Two Days on the Road (Part 1)

In which The Author and his friend go on tour

Two weeks ago, I travelled almost the entire length of the M4 over a period of two days. I’ll tell you apart the first part now, and the rest next time. How’s that for planning, eh?

As I told you a couple of weeks ago, I had a hospital appointment at the end of September. Ordinarily that wouldn’t even be a subject for a blog entry, never mind one with photographs. I’m well used to the two-bus excursion to Prince Charles Hospital, barely five miles from my house as the crow flies but nearly two hours away by public transport. I didn’t mind the occasional trip to Llandough Hospital, the other side of Cardiff. It was a straight run through from Aberdare on the train, which meant that I could read and/or sleep going there and coming back. The new Ysbyty Cwm Cynon was something of a gift, therefore, as it’s only two stops on the train and a short walk across Peace Park.

My appointment was somewhere entirely different, though: Charing Cross Hospital. You’ve probably already guessed that it’s in London. You might be as surprised as I was to learn that it’s nowhere near Charing Cross itself. It’s actually in Fulham Palace Road some miles from the centre. I had the appointment letter several weeks ago, and went straight to the Transport for London website to check out the travel information. It’s served by several buses from Hammersmith, an area I’m reasonably familiar with, so getting there wouldn’t be a problem.

Getting to London wouldn’t be a problem either. Even though there’s no longer a direct coach from Aberdare (see Nice Work If You Can Get There), there’s a regular service from Cardiff and half-hourly trains from Aberdare. A combination of the two, plus my virgin Oyster card, would get me there in good time and at a reasonable cost. I booked the ticket online, made sure I knew the bus routes at the other end, and the job was a good ‘un.

A few days later, Rhian came into the pub. She’s working for Amazon again, in their warehouse in not-Swansea. She’s on the night shifts, which means she has every Monday and Tuesday off. Almost as a joke, I asked her if she fancied a trip to London. To my amazement, she jumped at the chance. She’d never been there before, and rattled off a long list of places she wanted to see. I fired up my Netbook and headed for the National Express website.

While my emails were coming in, I found one from National Express, offering 25% off my next booking. That seemed too much like serendipity to be ignored. I booked Rhian’s ticket, she gave me the cash, and I explained a bit about the Transport for London system. I left her looking very excited about the prospect – for the next couple of days, I had occasional texts and Facebook messages saying ‘London, baby!’ – and we started putting some cash aside for the big day.

A few days later, Rhian texted me to say that her Oyster card had arrived in the post. Shortly after that I had my own adventures with the TfL website, as I told you in Straightforward (Part 94). (I should get my refund some time during the next couple of weeks, it seems.) I didn’t bother trying to add any more credit to my card in advance. As it turned out, that was a good thing.

On the Monday morning, I met Rhian at the station at 6.45. It was still dark – it was the earliest I’ve left the house since finishing work, I think – and we both struggled to stay awake on the journey to Cardiff. I’d had breakfast and made some sandwiches before leaving the house, which Rhian later discovered was a very good idea. We arrived in Cardiff on time and stopped at W.H. Smith for a paper. They were giving away a free Daily Telegraph with every purchase, so I unexpectedly had a crossword to pass the time on the coach. We boarded the 507 service, along with about a dozen other early birds, and were on our way at 8.15 precisely.

After a brief stop at Chepstow, where a few more passengers embarked, we were soon on our way into England across the old Severn Bridge. The traffic was quite steady and free-flowing, and we made good time across Avon and Wiltshire. While we were passing through the low-lying area between Chippenham and Swindon, it became quite misty, and there was a distinctly autumnal feel in the air. It’s been the driest September on record, and a welcome contrast to last year’s washout. Maybe I shouldn’t tempt fate by even commenting on the fact.

The mist had cleared long before we reached Reading, where the traffic started building up to its usual London-outskirts levels. It’s also the point where the traffic from Heathrow Airport starts to feature regularly through the coach window. I’ve done the journey dozens of times in both directions, so I decided to point out the highlights to Rhian as we skirted past Slough and ploughed steadily into Greater London.

On my first solo journey into London on the tube (see Behind the Mask) I met a girl from Cardiff, who was also a first-year student. She commented that she hadn’t realised just how big the place was. She said that if you start walking from the centre of Cardiff, after an hour or so you’ve pretty much left the city behind. I’ve noted previously how quickly the train from Cardiff makes the transition from the suburbs to the countryside. That’s not true of London. Once you’re within the bounds of the M25, it’s suburbs all the way.

