Click
here for
the photos and some video, and here for
the blog.
Our
second foray into Euroland began with a celebratory dinner
at the Kasturi, a well-known Indian restaurant in downtown
Southport. For five of us at least, as our medical officer
was busy boosting his expenses bill at a health conference
in uptown Cardiff. With his wife, no less. A rendezvous was
therefore arranged at the Norfolkline ferry terminal in
mid-town Birkenhead, and much to my surprise, successfully
achieved. A brief quote of a reference number, a flash of
photographic ID, and we were through into the inner waiting
area. A few cars joined us, but mostly it was lorries.
The loading procedure was reminiscent of a circus ride. It
started on a fairly innocuous-looking landing stage, with a
hard left to avoid the fatal error of boarding the Dublin
ferry, followed by a sweeping curve onto the loading ramp,
and we thought we were there. However a uniformed official
had other ideas, and pointed us firmly in the direction of
a second ramp, equipped with ominous-looking, and
ominous-sounding anti-slip markings. The reason for such
provision immediately became clear, as we were launched up
a steep slope that threatened to test the driver-vehicle
combination to the limit. Just as it seemed we were
inevitably to be catapulted onto a maritime version of the
wall of death, we emerged onto the top deck of the ferry
and some welcome flat parking areas. At the far end we
espied a well-preserved Mini, looking far younger than its
29 years, if the number plate was to be believed.
The cabins were functional but more than adequate, as was
the midships bar, the aft bar, the min-casino and the
restaurant. This last served dinner that was not only
filling but also included in the price of the ticket, so we
were compelled to put the Indian meal firmly behind us and
ensure full value was secured from our investment. Mid-way
through dinner a steward appeared and pulled the curtains
across the front windows firmly closed, although it was by
no means dark outside. One hoped no such procedure was
being carried out upstairs on the bridge.
Outside
dusk descended only slowly, and we were able to enjoy
watching first of all the Dublin ferry depart from the
adjacent dock, by means of a stately three-point turn in
front of the Liverpool water-front. The lights of our
beloved Bootle came next, followed by numerous lights that
seemed to be moving. One pair in particular seemed to be
closing fast, accompanied by lines in the water that looked
suspiciously like torpedo tracks. Fears that the U-boat
tied up at Birkenhead as a tourist attraction had somehow
slipped its moorings and had come seeking revenge on its
captors of sixty years, were eventually proved unfounded.
Just a fishing boat.
The morning alarm call, courtesy of several mobile phones,
was sounded earlier that we would have liked, but the
promise of a free breakfast was stronger than we could
resist. As we ate Belfast Lough slipped by either side and
we were soon docking at our destination, surrounded by
container cranes, container stacks and container lorries.
As we tied up a Stena high-speed catamaran ferry pulled in
a little astern of us, probably without any containers.
Leaving the ship required a firm hand on the steering wheel
and a strong will to avoid breaking any speed limits for
the descent into the bowels of the ship where lay the exit
ramp. Once safely at ground level we headed north in
convoy, initially in the direction of Londonderry but then
south-west towards Donegal, in weather that seemed
determined to emulate, if not improve on, the previous
day's. At Strabane we stopped for a coffee, the effect of
an early start being that the town still seemed rather more
than half asleep. Fortunately we found one cafe wide awake
and functioning. En route we passed a baker's shop that
seemed to take to heart the Irish reputation for dairy
products of quality and quantity, with a good dozen square
feet of counter space given over to essential supplies of
cream cakes.
Suitably
refreshed we passed on to Donegal, to seek out the local
railway museum. This took several attempts, and two lots of
directions from local inhabitants before we eventually
found it. On one circuit of the town square we were
surprised to see a van drawn up outside the bank with an
escort of not only Garda but also of the military, complete
with sufficient portable weaponry to deter all but the most
hardened bank robber.
The museum was an interesting affair, cataloging the rise
and fall of the local narrow-gauge systems with
photographs, posters, models and audio-visual displays,
supplemented by some static coaches outside. The lady in
charge explained the lack of signs to the museum by saying
that it was easy to find if you knew where it was, or words
to that effect.
