum or other, but then he was just one of the rich panoply of characters with which Burton seemed to be populated.

On occasions when my mum hadn’t seen Cyril for a while, and wondered if he was alright, I would often be sent around to his home in Oak Street.  I always knew that this would be a waste of time because he was either not there or, if he was, he wouldn’t come to the door.  On the very rare occasions that he did answer the door, he would only open it a fraction and peer through the crack, cigarette puffing fit to burst.  To the best of my knowledge, no-one ever got to see inside his house.  I suspect that he was someone who tended to hoard, which might explain his reluctance to let anyone in, but who knows?  Well, I suppose the answer to that is, whoever had the job of dealing with his estate, because…

The one remaining oddity of Cyril’s life was that everyone

knew that he had left instructions that his body was to be donated to science on his death.  This was way before such a practice was generally known about and was the cause of much comment.  Amazingly, despite his sporadic diet and immense consumption of cigarettes, Cyril lived a long and active life.  Regrettably, when he eventually shuffled off this mortal coil, I’m told that science didn’t actually want his remains and so he had to have the burial that he had never planned.  Nevertheless, I think he would have been pleased with it.  The Buffs have their own funeral ceremony, which I had never witnessed until Cyril’s interment.  It’s rather touching and relates to the circularity of life and there was quite a turn out of Buffs to take part.  

I think Cyril would have approved!

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