The approach road is lined by tall office complexes, notably the GSK building alongside the elevated section between Brentford and Chsiwick, and The Ark next to the elevated section in Hammersmith. There are familiar landmarks, like the Hogarth Roundabout and the Fuller’s Brewery, and Earls Court Exhibition Centre in the distance. There’s also a remarkable white building, topped by a blue onion dome with gold stars, tucked away in the side streets in Chiswick. I’d seen it every time I passed that way, and last time it occurred to me to find out what it actually is. It turned out to be the Russian Orthodox Cathedral. That was a very unexpected result.

We’d planned to alight at Earls Court, as I always used to do back in the day. Unfortunately, the stop has been relocated (as I found out in an email from National Express on Saturday morning), so we had to stay on the coach all the way to Victoria. (The £5.00 top-up on my Oyster Card has also been refunded this morning, as I hadn’t activated it within seven days at the nominated station – which happened to be Earls Court!) Next time I go up, I’ll specify Earls Court as my destination, to be on the safe side.

It only took an extra ten minutes or so to reach Victoria, and Rhian seemed quite overwhelmed by the sheer size of the place. I remember that feeling, too. It took me quite a few excursions to get to grips with the tube network, and to build up a mental map of the way the various districts sit in relation to one another. At least Rhian wasn’t trying to find her way around from scratch. We headed to Victoria Station, through the new shopping mall built to replace the section damaged by the IRA bomb over twenty years ago. Here we topped up our Oyster Cards (again, in my case!) and headed for the underground.

While we were on the down escalator, I outlined to Rhian the way that the different lines all mesh together. By following the colour-coded signs (and keeping a rough picture of the famous map in your mind’s eye), you can make quite swift progress through the maze of tunnels and escalators. We walked the full length of one platform and emerged at the foot of another escalator. Rhian was convinced that we’d gone in a big circle. I wasn’t entirely sure for a few moments, until I pointed out that the advertisements lining the stairwell were different. When we didn’t arrive back at the concourse, she conceded that we were, in fact, somewhere else entirely.

We reached the platform just as a train drew in. It was lunchtime, and we were towards the rear, but it didn’t seem to be as crammed as I remembered from my younger days. Rhian didn’t look too impressed as we moved off into darkness, but we weren’t going far – only two stops, to South Kensington. Rhian has always wanted to visit the Victoria and Albert Museum, so we’d decided to kill an hour there before heading out to Hammersmith.

We left the station via a very long subway, with branches heading off to the other museums in the area. After the Great Exhibition of 1851 had proved to be the wonder of the world, the Natural History Museum, the Science Museum and the V&A were founded to house the cream of the collection. Along with Imperial College, the Royal Albert Hall and the Albert Memorial, they’re clustered just south of Kensington Gardens. Admission is free these days, and an hour’s browsing really just scratches the surface.

Eventually we arrived at the V&A without breaking the surface. We’d planned to have lunch there, but two things stood in our way. The first was the sheer difficulty of finding the café. The whole museum seems to be very poorly signposted, so we armed ourselves with a little map and followed our noses.

You could spend a whole week in there and still not see everything, to judge from the variety of objects in the small part we explored. We took in some enormous Raphael paintings in a dimly lit room. We admired a number of wooden sculptures from late medieval churches. We wondered whether to have a look at the special exhibition of wedding dresses through the ages (not that either of us stands much chance of getting married any time soon!) We passed through a gallery of South-East Asian artefacts, which I’d like to look at in more detail next time.

We eventually found our way to a room full of statues and busts of not-very-well-known British people, with a huge window looking onto the central courtyard. To our surprise, it was pouring with rain. Neither of had a coat, so we decided to stay under cover for a while. Finally we found the café, where we encountered the second obstacle to our plan: the price. Call me tight-fisted if you like, but I think £9.25 for a slice of quiche and some salad is a bit excessive. We decided against having lunch there, and found our way to the exit. The rain had eased off, so I suggested trying to find a pub nearby, expecting (as you do) that the menu would be a little more reasonable.

I heard an interesting feature on Radio 4 a few months ago, about the resurgence of ‘street food’ in London and other large cities. The presenter said that we’ve almost gone full circle in cultural terms. Up until fairly late Victorian times, ordinary people would buy their meals from street vendors, rather than cooking at home. Grocers’ and butchers’ shops catered largely for well-off people, who could afford staff to prepare their food for them. It was only when cookers and fridges became commonplace, relatively recently, that the majority of people started cooking at home. The presenter suggested that in this day and age, when a lot of working people are money-rich but time-poor, we were returning to the earlier habit of eating ‘on the go.’