Lunchtime was approaching, but we decided to press on the
twenty miles or so to Fintown, in weather that was turning
increasingly warm. After a journey through country roads in
scenery that looked decidedly Scottish, we reached a lake
and soon afterwards spotted a railcar progressing eastwards
alongside it. A swift overtaking manoeuvre and we pulled
into the somewhat basic station facilities to await its
arrival. It turned out to be a pair of vehicles, with a
small diesel locomotive providing banking assistance (on
almost completely level track) to the railcar. After
confirming the afternoon timetable we repaired to the local
pub for lunch, only to find it served no food. Faced with a
five-mile run back to Glenties for an alternative venue, we
opted instead to gather a selection of supplies at the
village shop, for consumption at a picnic table overlooking
some particularly picturesque scenery. The train returned,
departed and returned again, and this time we strolled back
to the station and took our seats for a leisurely ride
along the lakeside. At the far end we were a captive
audience to a taped message describing the history of the
line, its closure and its reopening, and we were driven
sedately back again. In an adjacent yard were several other
railcars and another diesel locomotive, all in considerable
need of repair.
We drove onwards to a B&B on the outskirts of
Letterkenny, a busy small town that sported a considerable
number of new commercial and residential developments, no
doubt part of the Celtic Tiger effect, before it caught cat
'flu. It also featured a one-way system, which the lead
vehicle managed to negotiate no less than five times whilst
a) re-establishing contact with the separated support
vehicle, b) locating a shop selling camera cards and c)
finding a suitable place to eat. This last was the first of
two Chinese restaurants we were to patronise during the
trip. As a pre-dinner exercise we explored the eastern
perimeter of the town for signs of previous railways. The
stone-and-cast-iron bus station looked a good candidate for
a restored railway terminus, circa 1908, further evidence
being in the form of a hand-operated pedestal crane in the
car park outside.
Next
morning the first rainfall of the trip helped to wash the
salt of the cars as we prepared to depart for the Bushmills
railway at the Giant's Causeway, back in Northern Ireland.
Despite entering the correct postcode for the railway we
were directed by Sally the Satnav to the Bushmills
distillery. Whether this was a demonstration of electronic
good taste or of technical insubordination was not
immediately clear, but later events suggested the latter.
After a minor route adjustment we arrived at the railway,
the Bushmills end of which consisted merely of a platform
containing a newly-arrived narrow-gauge train, drawn by a
steam engine named Shane. Perhaps named after the driver.
The carriages were small boxes on wheels, just big enough
for our six-man party. After a couple of miles ride through
wood and grassland we arrived at the terminus proper,
complete with station, workshops and a carriage shed. We
followed the rest of the passengers on a short walk up an
increasingly steep road to a National Trust car park,
always a sign of an Attraction with a capital A. Just past
the inevitable gift shop and cafe was another road, this
time going steeply downwards towards the sea, before
disappearing around a corner. A bus stood invitingly at the
top, and mindful of the likelihood that the visible corner
probably wasn't the only one, we elected to use the vehicle
rather than walk. Halfway along the road The Giant's Camel
was pointed out to us, followed in quick succession by the
Giant's Boot, Chimney and Organ. All contrivances of rock
and an optimistic imagination. Two corners later we arrived
at our destination, the Causeway itself. Although slightly
smaller than previously imagined, it was none-the-less
impressive. Equally impressive was the number of visitors
it was host to, from a wide spectrum of nations apparently
intent in doing in a few decades what wind and wave had yet
to accomplish in millennia, namely erode the structure to a
shadow of its former self.
After a thorough examination of the edifice, and our
contribution to its eventual disappearance, we returned to
Bushmills by bus and train. This time the train was pulled
by a diesel locomotive, complete with a set of roof-mounted
horns that could probably be heard in Stranraer. The steam
loco had been declared temporarily unfit for employment
with injector problems. Possibly some form of psychosomatic
neurosis brought on by being called Shane – one wondered if
it had a twin called Sharon, or perhaps Tracy? We set off
for our overnight accommodation in Ballymena, in one of a
matching pair of large guest houses.
Next day we drove on almost deserted roads to the small
town of Whitehead, the home of the workshops of the Railway
Preservation Society of Ireland. A track off a road
alongside a children's park opened up into a large yard
full of assorted locomotives, rolling stock and associated
machinery. We introduced ourselves to one of the volunteer
workers, hoping the the deputy chairman's careful
preparation for our visit had paid off. Fortunately they
were friendly enough to overcome this obstacle, and we were
treated to a thorough tour of the works and much detail on
the Society's operations. The range of this works was
impressive, and even included a small foundry for casting
assorted items of railway infrastructure.
