Chugging into the Dales


Several middle-aged badly dressed portly gentlemen with cameras shuffled hurriedly past my house this morning. Fitting the description perfectly myself,  I thought I’d join them to see what all the fuss was about. The village railway station is but a few giant steps away from my house and has a large car park but that was full and the small northbound platform was packed with tourists and trainspotters. For two reasons I always hesitate before asking someone pointing a camera at an empty space on the railway line what’s happening. Firstly, they might think I’m a keen trainspottter and strike up some lengthy over-detailed conversation about trains; or secondly they might think I’m not a keen trainspotter and strike up some lengthy over-detailed conversation about trains. So instead I listened in to a lengthy over-detailed conversation about trains between two trainspotters. Anyway, before I’d got to the point where I felt like chucking myself off the bridge, controlled excitement broke out and into the station chugged the above. It’s the Fellsman 45231 – I know because it says it on the engine bit at the front.

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