Whether or not this theory holds any water, it’s certainly borne out to some extent by the preponderance of tapas bars, noodle bars, sushi bars, sandwich shops and other takeaways we found as we walked around South Kensington. It struck me later that another vital part of London culture seemed to be missing: although we didn’t see a single burger place (which is probably a good sign), we didn’t find an old-school chippy either. The snack bars we found were nearly all reflections of foreign cultures. I mentioned in an earlier entry that Tubby Isaacs’ jellied eel business in Aldgate closed down a while ago. I don’t want to sound like Nigel Farage here, but it seemed to me that the once-resilient soul of traditional London has given up trying to fight off the rampant tide of international capitalism.

We repaired to the Zetland Arms, one of those cavernous street-corner pubs which characterise London architecture. An information board outside records the fact that it was once owned Sid Chaplin, brother of the much more famous Charlie. We decided to have a look inside. It wasn’t anything special, to be honest – just an average suburban London boozer, with the TV on mute in the corner, a few middle-aged chaps sitting with pints in front of them, and youngish bar staff who clearly didn’t have English as a first language.

Our money-saving idea didn’t last long, needless to say. I ordered a pint of lager, Rhian had a large-ish glass of Pepsi, and I got just over two quid change from a tenner. I’m glad we decided to pass on the crisps. We looked at the menu, and found that they were offering cod and chips for £13.95. As I said to a friend afterwards, for that price I’d want to go out on the boat and catch the damned thing myself!

Suitably refreshed, we made our way outside. We were both highly amused when I pointed out the street sign opposite the pub doorway. At the height of the Industrial Revolution, the Marquis of Bute used to own half the land in Aberdare, and several street names (and one pub) reflect that historical association. It came as a surprise, therefore, to find this in the heart of South Kensington:

We walked back to the tube station, and then decided to walk as far as Kensington Gore. The area is quite compact, and we were able to take in the exterior of the V&A, the Natural History Museum, and the Royal Albert Hall. We also spotted a small road sign, advising drivers that only diplomatic vehicles were allowed to park outside the buildings flying vaguely familiar flags. Next time, we’re taking a little encyclopedia, to try and identify the various embassies dotted around the place.

We emerged onto Kensington Gore and walked as far as the Albert Memorial. I must have passed it when I was travelling through London in my younger days, but I’d forgotten just how enormous it is. These photos, taken from the road outside Kensington Gardens, really don’t do it justice. It’s another place to revisit when I get the chance.

We only had to wait a couple of minutes for the Number 9 bus out to Hammersmith, and headed straight for the upper desk to do the Tourist Thing for a while. We made steady progress along Kensington High Street, passing the big department stores, smaller specialist shops, and a surprising number of places selling outdoor gear. It crossed my mind that many Londoners would be out of breath after climbing Primrose Hill, and I wondered how they’d cope with the ascent of Pen y Fan. I suspect that, as with the Valleys folk who wear tracksuits to the Jobcentre, this new trend has far more to do with the labels than the exercise.

At Hammersmith we changed buses and took the short ride out to the hospital. Here we parted company for a while; I went to meet my consultant, and Rhian ensconced herself in the Southern Belle, just around the corner. It used to be the Greyhound, a famous music venue back in the day, but it seems to have changed almost beyond recognition. Giving Rhian the Doctor’s famous (and oft-ignored) advice – ‘Don’t wander off!’ – I headed for my appointment.

On my return, I wondered about getting a drink myself, but Rhian told me that it was £3.90 a pint. It was a marked improvement on South Kensington prices, but still a disincentive. We jumped on the bus back to Hammersmith and retraced our steps, taking the Number 9 bus back to the Albert Memorial and beyond. I’d done my homework about the buses beforehand, and knew that it passed through Trafalgar Square on the way to Aldwych. It was a good way to introduce Rhian to some of the tourist sights without forking out for the open-top bus tour. We cruised slowly along the south side of Hyde Park, past Apsley House (the former home of the Duke of Wellington), skirted the north side of Green Park, drifted past St James’ Palace and finally emerged at Trafalgar Square.

Once again, Rhian was blown away by the size of the statues here. Take Sir Edwin Landseer’s famous lions, for example. Just seeing them on the TV doesn’t really prepare one for coming up close and personal with them.

I know Rhian’s only four foot and a fart, but that’s still quite impressive.

