But all is not quite as it might seem...
... and the best part was about to begin ...
I think I might have over-egged the last part in my excitement for the occasion so it may be wise to temper your expectations – the ‘best part’ is viewed through the (slightly damaged) eyes of an eight year old enthusiast.
The date mentioned by Red Squirrel of 11 August 1968 was that of the now famous Fifteen Guinea Special which ran a week after the official last
BR▸ steam service – as attended to by Robin Summerhill with his fine work at my local shed, Lostock Hall. I was very lucky to live in the last part of the Kingdom to be blessed with mainline steam and I am sure that there are others my age raised in lessor parts that were never witness to the best free show on earth.
In February 1968, my parents sold their small three bedroom semi for £2200 and I was torn away from my favourite viewing spot at Brownedge Crossing. Now 15 guineas in 1968 was a king’s ransom for a junior manager father, newly saddled with a larger mortgage to accommodate my baby sister. Even at half price for me, he would never conceive of spending £23-12s-6d (that’s £23.62½ for the youngsters) on such a junket even if it was the Last Ever Steam.
Luckily, decades before George Lucas invented the prequel, there were earlier runs over the same route using 70013 and I believe we were on the penultimate one run some two weeks earlier, probably Sunday 28th July. This was at a much more reasonable cost and the train was packed with not-so-rich but very enthusiastic steam buffs – my dad and I included.
Oliver Cromwell was an impressive engine but a bit pretentious for us local lads and the loco, despite its recent overhaul at Crewe, was not in the finest of health. She developed a bad steam leak on one of her cylinders giving a distinctive ‘chuff – chuff – chuff – hiss’ cadence and by the time we finally pulled into Carlisle – where I believe the photo was taken – the mighty Republican was a very sick beast.
So was I, with my eyelid full of soot, and it was with only with the greatest reluctance that I allowed my dad to shoehorn me on to the footplate for my family-famous photo. I was really miserable and remember that it was crowded with people and incredibly hot inside and I desperately wanted out as soon as possible. In later years I felt really guilty as I came to realise that my dad would have loved the opportunity to go up himself but couldn’t and offered up his place to me.
Shortly afterwards, Cromwell was released of her burden and there was a great deal of discomfort on the platform that we would now be diesel hauled back to Manchester. Imagine our delight therefore when not one – but two – Black Fives coupled up for the return journey. The end of steam was still a week away and these two of our favourite engines were found available.
As they say in football: “The crowd went wild!”
A double dose of
our kind of engine. The trip back was fantastic – real steam – Lancashire style, for I believe they hailed from Lostock Hall shed – sent up light over Shap to deputise for the sick star. The subsequent 15 Guinea special was run the same way with two Black Fives on the return and I wonder if BR management then realised how popular these engines were in the enthusiast community – just a thought.
Epilogue: 2008 saw the fortieth anniversary of the Fifteen Guinea Special with the same leading players – at least those still extant – and with roles reversed I bought a pair of premier dining tickets for my (now retired) dad and, gainfully employed, I. We had a wonderful day – dad took along the 1968 photograph.
At Manchester Victoria, 70013 backed on to our train for the journey north over the Settle and Carlisle – dad showed the driver my photo.
“Well, you better get on board and get another!” he demanded, and this time I enthusiastically obliged. See below.
That evening the train dropped us off at Earlestown south of Wigan, and dad and I were alone on the platform as we witnessed the fervent departure of our two Black Fives towards Liverpool shattering the night’s silence. Their twin beats only fading slowly over the next five minutes to eyrie quiet – a skylark perhaps. It was utterly lovely.
Silent because mum driving down in the dark had got lost in unfamiliar territory and couldn’t find the station. Not to worry, a light shone at ten o’clock, from the parlour window of a stranger’s house in the
County Palatine and so she simply knocked on the front door. Cheerily, she was directed to the station by a friendly chap therein. I love the north.
