It has always been a British tradition not just to talk about “the weather” (“Britain has no climate, only Weather. Discuss” was an exam question that my old geography master used to trot out about once a week) but to mock the efforts of those whose job it is to forecast it. Meteorology (which surely ought to be the study of meteors, not weather) in the UK probably reached its nadir when Mr Fish declared that there would be no hurricane, but over the last few years I have come to the conclusion that they doing it pretty well.
As regular readers will know, the weekly title for this blog – other than it always begins with “Of ..” is often a complete blank right up until I finish the closing paragraph. This week however, the title became obvious by Friday night, and I will leave you to decide which of us resembles Paul Simon and Art Garfunkel.
Some months ago I talked about an old photograph I had acquired at a table-top sale at the school nearby, which showed a Hudswell,Clarke 3ft gauge 0-4-0ST on the contract that laid a water main through Chatsworth, and resolved once and (I hope) for all the identity of the loco, for the authority on such waterworks lines, the late Harold Bowtell, had concluded it was something else.
Golly, Sunday again already. It hardly seems a week since I was sat here writing this. The grandson was returned to his mother's on Tuesday, restoring tranquility to the Briddon Country Pile for another couple of weeks, and you'd think from that all manner of things could progress once again, and you'd be right, and then again wrong.
A fair amount of variety in the illustrations this week, and for most of them, I must thank Steph as she has been around to record some of what has been going on. That of course means that even camera-shy me has turned up in a few, but I hope that won't put you off your breakfast/lunch/dinner.
Obviously one of my regular readers decided to follow up on my plug for Fascinating Aida as he wrote to me during the week to say that if I ever bought a Smart car he would never be able to look me in the face again. While it is a proud boast of mine that I have never owned a car with a “boot” (the nearest I got was buying my former company car – a Ford Escort hatchback – from Thomas Hills in the 80s) I think that would be going too far. I did once tell someone that I thought my next car would be electric – that was about three or four vehicles back – but the technology hasn't quite made it. Well, not in my price range.
It's coming up to my financial year end and the order book is looking very healthy with new customers and active old ones. You don't really want to know all this but it serves to explain why work on Andrew's locos and the shed really has moved back to being a weekend thing again.
I like to open these posts with a thought-provoking, insightful observation into the state of the heritage railway industry or something equally profound, but usually fail to think of anything. Tonight is no exception.
So as I left it last week, the works train, but without motive power, was down at Darley and Rob, aided by whomever was available, was pursuing the track modifications and repairs. Cheedale was parked at Rowsley awaiting a new lift pump and fuel filter, and pretty much all was well with the world.
At the end of last week, Cheedale and Charlie were awaiting a fuel delivery, after which Charlie would take the works train to Darley to resume work on the tracks in and around the shed, leaving Cheedale to act as works shunter at Rowsley and Ashdown - well Ashdown is a bit more pernickety and only Rob and Harvey are authorised to use it.