After taking some more photos, we headed to The Strand to catch the Number 11 bus, heading (believe it or not) back towards Fulham. It was nearly six p.m., but the usual rush hour crush
didn’t happen. In fact, the streets and buses both seemed far quieter than I remembered of old. The Congestion Charge has obviously done a great deal to reduce traffic in the city centre, but the whole place seemed a lot less bustling than I was used to.

In addition, the culture of the the place seemed to have changed. I was used to seeing people dressed in eccentric styles. Instead, most people were following whatever fashion was ‘in’ at the time. Similarly, the street entertainers seemed to have vanished from the scene. It only occurred to me afterwards that something had been missing from the subway leading to the museums – the buskers. Maybe I just wasn’t looking hard enough, but to me it felt as though London had lost an important element of its culture and character.

The bus took us on the next part of the Tourist Trail: into Whitehall, past the Cenotaph, the Houses of Parliament, Westminster Abbey, and Westminster Cathedral. We jumped off at Victoria Coach Station, in plenty of time for our return coach. It was twilight as we crawled back through Earls Court and hit the very long tailback on the A4.

Rhian dozed off when we were in Hammersmith, and slept through at least two phone calls from her girlfriend before waking with a start somewhere near Swindon. In the meantime, a chavvy family disturbed everyone else by wandering from seat to seat, visiting the toilet far more often than strictly necessary, and arguing loudly for the rest of the time. It seems to be a sad feature of public transport that a quiet journey is a thing of the past.

We were nearly half an hour late getting into Cardiff. We were between trains, so we jumped off by the students’ union and grabbed a pint in the Pen and Wig, just off Museum Place. This was the point where the whole plan very nearly fell apart. Useful tip: the Pen and Wig is further from Cathays Station than you think! Luckily, my long legs were able to get me to the platform just as the train was about to pull out. I called out to the conductor, and Rhian dived through the doors with seconds to spare. The conductor laughed as he checked our tickets, but if we’d left the pub a few moments later, we’d have been stranded. It’s certainly something we’ll have to bear in mind in the future.

When I say ‘the future’, I’m only talking about a few weeks’ time. We’re going back up early in December. This time, we’ll have the day to ourselves, and we’re planning on a pure sightseeing excursion. Rhian wants to see the Tower (from the outside, anyway), so we’re going to head east and explore the City for a couple of hours. Now she’s got a taste for the place, I daresay she’ll quickly become as addicted to it as I am. After all, Dr Samuel Johnson was dead on the money when he famously said, ‘He who is tired of London is tired of life.

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Trains and Boats and Planes

In which The Author should have packed a spare pair

On Thursday, my friend Anna emailed me with some exciting news. She had it on ‘very good authority’ that Peter Capaldi and Jenna-Louise Coleman would be filming Doctor Who at Barry Island on Friday. It seemed like too good an opportunity to pass up, so I got up bright and early and headed for Aberdare Station. I’d already decided to buy a Valley Lines Day Explorer ticket; at nearly eight quid return to Barry Island, or eleven quid for the freedom to travel the whole of the local network, I decided to splash the cash and make a day of it.

At the ticket office, I encountered the small print hurdle which I discussed in my other blog (see Left Hand, Right Hand). As a result, I set off a full hour after I’d originally intended. On the journey down, we got stuck behind a late-running train from Treherbert; on arrival at Cardiff the conductor announced that we’d be running ‘fast’ to Barry. Things weren’t going to plan. I picked up a copy of Metro which had been left on a nearby seat, and realised that it was Friday the thirteenth. I ain’t superstitious, but…

I flicked through the paper and got to my horoscope:

Though you and another may not see eye-to-eye, the willingness to discuss important matters can encourage a compromise. However, should your problem be linked to too much bureaucracy, you might have to toe the line.

That explained a lot!

On arrival at Barry Island, I headed off in search of the BBC. I was working in Waterstone’s in Cardiff when they filmed the Doctor Who Xmas special ‘The Runaway Bride’ outside (see Location, Location, Location.) I remembered from that day that BBC location crews don’t exactly travel light.

(Incidentally, Barry Island isn’t really an island. It’s a little peninsula separated from Barry proper by a narrow isthmus over which the trains and road traffic run. I last visited it in 2006, or maybe early 2007, after the Vale of Glamorgan line reopened to passenger traffic. Cath P. came with me and we went exploring for the day. It was then that I discovered that the Ninth Circle of Hell is where they keep the waltzers and dodgems.)

I walked past the amusement park, but there was no sign of life. I headed for the beach, where some elderly people were catching rays on the seats and young families were making the most of a sunny day. I walked the length of the sea front, past countless fish and chip shops, stalls selling beach accessories, fast food places, cafés and amusement arcades, and found no sign of any filming.