Our second stop of the day was at Downpatrick, for the
Downpatrick railway. Unfortunately they had suffered a
break-in the night before, and were unable to run trains,
the local scenes of crime officer being fully engaged on
the platform and station building with magnifying glass and
fingerprint powder. We were however given our second
detailed and informative tour of the day, by an apologetic
and friendly staff. After a late lunch at a local pub we
drove to Castleblayney for our overnight accommodation.
Next day the Cavan and Leitrim Railway was a considerable
surprise. We were expecting perhaps a repeat of the
Downpatrick railway, although hopefully without the
criminal element. What we found was a treasure trove of old
transport, of virtually every conceivable type. As well as
a restored steam locomotive and numerous industrial diesels
there were buses, coaches, ambulances, parts of planes, a
German WWII glider and even a midget submarine, painted the
inevitable yellow. It was run by another national treasure,
known in the railway fraternity as 'Mad Mike', possibly for
his slightly eccentric appearance, for his 'can-do attitude
to preservation issues or for an eclectic and all-inclusive
approach to selecting items for his personal attention. Or
possibly all three.
We were
treated to a non-stop flow of pertinent, and sometimes
impertinent, information on a generous sample of the stored
stock, much of which seemed to have a story involving
royalty. As well as the steam locomotive, the available
motive power included a large number of small diesels from
the local peat-winning industry. Three of the smarter ones
were lined up as our personal run-past photo opportunity,
an event which included riding on two of them whilst Mike
propelled us from the rear with the third. The finale was a
run behind a slightly larger coach along the full length of
the currently-navigable line, the latter part of which
clearly demonstrated the need for Mike's latest invention,
a home-made weed-killing wagon.
After a session buying T-shirts and finding other excuses
to press modest amounts of money into our host's hands, we
took a reluctant farewell. Pausing only to watch the local
service train stop at the adjacent station, we departed
south for the final railway of the trip, and the most
problematical. We knew there were narrow-gauge railways in
the area, supplying power stations with freshly-dug peat,
but we had also been reliably informed that the associated
tourist-carrying track was closed. Apparently it was being
upgraded to a full-blown Tourist Attraction, possibly even
a Heritage Centre. But not for a couple of years.
However local intelligence, from Mad Mike himself no less,
indicated that a working peat operation was located nearby,
and furthermore that a working power station was not far
distant, and it might even suffer visitors to view its
activities. We set off in optimistic mood, and quite soon
came upon a somewhat nondescript collection of sheds,
vehicles and tracks that looked vaguely peat-related. Our
veteran ambassador was sent to negotiate with the handful
of workers who looked as if they had had enough for the
day. Whether they had strange visitors from abroad every
other week was not clear, but they seemed quite happy for
us to wander around and record what they were doing, or to
be precise had just stopped doing. The operational nature
of the site was quickly confirmed by a small diesel
locomotive which drove energetically past towing a wagon,
the driver clearly needing to be somewhere else by the end
of his shift. Peat-scraping machines and a briquette-making
equipment were seen, along with a large pile of assorted
track panels and serried ranks of sleeper packs.
A few miles further on a tall chimney emitting a plume of
white smoke indicated a power station. This time the
chairman took charge, and introduced himself to the shift
manager. The latter was also unsurprised at the request to
look round his domain, and spend some time explaining in
detail just what went on there. We were granted
favoured-visitor status, and allowed to wander around
outside taking photographs of the train movements.
Peat-loading had finished for the day, but several
locomotives were seen coming and going with long trains of
wagons, with the occasional light-engine positioning moves,
ready for the morning.
At the end of an interesting and rewarding day we drove the
few miles into Athlone and our accommodation for the night.
Next day was rostered as time off for good behaviour, so we
split up for an hour or two of recreational shopping before
reconvening for a boat trip up the Shannon. This followed
the normal routine for such expeditions, namely a steady
cruise up-river with a running commentary by a cheery
owner-driver. However at the turn-round point the plan went
off-message a little, as a large group of middle-aged men
descended on the boat and rapidly filled up virtually every
seat. One had an accordion, and it became abundantly clear
he was not afraid to use it. And so as the rain clouds that
had been threatening a downpour for some time finally
delivered, we were treated to a series of popular (at least
to the Irish male sterotype) songs, sung with considerable
enthusiasm and varying talent. Well it helped to pass the
time.
Back on dry land it was still wet, so we retrieved our
vehicles promptly and set off in the direction of Dublin,
for our final B&B and the ferry home. Negotiating the
route to the docks was a little trickier than on the
outward journey, but we made it, and had the pleasure of a
millpond to sail on back to Birkenhead.
Click here for
the photos, here for
the blog and here for some video.