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First Published in the September 2000 issue of .
All Photographs © Copyright Andrew Ralph 2000
I couldn’t tell by looking at him that my future husband was a rail enthusiast. There were none of the stereotyped signs. He had no anorak, no kit bag with depot stickers and the posters on his wall were of Peter Gabriel, rather than Peaks and Growlers. He did confess before we were married, but assured me that it was all in the past. And I believed him! The first time I encountered a Deltic was a calm affair. We were driving past the Midland Railway Centre and just stopped to have a look round. I was introduced to Tulyar and we went on. It was like an encounter with an ex-girlfriend - "Hello, nice to meet you. Goodbye." Having been dragged away from the television in the middle of the Rugby World Cup, my memories of the event consist mainly of attempting to stand on a slippery muddy embankment, trying to get some kind of reception on the radio, whilst my besotted husband took photos of his darlings. Another relative-triggered flop was the Lavender Line. "We’re almost there, once we’ve been to my parents!" Hmmm. The "almost there" added an extra two hours to our journey and the line wasn’t even open. Still 73003 and 73004 were there and, as we managed to see them through the bushes, it was worth it. Obviously. The best one, however had to be a trip to my uncle in London in February 1997. (Royal Scots Grey was running from Kings Cross!) We had already struggled down to Hampshire in Friday night traffic to sleep at my mother’s, before The Big Day. the plan was that we would travel up to Waterloo - a mere hour’s journey - on the train, then the children (both of the pretty small variety) and I would go on to East Finchley, where my husband would meet us after his train-spotting detour. "A mere hour’s journey" - ha ha! They appeared to re-building large sections of the line, causing very late trains which gave up altogether at one of the fiddling little stations between Basingstoke and Woking. We were told to get off the train, where a bus would meet us. Someone forgot to tell the bus! Eventually, an old bone-shaker was dragged out of retirement and we slowly wound our way round the Surrey countryside until it finally deposited us at Woking. Woking station is not noted for being a vastly exciting place in which to hang around on a cold winter’s morning, but the sighting of a 73 warmed my husband’s heart (if not the rest of him). We arrived at Waterloo finally, where we split up and the children and I had an event-free trip to East Finchley. We had only been there a very short time, when my downcast husband turned up. He had arrived at Kings Cross just in time, only to find that he had been given the wrong information and that the Deltic had left one minute before. Was this the first time in history that a Rail Tour had departed on time? We travelled back to Waterloo on the bus, and discovered that it was hours before they were running any trains back to Winchester. Opting for warmth, we elected to go on a through train to Southampton, where we assumed picking up a Winchester train would be a relatively simple operation. Unfortunately, the Southampton train wasn’t a through train, as shown on the board, but wandered aimlessly round the south of England, before it finally deposited us at our required station. Our optimism over the Winchester connection proved ill-founded, but eventually, having taken over three hours on this hour’s journey, we arrived back in Winchester. A seriously stroppy letter to South West Trains did, however net some small financial compensation.
It wasn’t until October 1991 that I first saw him in the grip of full enthusiasm. As we walked down the muddy slope from the overflow car park towards Bridgnorth station, he stopped, transfixed. In just such a voice as Mr Toad had "Poop pooped", so my husband murmured "Can you hear it?" Not actually knowing which element of the cacophonous racket he meant, I asked him to be more specific. "It’s a Deltic!", he said, still in love-struck mode. I walked, and he floated to the station where we encountered Gordon Highlander and Royal Scots Grey.
Then there was Worcester Open Day in May 1994. By this point we had acquired two small children (neither of whom, despite suggestions to the contrary, was named "Koyli"!) and the three of us were dragged on a hundred and sixty mile round trip - on a Sunday, cramming it in between two church services to see some non-existent locomotives. Having lured my spouse (via the railway press) with some tempting morsels as three Class 20s, a Crompton, a Hymek, five Hoovers (which I am told are locomotives as opposed to domestic appliances) and two Deltics, not to mention a Warship, a 56, a 58, a 59 and a 73, those in charge totally failed to deliver the goods. This was THE END. We were not doing it again. Of course, we did, but not until a serious concession had been made. We acquired a caravan.
This seriously improved my quality of life as I would be abandoned by the spouse and train-loving sprogs (I guess it’s in the genes. How many three year olds can pick out a Deltic and make a reasonable stab at its name? Hearing a toddler attempting Royal Highland Fusilier is enough to make a mother weep!) Anyhow, as I sat in the caravan, munching chocolate, nose-deep in Jilly Cooper, I began to almost enjoy diesel galas. They have taken us to some interesting places. Usually Gloucestershire doesn’t spring to mind as the ideal holiday destination for two beach-loving toddlers, but how can long stretches of sand and paddling in the sea compete with the Gloucester-Warwickshire diesel week? At least it was a nice camp site. 
I thoroughly approve of Minehead. We’ve found a stunning caravan site with swimming pool, adventure playground, very reasonable off-peak rates and, best of all, the West Somerset Railway actually runs through it. Train spotting (sorry, railway enthusing!) from the comfort of one’s own caravan! 
It’s not all wonderful, of course. I loathe the East Lancs and wish that it would vanish down a big hole, so we don’t have to trail up there every June - two hundred miles in Friday evening traffic. This year, we also grounded the caravan, broke the breakaway cable, the lights failed and the children vomited alternately. But "I did see Western Fusilier running for the first time in fifteen years". Oh well, I suppose that makes everything all right then!
Another result of my husband’s love affair is that I get to see more of my family and friends. I was delighted when he first suggested a trip to my mother’s. "How nice that he wants to go and see my mum," I thought naively. I now, however, have cracked the code. "Would you like to go and see your mum?" means "There’s a diesel gala at the Mid-Hants." "Shall we go and see your sister at half term?" - a five hour drive! - is interpreted as "I think there’s a Deltic running on the Settle-Carlisle line" and "Let’s go and see your friend Sarah" translates as "There’s something on at the Midland Railway Centre."
I guess we just have different priorities. To me, coming home on the Cardiff - Rhymney line after a lousy day at work, with the trains failing to run all over the place, being hauled by Hood isn’t much of a compensation. I must just be funny that way!