By then it was nearly lunchtime, so I supposed the BBC might have packed up already. Alternatively, they might have been in the amusement park itself, which was closed to the public. Either way, I was beginning to feel as if I’d had a wasted journey.

On the other hand, it had turned into a glorious summer’s day, and I was at the beach. In my mind’s ear I could hear the strains of ‘I Do Like to be Beside the Seaside’ (Reginald Dixon’s Mighty Wurlitzer version, of course!), and I decided to explore a bit further. I walked to the end of the beach and up to Friars Point, where I took some photos across the sea front and out into the Bristol Channel. There are spectacular cliffs all along this stretch of coastline, and there’s a beauty at the western end of Watch House bay.

It was still rather hazy out to sea, unfortunately. I wasn’t able to get a clear shot of Flat Holm island (which was featured in the Torchwood episode ‘Adrift’) – and which, trivia fans may be interested to learn, is home to the most southerly pub in Wales! However, when I turned around I spotted some stone arches in the distance.

That gave me an idea, so I walked back along the little headland and along a breakwater. Here, lying abandoned in a stretch of brackish water, were the sad remains of a couple of small boats.

I was making my way through a car park when I heard a train approaching. It was crossing the bridge which links Barry to Barry Island. I’d lost my bearings by this stage, so it was nice to have something to fix on again.

I found a little path which led up to the road. I followed my nose to a traffic roundabout with a pub on one corner. Appropriately enough, it’s called The Ship. (There’s another pub called The Ship at Efail Isaf, just outside Church Village. Presumably the tide must have been very high on the day that it was named!)

Even though the sun was well over the yardarm by now, I decided to press on. At a busy traffic junction at the top of a steep hill, I found this impressive church overlooking the sea. It’s one of a dozen or so equally eye-catching places of worship which I encountered that day. Get ready for some staggering statistics.

In the census of 1871, the little fishing village of Barry contained 21 buildings, housing a population of just over a hundred. In 1881, Barry itself had a population of 85, and 403 people lived at nearby Cadoxton. By the 1920s this figure had exploded to around 40,000, as the port and railway network mushroomed.

The late Victorian and Edwardian building boom left a legacy of noteworthy buildings. This is just one of them.

From here, I descended Romilly Park Road, stopping to catch a quick photo of a train on its journey from Bridgend to Aberdare. Then I followed my nose again, skirted Romilly Park, and passed under the railway line into a neat cluster of residential streets overlooking the sea. I passed a coffee shop and an ice cream parlour, not really sure where I was heading, and after a few minutes I found a waymarker for the Wales Coastal Path.

Gaz has been exploring this long distance walk for himself, splitting it into handy bite-sized chunks. When we were returning from Bridgend (see Pleasant Valley Monday) he mentioned that he’d passed through Porthkerry Country Park on one expedition. That was the destination I had in mind, although so far I hadn’t seen any signposts for it. I was starting to wonder whether I’d be able to get to it – that cliff had looked rather forbidding! I needn’t have worried, as the path led steeply uphill and onto a large newly-mown field. There were some beautiful houses here, with glorious views over the Bristol Channel. I’d accidentally found my way to Millionaires’ Row.

I followed the waymarkers to the summit, and then started to descend gently into thick woodland. The path was clear and well-trodden, and I stopped for a minute to watch a pair of squirrels scampering around in a tree a few feet away, seemingly oblivious to my presence.

At the bottom of the path I emerged into a large expanse of grassland. To the east, I could see the imposing cliff face which the path had skirted. I looked around and realised that I’d arrived without any warning at Porthkerry Country Park. A couple of minutes’ walk to the north was the target I’d been aiming for: Porthkerry Viaduct.

I think I actually said ‘Wow!’ out loud at my first sight of this astonishing feat of civil engineering. Built in the 1890s by the Barry Railway Company, it stands 110 feet high, and its thirteen arches span the narrow valley. It’s a breathtaking sight when you’re up close and personal, as I was on Friday afternoon.

Here I encountered another problem. I’d forgotten to bring my tripod, which meant that photographing myself beside the viaduct was going to be rather difficult. I only had my miniature tripod, which is ideal if there’s something convenient nearby for it to stand on. Unfortunately, there wasn’t much I could use. I found a fence post, but it was quite a distance away. Even with the maximum delay time of twelve seconds, my camera was still too far away for me to get into the picture. My recurring back problem means that my sprinting days are long behind me.

