A Steam Engine Departs
Watching the departure of the majestic ‘Royal Scot’ loco, provokes a visceral description of the experience and reverie on the meaning these giants of steam hold for us.
‘Straining at the Leash’ - LMS Royal Scot Class, 46100 ‘Royal Scot’, departs Alresford.
‘Straining at the Leash’ - LMS Royal Scot Class, 46100 ‘Royal Scot’, departs Alresford.
There is something magical and remarkable about standing near a steam loco departing a station.
It still gets me every time I witness it. There is a sheer sensory overload to the experience, which leads the mind to a contemplative awe of the whole concept of the railway.
The resonant beat of those first few exhaust notes assaults the ears, whilst the deep bass note and vibrations shudder through the ground, until one is unsure what is heard and what is felt. All the while the skin quivers, enveloped in the warm clouds of escaping steam, which moments later, condensed on the face, leave a parting feeling of cool moisture.
The air is redolent with that unique pungent aroma, primarily that of burning steam coal, but overlaid with other scents, lubricating oil, brass polish, and that astonishing, intangible smell that comes from the trackbed on a warm day... hot stones , metal tracks and creosoted sleepers, accentuated at the moment of departure by the water that drips from the loco onto them.
Perhaps, most of all though, it is the visual senses that are overwhelmed. The sheer scale and sense of latent, raw power given off by the engine at close quarters. A near hundred tons of solid impossibility of movement, erupting so smoothly into transit. The complex, but apparently effortless symphony of motion of valve gears, con rods and wheels.
A sleeping giant dragon wakes in a swirl of steam.
The eye is drawn forward by the clearly intended direction of movement of this improbable mechanical creature. Two straight lines of clear purpose stretch into a beckoning distance.
There seems no question or choice of direction or destination. But even just the view from one station, past a signal, under a bridge, through a cutting, reminds one of the vast network of routes, that this remarkable machine is connected to, carved out long ago by the relentless efforts of thousands of long gone navvies. Endless possibilities of cities, hamlets and lonely halts where a journey might end.
Yet these represent finishing points only for the travellers who dismount. The loco always presses on. Discharging its cargo and setting off with new passengers, freight and purpose. Setting off again on its meandering adventures or repetitive to and fro-ing, its next destination determined by the equally vast network of signalling wires and point control rods that appear to control its destiny.
On it wanders, covering the vast miles that it was engineered with purpose to do, maybe half a million, or a million or more. It could have made the moon and back on that, but instead trod the rails in endless duties, mostly serving the humble needs of the same provincial towns and villages over a lifetime.
Duty in retirement is no longer the morning milk train, or the night express, but simply to delight. So here it stands again. Renewed bearings, wheels boiler and paint and more. Ready once again, under the gentle care and guidance of all those that cherished her. On track lovingly rebuilt, sleeper by sleeper, fishplate by fishplate. Standing in the station under the signal, that all looks as if it has not changed in seventy years, yet carefully and intentionally hides the hours of love and labour that made it look just so.
Straining at the leash, fire in the belly still, with heaving con rods and the breath of steam that warms then cools, the loco departs again.
I am left on the station, staring down the rails into the lingering steam in the cutting, mesmerised and enchanted by it all once again.
It still gets me every time I witness it. There is a sheer sensory overload to the experience, which leads the mind to a contemplative awe of the whole concept of the railway.
The resonant beat of those first few exhaust notes assaults the ears, whilst the deep bass note and vibrations shudder through the ground, until one is unsure what is heard and what is felt. All the while the skin quivers, enveloped in the warm clouds of escaping steam, which moments later, condensed on the face, leave a parting feeling of cool moisture.
The air is redolent with that unique pungent aroma, primarily that of burning steam coal, but overlaid with other scents, lubricating oil, brass polish, and that astonishing, intangible smell that comes from the trackbed on a warm day... hot stones , metal tracks and creosoted sleepers, accentuated at the moment of departure by the water that drips from the loco onto them.
Perhaps, most of all though, it is the visual senses that are overwhelmed. The sheer scale and sense of latent, raw power given off by the engine at close quarters. A near hundred tons of solid impossibility of movement, erupting so smoothly into transit. The complex, but apparently effortless symphony of motion of valve gears, con rods and wheels.
A sleeping giant dragon wakes in a swirl of steam.
The eye is drawn forward by the clearly intended direction of movement of this improbable mechanical creature. Two straight lines of clear purpose stretch into a beckoning distance.
There seems no question or choice of direction or destination. But even just the view from one station, past a signal, under a bridge, through a cutting, reminds one of the vast network of routes, that this remarkable machine is connected to, carved out long ago by the relentless efforts of thousands of long gone navvies. Endless possibilities of cities, hamlets and lonely halts where a journey might end.
Yet these represent finishing points only for the travellers who dismount. The loco always presses on. Discharging its cargo and setting off with new passengers, freight and purpose. Setting off again on its meandering adventures or repetitive to and fro-ing, its next destination determined by the equally vast network of signalling wires and point control rods that appear to control its destiny.
On it wanders, covering the vast miles that it was engineered with purpose to do, maybe half a million, or a million or more. It could have made the moon and back on that, but instead trod the rails in endless duties, mostly serving the humble needs of the same provincial towns and villages over a lifetime.
Duty in retirement is no longer the morning milk train, or the night express, but simply to delight. So here it stands again. Renewed bearings, wheels boiler and paint and more. Ready once again, under the gentle care and guidance of all those that cherished her. On track lovingly rebuilt, sleeper by sleeper, fishplate by fishplate. Standing in the station under the signal, that all looks as if it has not changed in seventy years, yet carefully and intentionally hides the hours of love and labour that made it look just so.
Straining at the leash, fire in the belly still, with heaving con rods and the breath of steam that warms then cools, the loco departs again.
I am left on the station, staring down the rails into the lingering steam in the cutting, mesmerised and enchanted by it all once again.