I persevered for a few minutes, and eventually managed to get a shot of me standing beside one of the massive stone uprights. You can just about see me, if you look hard enough.

There’s a little shop not far from the viaduct, so I called in for a bottle of lemonade and a bar of chocolate. I sat on a bench overlooking the beach and wondered how long it would be before a train came along. I worked out that it must have been nearly an hour since I spotted the one approaching Barry Station. Sure enough, a few minutes later I heard a mechanical rushing noise that presaged the arrival of a train. I managed to get the camera ready just in time to capture it passing high above the country park.

An elderly couple and their young granddaughter were standing nearby, and I heard the man tell her, ‘That’s what you’ve been waiting for.’

I turned to them and said, ‘That’s what I’ve been waiting for.’

They told me that the first time they’d brought her to the country park, an aeroplane had flown right overhead. We were only a couple of miles from Cardiff Airport, near Rhoose, and I was surprised that there hadn’t been more aerial action that day.

Then the ‘battery empty’ indicator appeared on the camera screen and it shut itself down.

Every time I’m out with the camera, the same thing happens. Every time, I tell myself, ‘Bring a spare pair of batteries with you next time!’ Every time, I forget to do it! I was cursing myself for not planning ahead, when I remembered that sometimes my camera manages to squeeze a bit more juice out of the batteries once it’s been switched off for a while. Maybe all was not lost after all.

I’d been trying to work how long I’d have to wait for the coal train from Tower Washery to reach the viaduct on its way to Aberthaw Power Station. I knew that freight trains rely on ‘windows’ in the operating timetable to squeeze in between the passenger services. This is why we have the infamous ‘Ghost Trains’ on the Aberdare line – the gaps in the timetable allow the freight trains to pass along the single track. I knew that the train left Aberdare around lunchtime, but it was anyone’s guess how long it would take to complete its journey. It seemed like a bit of a gamble to just sit around and wait for something to happen.

I decided to head back into Barry, and gathered my stuff together. As I stood up, I heard an aeroplane approaching. Fortunately my camera had got its second wind by now, and I managed to get one shot before the plane vanished behind the trees.

I’d suddenly been handed a title for this entry. Things were looking up for once (both literally and metaphorically). I had a look at the little map of the country park beside the path, and decided to try and head back into Barry via the road network, rather than retrace my steps. I walked past the car park, struck out along a narrow track, and a few minutes later I heard another mechanical rushing noise in the distance. It was the unmistakeable sound of a Class 66 locomotive at full power. I know that I swore loudly this time, but I still managed to have the camera ready before the train passed over a small stone bridge across the path.

It was better than nothing, I suppose – but I’d much rather have had a photo of it spanning the whole length of the viaduct instead. Maybe next time…

I walked on for another couple of minutes until my way was blocked by a gate. A metal sign told me that I’d be crossing a ‘Public footpath over private land.’ This was a new one on me; I had visions of an angry farmer waving a shotgun and shouting, ‘Get orf moi larnd!’ Fortunately, I was able to carry on unchallenged. I passed a couple of isolated cottages, strolled along a quiet country lane between fields of crops, and after a few more minutes I emerged at a busy main road. There was a Travelodge and a Toby Carvery at the junction, and heavy lorries were thundering past. It was a remarkable contrast in a very short distance. I was on Port Road. I recalled that my old boss from Blackwell’s, Jim E., had lived near here back in the day. I had a vague idea where I was again.

A roadside banner informed me that I was at Weycock Cross, where Port Road meets Pontypridd Road and Weycock Road. The banner had been put there by the Friends of Weycock Cross, who were trying to prevent a new development being built on the land nearby. I don’t blame them – it’s easy to shout ‘Nimbies’ when you hear of campaigns like this, but it’s a beautiful area. I don’t think I’d want a lot of new identikit houses springing up on a greenfield site near me, either.

On the other side of the junction was a filling station and a small Co-operative supermarket. There were also bus stops on Port Road West and Pontypridd Road. I checked the timetable and fare information, and found that it cost £1.70 to get back into Barry itself. It seemed better than walking, so I bought a paper in the shop to make sure I had the exact money – I knew from past experience that Cardiff buses don’t give change!

Then I remembered that I had an iff card in my wallet. It’s rather like an Oyster Card, but works on Cardiff buses. I applied for it when they first came out, about six years or so ago. At the time, I was visiting Llandough Hospital as an outpatient fairly regularly, so I figured that it would come in handy if I needed to go there on a rainy day.

As I was one of the early adopters, Cardiff Bus preloaded it with £3.00 of credit as a ‘thank you’ for supporting the new scheme. Soon after that, Mr Graham’s team discharged me and the card has sat, unused, in my wallet ever since. I wasn’t even sure whether the initial credit would be valid, but it was worth a try.

A few minutes later, the 98 bus arrived and I asked for a single to King Square. (I didn’t know where King Square was, mind – I’d seen it on the timetable and thought it sounded fairly central!) With my iff card in one hand and the correct fare in the other, I explained about my iff card dilemma. The driver was a friendly and cheerful chap, and didn’t quibble at all. He simply scanned it on his machine, and told me that the credit was still valid. Job done!

The journey into Barry itself took me through suburban streets and past some of the other remarkable churches I mentioned earlier. I wished I’d had a bit more idea of my whereabouts, but I was in terra incognita once again. We passed some superb civic buildings, a couple of pubs (including the ubiquitous Wetherspoon, of course), and finally came to a stop at King Square. We’d arrived right outside the public library.

By now my camera had built up enough of a head of steam to allow me to capture just some of the extraordinary architecture of this rather overlooked town centre.

Sadly, the ground floor level of Barry doesn’t fulfil its architectural promise. It’s a real Clone Town of chain stores, charity shops and bargain shops punctuated by training agencies, beauty salons and card shops – Aberdare-on-Sea, if you like. The charity shops did turn up a few bargain books, mind you: The Stars’ Tennis Balls by Stephen Fry, X-Ray by Ray Davies, and a replacement copy of Slaughterhouse-5 by Kurt Vonnegut Jr. Not a bad little haul for four quid. I could have carried on, but I was getting loaded down by that stage.

In the middle of the main street I found a pub called The Buccaneer, and called in for a pint. It was a big old place with a lively mixed crowd. There was a chap of about my age sitting with a girl considerably younger than him, and I took up a nearby table. When the chap went for a smoke, the girl carried on talking to herself. It was nice to know that I haven’t lost the knack of finding loopy females. I logged onto Facebook, told Anna that I’d drawn a blank at Barry Island earlier on, and drank up before the crazy girl decided to home in on me.

Back in the high street, I walked towards where I assumed the railway station would be. I didn’t find it, but I did find this imposing war memorial outside the civic offices.

I arrived at a bridge which led to the Waterfront (their capital W, by the way!), and halfway across I looked down at the railway line. Here was a mystery which I still haven’t solved, even with the aid of my Pre-Grouping Atlas of the British railway network. Have a close look at the way the railway lines and the platform lie in relation to one another.

Now, I could be wrong (and I’m sure that one of my rail enthusiast readers will clarify the position), but to me this looks like two passenger lines side by side, and a freight line next to the platform. Certainly there’s no sign on the platform to indicate that it’s still in use. It isn’t Barry Station, and it isn’t Barry Docks Station either – I ended up rejoining the train there, and it’s quite some distance up the line. It’s a mystery at the moment.

With my battery indicator flashing red again, I decided to head back into Cardiff, and the next stage of my adventure. I retraced my steps into the town centre and found a signpost for Barry Docks Station. A few minutes later I found myself on the approach to the station, and took this photo of the Custom House which dominates the view from the railway line as you pass through. Sadly I wasn’t able to get as close as I’d hoped, but it’s still a magnificent building.

The train arrived a few minutes later, and was running through to Aberdare, but I wasn’t heading home just yet. I boarded, found a seat by the window, and started the crossword. A couple of stops later, the shockwave against the window of a passing train jolted me back to reality. It turned out to be another coal train heading for Aberthaw. That baffled me for ages, as I knew the next window in the Aberdare route wasn’t until the evening. It dawned on me later that coal trains run from the opencast workings east of Merthyr Tydfil, via the Bedlinog to Ystrad Mynach branch. I presume it had originated there and made its way down in time to surprise me.

At Cardiff Central I had twenty minutes to kill, so I walked as far as Greggs and bought a snack. I had a look at the three charity shops side by side in Central Square, but none of had anything which caught my eye. Then I headed back to the station in time for the next stage of my adventure.

This didn’t go according to plan either, you’ll be amazed to learn. I’d been looking to catching my first train from the famous Platform Zero (see A Letter From the Editor 8), but it wasn’t to be. A last-minute platform alteration meant that I was departing from Platform 2 – but it didn’t matter. I was on my way into a section of Mr Baker’s book which said ‘Here be dragons’: the line to Ebbw Vale Parkway.

Even though the line was reopened to passenger traffic early in 2008, I’d never made the journey there myself. Gaz did it a couple of years ago. We both knew from experience that ‘Parkway’ stations are usually some way from the towns they claim to represent. Gaz had summed up the end of the line perfectly: ‘It’s as if the trains to Aberdare terminated at Cwmbach.’

In the event, I didn’t have time to check out the terminus for myself. We were delayed for ages at Rogerstone while the conductor tried to get the doors to close. It was early evening by now, and the train was busy with commuters on their way home. It had felt strange to be on a commuter train heading down the main line towards Newport for the first part of the journey, but once we turned into the Ebbw Valley we were in familiar Valley Lines territory again.

I haven’t been into the Eastern Valleys for many years, and I was amazed by how much the landscape has been transformed. The old industrial scars have been landscaped over, and it’s extraordinarily green again. I couldn’t see a great deal from the train window, but it was reassuring to see that the massive Institute at Llanhilleth was still intact. At least one local authority in South Wales still cares about our built heritage.

When we arrived at Ebbw Vale Parkway, we were just in time for the return leg. Consequently I haven’t got any photos to show you. We made good time back into Cardiff, and I parked myself on the platform for the final phase of the day’s roving.

I didn’t have long to wait for the Maesteg train – but never fear, I wasn’t going all the way! Instead, I travelled only as far as the next stop, Pontyclun, and a pub named after one of my heroes: The Brunel Arms.

I’ve been there on two previous occasions, some years apart. The current landlady is named Siân S., and we’ve been friends on Facebook for ages. However, Friday night was the first time we’d met in person. I asked her some weeks ago if she’d be willing to have a collection box for the Anthony Nolan bone marrow/stem cell charity on the bar. She agreed without hesitation, so on Friday morning I’d shoved one into my bag before setting off. I’d messaged her on Facebook while I was in the pub in Barry, and she’d said that she’d be around by about nine o’clock.

It takes about fifteen minutes to travel from Cardiff to Pontyclun on the train. I’m always surprised by how compact the city of Cardiff really is – you don’t have to sit on the train for very long before the houses peter out and you’re passing through countryside. It was still a glorious day, and I was looking forward to a pint. I left the train and made my way to the pub, which overlooks the main line from Cardiff to Swansea. At the entrance to the pub car park, I spotted a little iron disc set into the ground, and decided to photograph it.

It was great to find a remnant of the Great Western Railway so close to a pub named after its guiding light. A couple of girls sitting outside were highly amused when I stopped to take the photo; I suppose you either appreciate industrial history or you don’t. When I mentioned it to Siân, she told me that she always dreaded knocking it with her car. I teased her that she needed to be careful, as it was probably a listed structure. Then again, if it was, Rhondda Cynon Taf CBC would have ripped it out of the ground years ago.

I chatted to some youngsters who were waiting for the football to start, all the while checking out the new arrivals in case one of them was Siân. It was almost like being on a blind date (as far as I can remember, anyway – that hasn’t happened for about thirty years!) Eventually I spotted her emerging from the ‘Private’ door, and went up to say hello. She spotted me as I approached, and we both said exactly the same thing at the same time. Great minds think alike, see.

We chatted for a while, and Siân bought me a pint for making the effort to call in. Unfortunately, the constraints of public transport meant that I had to leave in time for the 2150 train back to Cardiff. I’ve promised to call in again when I get the chance – it’s a really nice pub, with lots going on and a good crowd. It’s a shame it’s so bloody far away! It may look like no distance on the map, but in the world of public transport it’s virtually a two hour journey.

Now here’s a thing: the train I was catching ran to Cardiff Central only; the next one ran through to Gloucester, of all places! If I lived in that fair city, I’d have been able to stay in The Brunel for another hour and still get home! Living barely twenty miles away, I had to travel back into Cardiff and kick my heels for nearly forty minutes before the Aberdare train left. As Terry Wogan would say, Is it me…?

The sun was just setting as I stood on the footbridge at Pontyclun Station and took the last photo of the day.

And that, boys and girls, was how I spent Friday the Thirteenth. Between pettifogging bureaucracy, trains which kept their own schedules, a no-show by the gorgeous Impossible Girl, a narrow escape from yet another crazy bint, and a lack of battery power, the odds had been stacked against me from the outset.

For all that, though, it had all turned out nicely in the end. I’ve got some more books, a new pub to visit when I’m travelling, and a couple of places to revisit with my tripod in tow. I caught a few rays, covered another section of Mr Baker’s Rail Atlas, and got out of Aberdare for the day.

In fact, I’d go so far as to say that it was just what the Doctor ordered.